September 13

My voice shalt Thou hear in the morning, O Lord.

THE BIRD

HITHER thou com'st. The busie wind all night Blew through thy lodging, where thy own warm wing

Thy pillow was. Many a sullen storm, For which coarse man seems much the fitter born, Rained on thy bed And harmless head;

And now as fresh and chearful as the light Thy little heart in early hymns doth sing Unto that Providence, whose unseen arm Curb'd them, and cloath'd thee well and warm. All things that be praise Him; and had Their lesson taught them when first made.

Thus Praise and Prayer here beneath the sun Make lesser mornings when the great are done.

For each inclosed spirit is a star Inlightning its own little sphere, Whose light, though fetcht and borrowed from afar, Both mornings makes and evenings there.

EVENING SACRIFICE