Imatges de pÓgina

whose hearts are impelled by wisdom to rise towards the Creator, but not to deviate from that upward direction in quest of any other source of real happiness. They, like thyself, true as the needle to the pole, keep their affections ever steadily in the direction between the corresponding scenes of Heaven and Home, while, at the same time, with generosity like thine, they shed blessings on all around them.



Heaven may not grant thee all thy mind;
Yet say not thou that Heaven's unkind.
God is alike both good and wise
In what he grants and what denies.
Perhaps what goodness gives to day,
To-morrow goodness takes away.



As the light leaf, whose fall to ruin bears
Some trembling insect's little world of cares,
Descends in silence, while around waves on
The mighty forest, reckless what is gone;
Such is man's doom; and, ere an hour be flown,-
Start not, thou trifler!—such may be thine own!
Mrs. Hemans.


Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither, at the north wind's breath;
And stars to set: -but all-

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Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

Youth and the opening rose

May look like things too glorious for decay,
And smile at thee; but thou art not of those

That wait the ripened bloom, to seize their prey.
Mrs. Hemans.


He is gone on the mountain,
He is lost to the forest,

Like a summer-dried fountain,

When our need was the sorest!

The font, reappearing,

From the rain drops shall borrow;
But to us comes no cheering,
To Duncan no morrow!

The hand of the reaper
Takes the ears that are hoary;
But the voice of the weeper
Wails manhood in glory!
The autumn winds rushing
Waft the leaves that are serest;
But our flower was in flushing,
When blighting was nearest!

Sir W. Scott.



Now the glad earth her frozen zone unbinds;
And o'er her bosom breathe the western winds.
Already now the snow-drop dares appear,
The first pale blossom of the unripened year,
As Flora's breath, by some transforming power,
Had changed an icicle into a flower.

Its name and hue the scentless plant retains,
And winter lingers in its icy veins.
To this succeed the violet's glossy blue,
And each inferior flower of fainter hue;
Till riper months the perfect year disclose,
And Flora cries exulting, " See my rose!"



Nor Fame I slight, nor for her favours call;
She comes unlooked for, if she comes at all.
But if the purchase costs so dear a price
As soothing folly, or exalting vice;

O! if the Muse must flatter lawless sway,
And follow still where Fortune leads the way;
Or if no basis bear my rising name,

But the fallen ruins of another's fame ;

Then, teach me, Heaven! to scorn the guilty bays;
Drive from my breast that wretched thirst of praise.
Unblemished let me live, or die unknown;
O! grant an honest fame, or grant me none!



Prayer is the soul's sincere desire,
Uttered or unexpressed;

The motion of a hidden fire,
That trembles in the breast.

Prayer is the burthen of a sigh,
The falling of a tear,

The upward glancing of an eye,
When none but God is near.

Prayer is the simplest form of speech
That infant lips can try;

Prayer, the sublimest strains that reach
The Majesty on high.

Prayer is the Christian's vital breath,
The Christian's native air;

His watchword at the gates of death;

He enters heaven by prayer.

J. Montgomery.


Reflected in the lake, I love
To mark the star of evening glow,
So tranquil in the heaven above,
So restless on the wave below.
Thus heavenly hope is all serene ;
But earthly hope, how bright soe'er,
Still fluctuates o'er this changing scene,
As false and fleeting as 't is fair.



Could all our care elude the gloomy grave,
Which claims no less the fearful than the brave,
For lust of fame, I should not vainly dare
In fighting fields, nor urge thy soul to war.
But since, alas! ignoble age must come,
Disease, and death's inexorable doom,
The life which others pay, let us bestow,
And give to fame what we to nature owe;
Brave though we fall, and honoured if we live,
Or let us glory gain, or glory give.

Pope's Homer.


The rose had been washed, just washed in a shower,
Which Mary to Anna conveyed;

The plentiful moisture encumbered the flower,
And weighed down its beautiful head.

The cup was all filled, and the leaves were all wet,
And it seemed, to a fanciful view,


weep for the buds it had left with regret, On the flourishing bush where it grew.

I hastily seized it, unfit as it was

For a nosegay, so dripping and drowned;
And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas!
I snapped it; it fell to the ground.

And such, I exclaimed, is the pitiless part
Some act by the delicate mind;

Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart
Already to sorrow resigned.

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