GRASS. 



Herbs of the field, and flowers whicli fling 

 Sweet incense on the wak'ning Spring ! 

 Did ever sophist's wisdom reach 

 To higher ti'uths than ye may teach, 

 "Whose fragile forms at mom and dewy e'en 

 Shed silent music over all the scene ? 



Telling, though all aroimd him smile", 

 Man dureth but a little while. 

 That ere the day its course hath run 

 His soul may be beyond the sun, 

 And its raz'd mansion low in ruins laid, 

 Left like a fallen leaf to droop and fade. 



Yet sure, if all the flowerets frail" 

 That deck each mountain-side and dale 

 In raiment bloom so bright and fair, 

 Clad by His Hand who placed them there, 

 "^rVhy should one anxious thought ovoc bosom wring 

 Of want or care the morrow's dawn may bring ? 

 Oh, may we not like wither' d grass ^ 

 Our age in barren service pass, 



" Psalm xc. 5, 6. " St. Matt. vi. 30. p Psalm cxxix. 6. 



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