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29

THE LARK.

Now the pleasant sun is shining,—
Snowdrops spring:
Joy and beauty are combining,—
Sky-larks sing.
Music charmingly well done,
Flows from many a pretty one;—
There's a lark to meet the sun,
On the wing.
Higher up he goes, and higher,
In the light;
Nearly is the soaring lyre
Out of sight;

30

Though he looks a little thing,
Yet I hear him sweetly sing;
Still he rises on the wing,
Such a height!
Hark! I hear them—six or seven—
In the air;
Many more ascend the heaven,—
Everywhere:
Every pretty little bird,
Sings aloud to praise the Lord,
For the good His hands afford,
Free and fair.