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 Close up, close up, our resolute ring! —Hush! Hearken! The Strawberries sing!

The Strawberries.

To anybody passing near, Or thro’ the Paddock going, It might appear that nothing here But simple Grass was growing. Yet let him search, and he shall see Where, deep within the Grass, are we!

Here, all our length of life, in ease And wealth have we been lying; A hundred faithful ministries Round our unfitness plying; Bidding the berry from the flower, Rosy from green, and sweet from sour.

Till, toiling not, but giving way To natural, kindly uses, Nourish’d, nurs’d, by Night, by Day, How sweet are grown our juices! How round within our narrow niche We glow! how rosy-ripe and rich!

The Sunbeams.

And still to grow, and still to glow, Still, serene enjoyment To garner that ye may bestow, Be this your whole employment, And your concern with Destiny No more but this:—to bid It be!