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PETER PARLEY'S GEOGRAPHY.
The world is round, and like a ball
Seems swinging in the air ; A sky extends around it all,
And stars are shining there.
Water and land upon the face
Of this round world we see ; The land is man's safe dwelling place,
But ships sail on the sea.
Two mighty continents there are,
And many islands too, And mountains, hills, and valleys there,
With level plains we view.
The ocean, like the broad blue sky,
Extends around the sphere,
Unfolded, bright and clear,
Around the earth on every side,
Where hills and plains are spread, The various tribes of men abide,
White, black, and copper red.
And animals and plants there be,
Of various name and form ; And in the bosom of the sea
All sorts of fishes swarm.
Geography goes high and low,
To set them forth and shew them, The more attention you bestow,
The better you will know them.
THE LITTLE SHIP.
A LITTLE ship was on the sea,
It was a pretty sight;
And all was calm and bright.
When lo! a storm began to rise,
The wind blew loud and strong ; It blew the clouds across the skies,
It blew the waves along.
And all but one, were sore afraid
Of sinking in the deep ;
And he was fast asleep.
Master, we perish !-Master save!
They cried,—their Master heard ; He rose, rebuked the wind and wave,
And still'd them with a word.
He to the storm says,
Peace,-be still;" The raging billows cease, The mighty winds obey his will,
And all are hushed to peace.
Oh! well we know it was the Lord,
Our Saviour and our Friend ;
I KNEW a little sickly child,
The long, long summer day,
Alone in bed he lay.
Before his window small,
Out of the fir tree tall.
And when that sick child better grew,
And he could crawl along,
And listen to her song.
And quiet in his play;
That sweet dove fly away.
There is a holy Dove that sings
To every Christian child, That whispers to his little heart
A song as sweet, as mild.
The Holy Spirit of our God,
That speaks his soul within,-
And holds him back from sin.
And he must hear that still small voice
Nor tempt it to depart,
That whispers to his heart.
Must strive, and watch, and pray,
Will drive that Dove away.
Who fed me from her gentle breast,
When sleep forsook my open eye,