THE FRIENDLY THORN.
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I thought an asp had stung my hand While thridding Narnis' fragrant wood, When lo! in purpling blushes grand, As if my homage to command, The queen of all wild roses stood. The captive beauty soon I bound My lady's bosom to adorn,— Beauty whose joy I ne'er had found, Upon that tangled briery mound, But for the sharp and friendly thorn. So hearts that slept from hour to hour, Pierced to the quick by sorrow's cry, Awake to fresh inspiring power, And clasp Faith's brightest purest flower, The rose divine of Charity. |
HAPPINESS.
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To figure true felicity This picture doth intend, A pleasant road, sweet company, And God's house at the end. |