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 Shall I covet wealth and glory?

Shall I bow at pleasure's shrine?

No, my God—one prayer I raise thee,

From my pure and happy heart,

Never let me cease to praise thee—

Never from thy fear depart.

Then, when years have gathered o'er me,

And the world is sunk in shade,

Heaven's bright realm will rise before me,

There my treasure will be laid.

'Come here, my son,' the father said—

'What lesson have you read today?'

The little prattler raised his head,

And shook his curls away,

And answered with an earnest eye,

'My father, I have read the sky.'