human
Can you continue this poem for me?
  The plant thus honoured, as the love-token of a World, rising in
intended as presents for his mother and Caroline.
Childhood's Piety.
If the meek faith that Jesus taught,
Admission fail to gain
Neath domes with wealth and splendour fraught,
Where dwell a haughty train,
Turn to the humble hearth and see
The Mother's tender care,
Luring the nursling on her knee
To link the words of prayer:
Or to the little bed, where kneels
The child with heaven-raised eye,
And all its guileless soul reveals
To Him who rules the sky;
Where the young babe's first lispings keep
So bright the parents tear,
The "_Now, I lay me down to sleep_,"
That angels love to hear.
"You are nearly an hour beyond the time," said Mrs. Ludlow.
Eliza came in with the bread nicely toasted, for their supper.
_Mrs. Ludlow._ "How did he die?"
_Frank._ "He went to make war in Norway. It was a terribly severe
_Edward._ "My lesson in the history of Rome, was the character of
lingered by her side, hoping she would tell them if any thing had
After they had retired, Frank said to his brother,
brotherly kindness, and to brotherly kindness, charity."
This little family were models of kindness and affection among
affection could dictate.
Edward had completed his collegiate course, and was studying at a
Frank resided at home. He had chosen to pursue the business of
tribulation.
When he returned to the regiment, it was to be disgraced for
But in spite of every precaution, he was recognized by a party of
court-martial convened, to try his offence.
"May I speak to the soldiers?" he said. It was the voice of Frank
"O mother! mother! had I but believed"--
Suddenly, there was some confusion; and all eyes turned towards a
heart-rending cry of "_Brother! O my brother!_"
strength from above, to rule his emotions, and to attain that
submission, which as a teacher of religion he enforced on others.
Waft not to me the blast of fame,
That swells the trump of victory,
For to my ear it gives the name
Of slaughter, and of misery.
Boast not so much of honour's sword,
Wave not so high the victor's plume,
They point me to the bosom gor'd,
They point me to the blood-stained tomb.
The boastful shout, the revel loud,
That strive to drown the voice of pain,
What are they but the fickle crowd
Rejoicing o'er their brethren slain?
And, ah! through glory's fading blaze,
I see the cottage taper, pale,
Which sheds its faint and feeble rays,
Where unprotected orphans wail:
Where the sad widow weeping stands,
As if her day of hope was done;
Where the wild mother clasps her hands
And asks the victor for her son:
Where the lone maid in secret sighs
O'er the lost solace of her heart,
As prostrate in despair she lies,
And feels her tortur'd life depart:
Where midst that desolated land,
The sire, lamenting o'er his son,
Extends his pale and powerless hand,
And finds its only prop is gone.
See, how the bands of war and woe
Have rifled sweet domestic bliss;
And tell me if your laurels grow
And flourish in a soil like this?
It was supposed in ancient times, that those who were deprived of
"To instruct the deaf, no art could ever reach,
No care improve them, and no wisdom teach."
"What did you think of the stars?"
"Had you any conception of death?"
"My kind grandmother laboured without ceasing, to impress me with
He then expressed to his teacher, the gratitude he felt for the
sweetest, most sustaining affections.
When they were brought by their father, from their home in
considered as the property of both.
"No, I would see Jesus."
tenderness, soothe it into good-humour and confidence.
studious children.
reception into the Asylum, she might testify surprise. But she
immediately busied herself in quietly exploring the size of the
possessed by those in the full enjoyment of sight.
Among her various excellencies, neatness and love of order are
Though her habits are perfectly regular and consistent, yet
Before her entrance at the Asylum, it was one of her sources of
satisfaction to be permitted to lay her hand upon the persons who
attention, and is not pleased with any long interruption to her
established system of industry.
Where is the light that to the eye
Heaven's holy message gave,
Tinging the retina with rays
From sky, and earth, and wave?
Where is the sound that to the soul
Mysterious passage wrought,
And strangely made the moving lip
A harp-string for the thought?
All fled! all lost! Not even the rose
An odour leaves behind,
That, like a broken reed, might trace
The tablet of the mind.
That mind! It struggles with its fate,
The anxious conflict, see!
As if through Bastile-bars it sought
Communion with the free.
Yet still its prison-robe it wears
Without a prisoner's pain;
For happy childhood's beaming sun
Glows in each bounding vein.
And bless'd Philosophy is near,
In Christian armour bright,
To scan the subtlest clew that leads
To intellectual light.
Say, lurks there not some ray of heaven
Amid thy bosom's night,
Some echo from a better land,
To make the smile so bright?
The lonely lamp in Greenland cell,
Deep 'neath a world of snow,
Doth cheer the loving household group
Though none around may know;
And, sweet one, hath our Father's hand
Plac'd in thy casket dim
Some radiant and peculiar lamp,
To guide thy steps to Him?
Kindness to animals shows an amiable disposition, and correct
Cats, so frequently the objects of neglect or barbarity, are more
The race of rats are usually considered remarkable only for
The instinct of the beaver approaches the bounds of reason. Their
When Dr. Franklin was on his embassy in France, soon after our
Gay inmate of our studious room.
Adorn'd with nature's brightest dyes,
Whose gadding wing, and tissued plume,
Allure so many wandering eyes.
The breath of eve is gathering bleak,
And thou dost shrink beneath its power,
And faint, or famish'd, seem'st to seek
The essence from yon withering flower
Haste to thine own secluded cell,
And shield thee from the chilling blast,
And let the honied casket well
Supply a fresh and free repast.
Hast thou no home? Didst thou provide
No shelter from autumnal rain?
Hast thou no cheering board supplied
From all the treasures of the plain?
What wilt thou do 'neath wintry skies?
Behold! the charms of summer fade,
Thy friend, the labouring bee, was wise
Ere on their stalks the plants decay'd,
Frail insect! shivering 'mid the storm,
Thy season of delight is past,
And soon that gaudy, graceful form,
Shall stiffen on the whelming blast.
Companions dear! whose frequent glance
Marks yon fair creature's brilliant hue,
Methinks, its wing in frolic dance,
Doth speak in wisdom's lore to you:
Seek not to flutter, and to flaunt,
While a few years their courses roll,
But heed approaching winter's want,
And store the sweetness of the soul.
There are ways in which boys may show true courage, without being
virtues, and will mention one that is now in my mind.
"Was he your friend?"
"How were you able to swim, and support a boy so much larger than
May is here, with skies of blue,
Tuneful birds of varied hue,
Blossoms bright on plant and tree:
Ye, who love her smile of glee,
Leave the city's thronging streets,
Meet her in her green retreats,
And, with thrilling heart inhale
Perfumes from her balmy gale.
Come! for countless gifts she bears;
Take her cordial for your cares:
Cull the charms that never cloy,
Twine the wreaths of social joy,
And with liberal hand dispense
Blessings of benevolence:
For when Spring shall fade away,
And the year grow dim and gray,
These, with changeless warmth shall glow
Mid the hills of wintry snow,
And undying fragrance cast,
When the _Spring of life_ is past.
The Huguenot Grandfather's Tale.
high-spirited Huguenots of rank, who dared and did so much for
"What became of your grandfather during this scene of horror?"
As the surgeon on examination feared that the copper balls were
"Young man! you ought to respect my age and infirmities."
"Is the work done?" he asked.
"It is finished, my Lord!"
"It is the man."
"Please not to forget what befell our relative."
It was in vain that he attempted to imitate this example of
"Was it not very strange, that a Catholic should be so good?"
He was attended in his illness by a faithful old nurse, to whom,
The pitying nurse answered with tears.
He listened mournfully to her words, and taking from her hand a
forgetting that, in this preference of war, he was applauding the
But I am forgetting, dear child, that you must be wearied with my
My Father's watch! Thy face is dear,
And still thou speak'st to me
The self-same words that met my ear,
When in old times of joyous cheer
I gladly climb'd his knee.
For oft as to his side I clung,
Thou wert mine own to hold,
Though to my simple mind, thy tongue
Uttering "_tick, tick_", to old and young
Seem'd mystery untold.
And still thy wondrous movements too
Amaz'd my gazing eye,
Thy hands that to their purpose true
Their undeclining circles drew,
Were magic strange and high.
But thou from days of toil and care,
That manhood's powers employ,
Didst duly point him home to share
The garden-walk, the fireside chair,
The feast of social joy.
When those whom most he loved were nigh,
And with beguiling flight,
The downy-pinioned hours swept by,
Thou, with a calm, unswerving eye
Didst note their numbers right.
And he, who knew so well to test
Of time, the fleeting prize,
Did on thy meek monitions rest
And take their wisdom to his breast,
And gird him for the skies.
But now, no more serenely sweet
He turns to thee for aid,
Yet still thy bloodless heart doth beat.
Though summon'd to a lone retreat
His own in dust is laid.
My Father's Friend! what memories bless'd
Thy lingering accents wake,
Here, in my sacred casket rest,
Or slumber on my filial breast,
Most honour'd for his sake.
reflection and conversation.
Who, with smiles, and wishes fair,
Through drifted snows and branches bare,
Comes, and liberal-handed brings
Countless gifts, and pleasant things,
Many a cake, and many a kiss,
Gilded toys, and sports of bliss,
Pictured books, with covers gay:
Who thus crowns our holiday?
While the sleigh-bells' merry peal
Rings, and glides the skater's heel?
The glad New Year.
Who, a tablet in his breast
Hides, with characters impress'd,
Mystic signs, and tints that show
Chance, and change of joy and woe,
Wreaths of hope in darkness laid
Boasted wealth a winged shade,
Brows that fade in youthful bloom,
Empty cradle, open tomb:
Who, alas! such course shall tread
Ere his farewell words are said?
Who, of those that never stray
Wilfully, from Duty's way,
Seek for knowledge, prize the truth,
Wisdom gain in early youth,
With a pure, and peaceful mind
Live in love with all mankind,
And a Saviour's precepts dear,
Treasure in His holy fear:
Who, of such leaves record high
On the pages of the sky?
The bless'd New Year.
Washington, that true merit was the foundation of his greatness.
prophets, and apostles, have taught us by their own failings, the
Behold, I die! Restore my form
To dust, to darkness, and the worm:
For from the earth it first arose.
And there, at last, it finds repose.
Yet when this breath forsakes the clay,
Think ye the spirit shall decay?
No, no, my sons! Its mystic flight
Hath ever mock'd your keenest sight,
Even when it deign'd with mortal care
This prison of the flesh to share:
So, when stern Death my frame shall blot,
It lives, though you perceive it not.
Believe you trace through yonder sky
Your disembodied father's eye,
And be your motives pure and high:
But dread the ages yet unborn
Who stamp your deeds with praise or scorn:
Dread more than all, the Powers who seal
That sentence, man can ne'er repeal.
Among this mass of shameless rulers, five appeared in regular
treating them with neglect, or growing weary of them.
heartily he endeavoured that everyone might, according to their
excellence, be regarded and esteemed. How constant was he in his
The reigns of the five good Emperors extended over a period of
"They shall beat their swords into Plough-shares." Isaiah, II,
The ploughing of the Sword
Breaks up the greensward deep,
And stirs the old foundations
Where the baleful passions sleep;
The quiet beauty of the vales
It rudely rends away,
And turns the roots of the riven flowers
To the scorching eye of day.
And then, they madly sow
The seeds of bitter strife,
Ambition, wrath, revenge,
And stern contempt of life.
They wildly scatter o'er the land
Dissension, pain, and care,
And fright away the birds of peace
That fain would carol there.
Now call the reapers forth,
With the thundering cannon's roar,
Hark! to the rush of an armed host
Like the surge on a rocky shore,
With tramp and clang, the warrior's heel
Doth the red wine-press tread,
And heavily roll the loaded wains
With their burdens of the dead.
They reap with murderous sickle,
Mid the shrill trumpet's cry,
Till the mightiest and the lowest,
In equal ruin lie.
Till the screaming vulture whets his beak,
Where the blood-pools blot the green,
And the gaunt hyena prowls at night
His dire repast to glean.
They store their carnage spoil
In History's garner wide,
A reeking overflowing crop
Of crime, and woe, and pride,
The widow's pang, the orphan's tear
The exulting tyrant's might,
And the cry of souls for ever lost,
As they take their fearful flight.
Oh! mourning Mother Earth,
Lift up thy heart and pray
That the ploughing of the sword
Be for ever done away,
And thine own meekly-cultur'd fields
With nodding corn be dress'd,
To feed thy children, ere they take
Their slumber in thy breast.
And thou, terrific Sword!
Whose ministry accurs'd
Doth waste the span of mortal life
That was so brief at first,
God speed the day when promis'd Peace
Shall reign from shore to shore,
And thou, into a plough-share beat,
Convulse the world no more.
He was anxious for the improvement of the young, and appointed a
magistrate to whom minors might apply, who needed protection or
assistance. He was careful to add an example of morality to the
He also cultivated the virtue of patience with the infirmities of
government, whose authority he partook. He led an idle life, and
The efforts that Marcus Aurelius made for his improvement and
exasperated.
The command over his passions, which was so conspicuous in Marcus
improvement of time.
Marcus Aurelius was much influenced by the priests of the heathen
He was nineteen, when, by the death of his father, he assumed the
Among some of his most illustrious victims were the Quintillian
The drama sinks, the tragic scene is o'er,
And he who rul'd their springs, returns no more;
He, who with mystery cloth'd, pale wonder chain'd,
And all mankind his auditors detain'd,
Whose plot unfolding agoniz'd the world,
Resigns his mask, and from the stage is hurl'd.
When from the wilds of Corsica he broke,
To snatch the sceptre and to bind the yoke,
He rais'd the curtain with his dagger's blade,
And pour'd red carnage o'er the slumbering shade.
His fearful plan, terrific, strange, and new,
Nor Fancy prompted, nor Experience drew,
It sprang inventive from a daring mind
Where dauntless nerve and intellect combined;
Thence bursting wildly, like the lightning's flame,
Gave birth to deeds that language fails to name.
With battle-clouds the shrinking sun he veil'd,
With flashing fires astonish'd Night assail'd,
By ravag'd fields, and streams with carnage red,
Trac'd o'er the earth his desolating tread:
Without a signal to the conflict rush'd
O'er friends enslav'd, foes wounded, allies crush'd;
High from the Alps, amid eternal snow,
Pour'd his fierce legions on the vale below,
With tramp of hurrying steed and armour's clang
War followed war; from conquest, conquest sprang.
In Scythian caves he fought; on Afric's sands,
Chas'd the wild Arab and his roving bands;
Perch'd on the pyramids in dizzy height.
Look'd scornful down on Alexander's might;
O'er Europe's realm like Attila he rush'd,
Snatch'd, rent, divided, subjugated, crush'd;
_Here_, planted minions in his smile to reign,
_There_, loaded monarchs with his vassal chain.
Rome's haughty pontiff trembled at the nod
That dar'd to threat the altar of his God;
While Albion's ships, whose bristled lightnings glow,
Were seen like Argus watching for their foe,
And her white cliffs in close array were lin'd
With sleepless soldiers, on their arms reclin'd.
Far distant realms beheld his glories tower,
And France forgot her wrongs, to boast his power;
The pale-brow'd conscript left, without a sigh,
Home, love, and liberty, for him to die.
Even heaven-taught Genius proffer'd venal lays,
The servile arts enlisted in his praise,
And the rich spoils of old Italia's shore
As trophies proud, his pirate legions bore.
In that gay city where his lofty throne
On run rear'd, in sudden brilliance shone,
The Old World met the New, and sons of fame
Who fill'd with awe, in long procession came,
Rais'd the imploring eye, to ask sublime
A milder sentence on the tyrant's crime.
But how can Europe grant their warm appeal,
Reft of her sons, and mangled by his steel?
Hath she a couch so dark, a cell so deep,
That burning Moscow's memory there may sleep?
What can the scenes of purple Jaffa blot?
And when shall Lodi's slaughter be forgot?
Who from a race unborn shall hide the view
Earth, clad in sable, never can forego
The deep-grav'd trace, nor man forget the woe.
Yet, _let him live_, if life can yet be borne,
Disrob'd of glory, and depress'd with scorn;
Yes, _let him live_, if he to life can bend,
Without a flatterer, and without a friend;
If from the hand he hated, he can bear
To take the gift, his stain'd existence spare.
But who from yon lone islet shall exclude
The fearful step of Conscience, foul with blood?
What diamond shield repel the impetuous force
Or break the shafts of pitiless remorse?
Oh! in his sea-girt cell of guilt and fear,
Stretch the red map that marks his dire career,
Light the funereal torch, in terror spread
His reeking hecatombs of slaughter'd dead,
And if to hearts like his, Contrition comes,
There let him seek her 'mid impending glooms;
_There_ let him live, and to mankind display
The mighty miseries of Ambition's sway;
There let him sink, to teach them by his fate,
The dread requital of the falsely great.
Great, in the stores of an ambitious mind;
Great, in the deeds that desolate mankind;
Great, like the pestilence in mystic shroud
That darts its arrow from the midnight cloud;
Great, like the whirlwind in its wrecking path,
To sow in evil, and to reap in wrath.
"The will of the Lord be done."
"Call for them," answered Polycarp.
"Peace on earth, and good-will to men."
Lift up the grateful heart to Him,
The Friend of want and pain,
Whose birth the joyous angels sang,
On green Judea's plain;
"Good-will and peace!" how sweet the sound
Upon the midnight air,
While sleep the fleecy flocks around,
Watched by their shepherd's care.
So we, within this Christian fold,
Lambs of our teacher's love,
Who hear that melody divine,
Still echoing from above,
Would fain, through all of life, obey
assistant
Sure, a continuation for this poem could be:
  The spirit of the strain,
That so the bliss by angels sung
Might not to us be vain.
approached maturity, his graceful, majestic person awakened their
From his untimely grave, a voice seems to rise, warning the young
Farewell! Farewell! Once more regain
Your happy home, your native plain;
Yet here, in Learning's classic fane,
None have discharg'd the allotted part
With firmer zeal or fonder heart.
And true affection still shall hold
Your image, set in Memory's gold.
Yet think, sweet friend, where'er you rove,
That He who strews your path with love,
Accords no boon of which to say,
"'Tis light, go trifle it away."
No. Every fleeting hour survives;
It seems to vanish, yet it lives;
Though buried, it shall burst the tomb,
And meet you at the bar of doom.
But _how_ it rises, _how_ appears,
With smiles or frowns, with joys or fears.
And ah! what verdict then it bears,
Rests on your labours, and your prayers.
In early childhood he discovered strong powers of mind, and a
kingdoms.
Constancy and regularity in prayer was among his early traits of
When the sufferer was restored to health, and informed of this
circumstance, he was deeply touched by the grateful affection and
Yes, take them to the peasant's cot,
Where penury shrinks in pain and care,
Spread to their view the humblest lot,
And let them taste the coarsest fare,
And bid their tender limbs recline
Upon the hard and husky bed,
Where want and weary labour pine,
Diseased, unpitied, and unfed;
And let them weep; for if their eyes
With tender Pity ne'er o'erflow,
How will they heed their subjects' signs,
Or learn to feel a nation's woe?
Oh children! though your Maker's hand,
Hath mark'd for you a lofty sphere,
And though your welfare and command
Are now to partial Gallia dear;
Yet many a child from lowliest shed,
Whose peasant father turns the sod,
May in the righteous day of dread
Be counted _greater_ by his God.
"From whence come wars and fightings?" James, iv. 1.
It is very sad to think of the cruelty and bad passions which war
"We will not fight with you," he said, "nor shed your blood. If a
hypocrisy."
impossible that wars should be prevented. He did not believe that
A Fly was struggling in a vase of ink,
Which with my feathery quill-top I releas'd,
As the rope saves the drowning mariner.
I thought at first the luckless wight was dead,
But mark'd a quivering of the slender limbs,
And laid him on a paper in the sun,
To renovate himself.
With sudden spasm
Convulsion shook him sore, and on his back
Discomfited he lay. Then, by his side
I strew'd some sugar, and upon his breast
Arrang'd a particle, thinking, perchance,
The odour of his favourite aliment
Might stimulate the palate, and uncoil
The folded trunk.
But, straight, a troop of friends
Gather'd around him, and I deem'd it kind
To express their sympathy, in such dark hour
Of adverse fortune. Yet, behold! they came
To forage on his stores, and rudely turn'd
And toss'd him o'er and o'er, to help themselves
With more convenience. Quite incens'd to see
Their utter want of pitying courtesy,
I drove these venal people all away,
And shut a wine-glass o'er him, to exclude
Their coarse intrusion.
Forthwith, they return'd,
And through his palace peer'd, and, round and round
Gadding, admission sought: yet all in vain.
And so, a wondrous buzzing they set up,
As if with envy mov'd to see him there,
The untasted luxury at his very lips,
For which they long'd so much.
Then suddenly,
The prisoner mov'd his head, and rose with pain,
And dragg'd his palsied body slow along,
Marking out sinuous lines, as on a map,
Coast, islet, creek, and lithe promontory,
Blank as the Stygian ink-pool, where he plung'd
So foolishly. But a nice bath was made
In a small silver spoon, from which he rose
Most marvellously chang'd, stretching outright
All his six legs uncramp'd, and, opening wide
And shutting with delight his gauzy wings,
Seem'd to applaud the cleansing properties
Of pure cold water. Then with appetite,
He took the food that he had loath'd before;
And in this renovation of the life
Of a poor noteless insect, was a joy,
And sweet content, I never could have felt
From taking it away.
Still let us guard,
For every harmless creature, God's good gifts
Of breath and being; since each beating heart
Doth hide some secret sense of happiness
Which he who treadeth out can ne'er restore.
"This," said he, "gives me comfort in my distress."
"Dear child," said his father, "this grieves us to the heart."
After prayer, he spoke with a stronger and more joyful voice, his
"God will be near thee," said the father. "He shall uphold thee."
Fixing her eyes tenderly upon her mourning parents, she said,
comforted. He will cause all things to go well that concern you."
Her mother answered with tears,
"Yes, my daughter."
displeasure against our country, when such a faithful pastor is
smitten?"
Waking from a troubled sleep, she said in a faint voice,
"O dear father, dear mother, how very weak I am."
She requested her father to go to those who had instructed her in
In a dying voice, yet clear and animated by unswerving faith, she
She lay, in childhood's sunny hour,
The loving and the fair,
A smitten bud, a drooping flower,
For death was with her there.
One only unfulfilled desire
Oppress'd her heart with care:
"Make smooth the ocean waves, dear Lord,
And home my mother bear."
Up rose that prayer, both night and day,
Heaven heard the tender claim,
The favour'd ship its haven found,
The absent mother came;
So then, like dove with folded wing.
Enwrapp'd in calm content,
A mother's kiss upon her lips,
She to her Saviour went.
To her uncle and aunt, her returns of affection were ardent and
touching. She was watchful not to offend, or interfere with their
"I trust all will be well soon."
"I desire to have no choice."
I love 'mid those green mounds to stray
Where purple violets creep,
For there the village children say
That both my parents sleep.
Bright garlands there I often make
Of thyme and daisies fair,
And when my throbbing temples ache,
I go and rest me there.
If angry voices harshly chide,
Or threatening words are said,
I love to lay me by their side
Close in that silent bed.
I wish'd a sportive lamb to bide
My coming o'er the lea.
It broke away and bleating cried,
"My mother waits for me."
"Stay, stay, sweet bird!" On pinion strong
It fled with dazzling breast,
And soon I heard its matron song
Amid its chirping nest.
"Why dost thou fade, young bud of morn,
And hide thy drooping gem?"
And the bud answered, "They have torn
Me from my parent stem."
Go happy warbler to thy bower,
White lambkin, gambol free,
I'll save this lone and wither'd flower,
It seems to pity me.
"Come mother, come! and soothe thy child!"
Methinks I hear her sigh,
"Cold clods are on my bosom pil'd,
And darkness seals my eye."
She cannot burst the chain of fate
By which her limbs are pressed.
"Dear father rise! and lift the weight
That loads my mother's breast."
In vain I speak, in vain the tear
Bedews the mouldering clay,
My deep complaint they do not hear,
I may not longer stay.
Yet ere I go, I'll kneel and say
The humble prayer they taught,
When by their side at closing day
I breath'd my infant thought.
God will not leave my heart to break,
The Orphan He'll defend,
Father and mother may forsake,
But He's the Unchanging Friend.
disposition, with no propensity to anger when what he desired was
parents.
"We will show you, my dear son," said the father, with a smiling
countenance, "a way that will lead you from earth to heaven."
sometimes broke in upon us, removing our doubts, exalting our
In this counsel his parents acquiesced, but finding the idea of
"Lives there a youth, who far from home,
Through novel scenes exults to roam?
Then let the restless vagrant go,
And idly pass from show to show;
While in my native village bless'd,
Delighted still, and still at rest,
Without disturbance or alloy,
Life's purest pleasures I enjoy."
This unexpected mark of the high esteem in which he was held, was
Life is beautiful! its duties
Cluster round each passing day,
While their sweet and solemn voices spot
Warn to work, to watch, to pray;
They alone its blessings forfeit
Who by sin their spirits cheat,
Or to slothful stupor yielding,
Let the rust their armour eat.
Life is beautiful! affections
Round its roots with ardour cling,
'Mid its opening blossoms nestle,
Bird-like, in its branches sing,
Smiling lull its cradle slumbers,
Guard with pride its youthful bloom,
Fondly kiss its snow-white temples,
Dew the turf-mound o'er its tomb.
Life is beautiful with promise
Of a joy that cannot fade,
Life is fearful, with the threatening
Of an everlasting shade.
May no thoughtless wanderer scorn it,
Blindly lost in folly's maze,
Duty, love, and hope adorn it:
Let its latest breath be praise.
But the early maturity of his heart was fully equalled by the
discrimination in selecting those most worthy of admiration. The
In the science of geometry he displayed a vigorous and highly
disciplined mind, by the ready demonstration of some of its most
generosity, that whatever was given him he desired to share with
another. He seemed incapable of selfish gratification. When from
ingenuousness, and complied with the precept which had been early
evening, and to keep the day of God sacred, he delighted in these
His hands were clasp'd, his eyelids clos'd,
As on his couch he lay,
While slumber seem'd to wrap the form
That pain had worn away:
But still the watching mother marked
His pallid lips to part,
As if some all-absorbing thought
Lay on his dreaming heart;
For yet he slept not. Silent prayer
Commun'd with God alone,
And then his glazing eyes he rais'd,
And spoke with tender tone:
"Oh mother! often in my class,
I've heard the teacher say,
That those who to the Saviour turn
He would not cast away;
And so, beside my bed I knelt
While early morn was dim,
Imploring Heaven to teach my soul
The way to turn to Him;
And now, behold! through golden clouds,
A pierced hand I see,
And listen to a glorious Voice,
Arise! and come to Me."
His breath grew faint, but soft and low
The parting whisper sigh'd,
"I come, dear Lord, I come!" and so,
Without a pang he died.
Oh blessed child! with whom the strife
Of fear and care are o'er,
Methinks thine angel smile we see
From yon celestial shore,
And hear thee singing to His praise
Whose boundless mercy gave
Unto thy meek and trusting soul,
The victory o'er the Grave.
healthful.
But it was forbidden us to witness the result of this interesting
The Last Rose-bud.
The child was radiant with delight,
As from the garden's shade,
With golden ringlets clustering bright,
She burst upon the mother's sight,
And in her hand, like fairy sprite,
A blooming rose-bud laid.
'Twas the last wreath by summer wove
That thus the darling brought,
For Autumn's breath had chill'd the grove;
Oh mother! was that gift of love
With aught of sadness fraught?
Say, didst thou think how soon that head
In silent earth would rest?
A solemn curtain o'er it spread,
And the green turf she joy'd to tread,
A covering for her breast?
But, for the buds that fade no more,
Look thou in faith above,
Look, mother! where the seraphs soar,
Where countless harps their music pour,
And raptur'd cherubim adore
The God of boundless love.
The Cherub's Welcome.
morning.
swelling the melody of heaven.
A babe, who like the opening bud
Grew fairer day by day,
Made friendship with the loving flowers
Amid his infant play;
And though full many a gorgeous plant
Display'd its colours bright,
Yet with the meek Forget-me-not
He took his chief delight.
From mantel-vase, or rich bouquet,
He cull'd his favourite gem,
Well pleas'd its lowly lips to kiss,
And gently clasp its stem.
So, when to dreamless rest he sank,
For soon he was to fade,
That darling friend, Forget-me-not,
Was on his bosom laid;
And when, beside the mother's couch,
Who weepeth for his sake,
Some vision of his heavenly joy
Doth midnight darkness break,
He cometh with a cherub smile
In garments of the bless'd,
And weareth a Forget-me-not
Upon his sinless breast.
numerous they are.
hardness of heart, and cruelty to animals.
All his search was vain. There was sorrow that night in the lowly
continued their pursuit for several days and nights. But in vain.
"Is my dog lost too?" said the father, as he one day entered his
"We too might learn, if not too proud to stoop
To animal instructors, many a good
And useful quality, and virtue too,
Rarely exemplified among ourselves.
Fidelity, that neither bribe nor threat
Can move, or warp, and gratitude for small
And trivial favours, lasting as the life,
And glistening even from the dying eye."
The innocent dove, is cited as a model in the Book of God. "Be ye
surrounded by luxury, and brutally abused the servants, who, they
attitudes.
Among the most warlike nations, there have been a few calm and
But, after a battle, what gashes and gaping wounds are seen, what
War produces cruelty, and bad passions. Men, who have no cause to
"War is a game, that, were their subjects wise,
Kings would not play at."
"No more shall nation against nation rise,
Nor ardent warriors meet, with hateful eyes,
Nor fields with gleaming steel be cover'd o'er,
But brazen trumpet kindle rage no more,
The useless lances into scythes shall bend,
And the broad faulchion in a ploughshare end.
For wars shall cease, and ancient fraud shall fail,
Returning Justice lift aloft her scale.
Peace o'er the earth her olive wand extend,
And white-rob'd righteousness from Heaven descend."
childhood. A strong blast, with snow, shook the casement.
"Husband, did I hear a faint knock! or was it the wind among the
"Sometimes," he said, "just before rushing into battle, I felt a
The sick and penitent soldier, sought earnestly for the hope of
The venerable minister who instructed his childhood, and laid his
inseparable from the formation of a new colony.
intruders;" and they grieved that they should not have been more
successful in conciliating their red brethren.
Here and there groups of children might be seen, bearing homeward
"Thus it is with the white man. He is dim-eyed. He looketh on the
thunders.
A Sea-king on the Danish shore,
When the old time went by,
Launch'd his rude ship for reckless deeds,
Beneath a foreign sky.
And oft on Albion's richer coast,
Where Saxon Harold reign'd,
With a fierce foe's marauding hate,
Wild warfare he maintained.
From hamlet-nook, and humble vale,
Their wealth he reft away,
And shamed not with his blood-red steel,
To wake the deadly fray.
But once within an islet's bay,
While summer-twilight spread
A curtain o'er the glorious sun,
Who sank to ocean's bed,
He paus'd amid his savage trade,
And gaz'd on earth and sea,
While o'er his head a nest of doves,
Hung in a linden tree.
They coo'd and murmur'd o'er their young,
A loving, mournful strain.
And still the chirping brood essay'd,
The same soft tones again.
The sea-king on the rocky beach;
Bow'd down his head to hear,
Yet started on his iron brow,
To feel a trickling tear.
He mus'd upon his lonely home,
Beyond the foaming main;
For nature kindled in his breast,
At that fond dovelet's strain.
He listen'd till the lay declin'd,
As slumber o'er them stole:
"_Home, home, sweet home!_" methought they sang;
It enter'd to his soul.
He linger'd till the moon came forth,
With radiance pure and pale,
And then his hardy crew he rous'd,
"Up! up! and spread the sail."
"Now, whither goest thou, master bold?"
No word the sea-king spake,
But at the helm all night he stood,
Till ruddy morn did break.
"See, captain, yon unguarded isle!
Those cattle are our prey;"
Dark grew their brows, and fierce their speech:
No word he deign'd to say.
Right onward, o'er the swelling wave,
With steady prow he bore,
Nor stay'd until he anchor'd fast,
By Denmark's wave-wash'd shore.
"Farewell, farewell, brave men and true,
Well have you serv'd my need;
Divide the spoils as best ye may,
Rich boon for daring deed."
He shook them by the harden'd hand,
And on his journey sped,
Nor linger'd till through shades he saw,
His long-forsaken shed.
Forth came the babe, that when he left,
Lay on its mother's knee;
She rais'd a stranger's wondering cry:
A fair-hair'd girl was she!
His far-off voice that mother knew,
And shriek'd in speechless joy,
While, proudly, toward his arms she drew
His bashful, stripling boy.
They bade the fire of pine burn bright,
The simple board they spread;
And bless'd and welcom'd him, as one
Returning from the dead.
He cleans'd him of the pirate's sin,
He donn'd the peasant's stole,
And nightly from his labours came,
With music in his soul.
"Father! what mean those words you speak
Oft in your broken sleep?
_The doves! the doves!_ you murmuring cry,
And then in dreams you weep:
"Father, you've told us many a tale,
Of storm, and battle wild;
Tell us the story of the doves,"
The peasant-father smil'd:
"Go, daughter, lure a dove to build
Her nest in yonder tree,
And thou shalt hear the tender tone,
That lured me back to thee."
War-spirit! War-spirit! how gorgeous thy path
Pale earth shrinks with fear from thy chariot of wrath,
The king at thy beckoning comes down from his throne,
To the conflict of fate the armed nations rush on,
With the trampling of steeds, and the trumpets' wild cry,
While the folds of their banners gleam bright o'er the sky.
Thy glories are sought, till the life-throb is o'er,
Thy laurels pursued, though they blossom in gore,
Mid the ruins of columns and temples sublime,
The arch of the hero doth grapple with time;
The muse o'er thy form throws her tissue divine,
And history her annal emblazons with thine.
War-spirit! War-spirit! thy secrets are known;
I have look'd on the field when the battle was done,
The mangled and slain in their misery lay,
And the vulture was shrieking and watching his prey,
And the heart's gush of sorrow, how hopeless and sore,
In those homes that the lov'd ones revisit no more.
I have trac'd out thy march, by its features of pain,
While famine and pestilence stalk'd in thy train,
And the trophies of sin did thy victory swell,
And thy breath on the soul, was the plague-spot of hell;
Death laudeth thy deeds, and in letters of flame,
The realm of perdition engraveth thy name.
War-spirit! War-spirit! go down to thy place,
With the demons that thrive on the woe of our race;
Call back thy strong legions of madness and pride,
Bid the rivers of blood thou hast open'd be dried,
Let thy league with the grave and Aceldama cease,
And yield the torn world to the Angel of Peace.
And he prayed, "Lord, keep this child from anger, and hatred, and
Hastening home, I besought my mother, "Shelter me, as I have been
I stood upon a breezy height, and marked
The rural landscape's charms: fields thick with corn,
And new-mown grass that bathed the ruthless scythe
With a forgiving fragrance, even in death
Blessing its enemies; and broad-armed trees
Fruitful, or dense with shade, and crystal streams
That cheered their sedgy banks.
But at my feet
Were vestiges, that turned the thoughts away
From all this summer-beauty. Moss-clad stones
That formed their fortress, who in earlier days,
Sought refuge here, from their own troubled clime,
And from the madness of a tyrant king,
Were strewed around.
Methinks, yon wreck stands forth
In rugged strength once more, and firmly guards
From the red Indian's shaft, those sons of France,
Who for her genial flower-decked vales, and flush
Of purple vintage, found but welcome cold
From thee, my native land! the wintry moan
Of wind-swept forests, and the appalling frown
Of icy floods. Yet didst thou leave them free
To strike the sweet harp of the secret soul,
And this was all their wealth. For this they blest
Thy trackless wilds, and 'neath their lowly roof
At morn and night, or with the murmuring swell
Of stranger waters, blent their hymn of praise.
Green Vine! that mantlest in thy fresh embrace
Yon old, grey rock, I hear that thou with them
Didst brave the ocean surge.
Say, drank thy germ
The dews of Languedoc? or slow uncoiled
An infant fibre, mid the fruitful mould
Of smiling Roussillon? or didst thou shrink
From the fierce footsteps of a warlike train
Brother with brother fighting unto death,
At fair Rochelle?
Hast thou no tale for me?
Methought its broad leaves shivered in the gale,
With whispered words.
There was a gentle form,
A fair, young creature, who at twilight hour
Oft brought me water, and would kindly raise
My drooping head. Her eyes were dark and soft
As the gazelle's, and well I knew her sigh
Was tremulous with love. For she had left
One in her own fair land, with whom her heart
From childhood had been twined.
Oft by her side,
What time the youngling moon went up the sky,
Chequering with silvery beam their woven bower;
He strove to win her to the faith he held,
Speaking of heresy with flashing eye,
Yet with such blandishment of tenderness,
As more than argument dissolveth doubt
With a young pupil, in the school of love.
Even then, sharp lightning quivered thro' the gloom
Of persecution's cloud, and soon its storm
Their churches fell,
Their pastors fed the dungeon, or the rack;
And mid each household-group, grim soldiers sat,
In frowning espionage, troubling the sleep
Of infant innocence.
Stern war burst forth,
And civil conflict on the soil of France
Wrought fearful things.
The peasant's blood was ploughed
In with the wheat he planted, while from cliffs
That overhung the sea, from caves and dens,
The hunted worshippers were madly driven
Out 'neath the smiling sabbath skies, and slain,
The anthem on their tongues.
The coast was thronged
With hapless exiles, and that dark-haired maid,
Leading her little sister, in the steps
Of their afflicted parents, hasting left
The meal uneaten, and the table spread
In their sweet cottage, to return no more.
The lover held her to his heart, and prayed
That from her erring people she would turn
To the true fold of Christ, for so he deemed
That ancient Church, for which his breast was clad
In soldier's panoply.
But she, with tears
Like Niobe, a never-ceasing flood,
Drew her soft hand from his, and dared the deep.
And so, as years sped on with patient brow
She bare the burdens of the wilderness,
His image, and an everlasting prayer,
Within her soul.
And when she sank away,
As fades the lily when its day is done,
There was a deep-drawn sigh, and up-raised glance
Of earnest supplication, that the hearts
Severed so long, might join, where bigot zeal
Should find no place.
She hath a quiet bed
Beneath yon turf, and an unwritten name
On earth, which sister angels speak in heaven.
When Louis Fourteenth, by the revocation of the Edict of Nantz,
Among the various settlements made by the Huguenots, at different
clergyman, landed at Fort Hill, in Boston. There they found kind
ill-chosen, nor uncongenial. Here, their excellent pastor, Pierre
About the year 1713, Oxford was resettled by a stronger body of
"The chestnut loaf lay broken on the shelf."
"I have seen an end of all Perfection."
I have seen a man in the glory of his days, in the pride of his
I returned; she was not in the dance. I sought her among her gay
It stood like a lamb before its teachers, it bowed its ear to