Page 622 - Child's own book

My day or night myself I make,
Whenoer I sleep or play,
And could I always keep awake,
With me ’twere always day.
With heavy sighs I often hear
You mourn my hapless woe;
But sure with patience I can bear
A loss I ne'er can know.

Then let not what I cannot have
My cheer of mind destroy ;
I know that He who died to save
Can bless a poor blind boy.

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG.

GOLDSMITH.

Good people all, of every sort, give ear unto my song,
And, if you find it wondrous short, it cannot hold you long.
In Islington there was a man, of whom the world might say,
That atill a godly race he ran, whene'er- he went to pray.