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Rh Thus every new year that we live Brings mysteries strange to descry, And the best of all homage to give Is to wonder on still till we die. Then the sea from Its depth shall go fleeing, All bare shall eternity be: And those who now wonder not seeing, Shall wonder the more when they see.

 

How void of care yon merry Thrush, That sings melodious in the bush; That has no stores of wealth to keep, No lands to plough, no corn to reap!

He never frets for worthless things, But lives in peace, and sweetly sings; Enjoys the present with his mate, Unmindful of to-morrow's fate.

Rejoiced he finds his morning fare, His dinner lies—he knows not where; Still to the unfailing hand he chants His grateful song, and never wants.

Of true felicity possess'd, He glides through life supremely blest; And for his daily meal relies On Him whose love the world supplies.

