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Reel like a drunkard; the resistless flood, 
The barren waste; nay, e’en the very thorn 
AYhich wounds our finger when we pluck the flower, 
And noxious weed that mocks the hope of toil, 
Do all attest one truth, man’s foul revolt. 
The changing seasons, winter’s death-like reign 
So soon succeeded by the bloom of Spring, 
What are they but the types of man’s decease, 
And resurrection ? The blithe birds which perch 
Beneath our cottage eaves, the smiling flowers 
Which decorate the hedge-row and the mead, 
Do they not mind us to repose our trust 
On Him who feeds and clothes them day by day ? ” 
AFhat says the lip of Wisdom ? “ Mark the fowls, 
'Which neither sow% nor reap, nor store in barns, 
And yet your heavenly Father feedeth them. 
Consider too, the lilies how they grow, 
They neither toil, nor spin, and yet I say, 
Tliat Solomon in all his glorious pomp 
Was not arrayed like these. Wherefore, if God 
Thus clothes the grass, so soon to pass away. 
And feed the fowls of Heaven : Shall He not then 
Much rather for your daily wants provide ? 
O ye of little faith! ” 
Recollections of the Lakes. 
