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oe raised to crush the feeblest nation on earth, and there will be heard everywhere, if not the shout of defiance, at least the deep-toned murmur of implacable displeasure. It is the cry of aggrieved, insulted, much-abused man. It is human nature waking in her might from the slumber of ages, shaking herself from the dust of antiquated institu tions, girding herself for the combat, and going forth conquering and to conquer; and woe unto the man, woe unto the dynasty, woe unto the party, and woe unto the policy, on whom shall fall the scathe of her blighting indignation!

74. THE WORTH OF FAME. -Joanna Baillie. Born, 1765; died, 1850.

O! WHO shall lightly say that Fame
Is nothing but an empty name,
Whilst in that sound there is a charm
The nerves to brace, the heart to warm,
As, thinking of the mighty dead,

The young from slothful couch will start,
And vow, with lifted hands outspread,
Like them to act a noble part!

O! who shall lightly say that Fame
Is nothing but an empty name,
When, but for those, our mighty dead,
All ages past, a blank would be,
Sunk in oblivion's murky bed, -

A desert bare, a shipless sea?
They are the distant objects seen,
The lofty marks of what hath been.

O! who shall lightly say that Fame
Is nothing but an empty name,
When memory of the mighty dead

To earth-worn pilgrim's wistful eye
The brightest rays of cheering shed,
That point to immortality?

A twinkling speck, but fixed and bright,
To guide us through the dreary night,
Each hero shines, and lures the soul
To gain the distant, happy goal.
For is there one who, musing o'er the grave
Where lies interred the good, the wise, the brave,
Can poorly think, beneath the mouldering heap,
That noble being shall forever sleep?

Nc, saith the generous heart, and proudly swells, -
"Though his cered corse lies here, with God his spirit dwells."


O, THE dark days of vanity! while here
How tasteless, and how terrible when gone!
Gone! they ne'er go; when past, they haunt us still;
The spirit walks of every day deceased,
And smiles an angel, or a fury frowns.
Nor death nor life delights us. If time past
And time possest both pain us, what can please?
That which the Deity to please ordained,

TIME USED! The man who consecrates his hours
By vigorous effort and an honest aim,

At once he draws the sting of life and death;
He walks with Nature, and her paths are peace.
Ye well arrayed! ye lilies of our land!
Ye lilies male! who neither toil nor spin
(As sister lilies might), if not so wise
As Solomon, more sumptuous to the sight!
Ye delicate! who nothing can support,
Yourselves most insupportable! for whom
The winter rose must blow, the Sun put on
A brighter beam in Leo; silky-soft
Favonius breathe still softer, or be chid;
And other worlds send odors, sauce, and song,
And robes, and notions, framed in foreign looms,-

O ye Lorenzos of our age! who deem
One moment unamused a misery

Not made for feeble man; who call aloud
For every bauble drivelled o'er by sense,
For rattles and conceits of every cast;
For change of follies and relays of joy,
To drag your patient through the tedious length
Of a short winter's day, say, Sages, say!
Wit's oracles! say, dreamers of gay dreams!
How will ye weather AN ETERNAL NIGHT,
Where such expedients fail?

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Bishop Heber. Born, 1783; died, 1826.

O GOD! my sins are manifold; against my life they cry,
And all my guilty deeds foregone up to Thy temple fly.
Wilt thou release my trembling soul, that to despair is driven?
"Forgive!" a blesséd voice replied, "and thou shalt be forgiven."

My foemen, Lord, are fierce and fell; they spurn me in their pride, They render evil for my good; my patience they deride;

Arise! my King! and be the proud in righteous ruin driven!

Forgive!" the awful answer came, "as thou wouldst be forgiven!"

Seven times, O Lord, I 've pardoned them; seven times they 've sinned again;

They practise still to work me woe, and triumph in my pain; But let them dread my vengeance now, to just resentment driven ! "Forgive!" the voice in thunder spake, “or never be forgiven!



I AM far from maintaining that science is a sufficient guide in religion. On the other hand, if left to itself, as I fully admit,

"It leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind."

Nor do I maintain that scientific truth, even when properly appreciated, will compare at all, in its influence upon the human mind, with those peculiar and higher truths disclosed by Revelation. All I contend for is, that scientific truth, illustrating as it does the divine character, plans and government, ought to fan and feed the flame of true piety in the hearts of its cultivators. He, therefore, who knows the most of science, ought most powerfully to feel this religious influence. He is not confined, like the great mass of men, to the outer court of Nature's magnificent temple; but he is admitted to the interior, and allowed to trace its long halls, aisles and galleries, and gaze upon its lofty domes and arches; nay, as a priest he enters the penetralia, the holy of holies, where sacred fire is always burning upon the altars; where hovers the glorious Schekinah; and where, from a full orches tra, the anthem of praise is ever ascending. Petrified, indeed, must be his heart, if it catches none of the inspiration of such a spot. He ought to go forth from it, among his fellow-men, with radiant glory on his face, like Moses from the holy mount. He who sees most of God in His works ought to show the stamp of Divinity upon his character, and lead an eminently holy life.

Yet it is only a few gifted and adventurous minds that are able, from some advanced mountain-top, to catch a glimpse of the entire stream of truth, formed by the harmonious union of all principles, and flowing on majestically into the boundless ocean of all knowledge, the Infinite mind. But when the Christian philosopher shall be permitted to resume the study of science in a future world, with powers of investigation enlarged and clarified, and all obstacles removed, he will be able to trace onward the various ramifications of truth, till they unite into higher and higher principles, and become one in that centre of centres, the Divine Mind. That is the Ocean from which all truth originally sprang, and to which it ultimately returns. To trace out the shores of that shoreless Sea, to measure its measureless extent, and to fathom its unfathomable depths, will be the noble and the joyous work of eternal ages. And yet eternal ages may pass by, and see the work only begun!

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78. TRIUMPHS OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. -Rev. J. G. Lyons. Now gather all our Saxon bards, let harps and hearts be strung, To celebrate the triumphs of our own good Saxon tongue! For stronger far than hosts that march, with battle-flags unfurled It goes with FREEDOM, THOUGHT and TRUTH, to rouse and rule the


Stout Albion hears its household lays on every surf-worn shore,
And Scotland hears its echoing far as Orkney's breakers roar;
It climbs New England's rocky steeps as victor mounts a throne;
Niagara knows and greets the voice, still mightier than its own.

It spreads where Winter piles deep snows on bleak Canadian plains;
And where, on Essequibo's banks, eternal Summer reigns.
It tracks the loud, swift Oregon, through sunset valleys rolled,
And soars where California brooks wash down their sands of gold.

It kindles realms so far apart, that while its praise you sing,
These may be clad with Autumn's fruits, and those with flowers of

It quickens lands whose meteor lights flame in an Arctic sky,
And lands for which the Southern Cross hangs orbit fires on high.

It goes with all that Prophets told, and righteous Kings desired; With all that great Apostles taught, and glorious Greeks admired; With Shakspeare's deep and wondrous verse, and Milton's lofty mind; With Alfred's laws, and Newton's lore, to cheer and bless mankind.

Mark, as it spreads, how deserts bloom, and Error flees away,
As vanishes the mist of night before the star of day!

Take heed, then, heirs of Saxon fame, -take heed, nor once disgrace,
With recreant pen or spoiling sword, our noble tongue and race!

Go forth, and jointly speed the time, by good men prayed for long, When Christian States, grown just and wise, will scorn revenge and


When earth's oppressed and savage tribes shall cease to pine or roam, All taught to prize these English words: -FAITH, FREEDOM, HEAVEN, and HOME.


O, WATER for me' bright water for me,
And wine for the tremulous debauchee!
Water cooleth the brow, and cooleth the brain,
And maketh the faint one strong again;

It comes o'er the sense like a breeze from the sea,

All freshness, like infant purity;

O, water, bright water, for me, for me!

Give wine, give wine, to the debauchee !

Fill to the brim! fill, fill to the brim;
Let the flowing crystal kiss the rim !
For my hand is steady, my eye is true,
For I, like the flowers, drink nothing but dew.

O, water, bright water 's a mine of wealth,
And the ores which it yieldeth are vigor and health.
So water, pure water, for me, for me!

And wine for the tremulous debauchee!

Fill again to the brim,-again to the brim!
For water strengtheneth life and limb!

To the days of the agéd it addeth length,
To the might of the strong it addeth strength;
It freshens the heart, it brightens the sight,
'T is like quaffing a goblet of morning light!
So, water, I will drink nothing but thee,
Thou parent of health and energy!

When over the hills, like a gladsome bride,
Morning walks forth in her beauty's pride,
And, leading a band of laughing hours,
Brushes the dew from the nodding flowers,
O! cheerily then my voice is heard
Mingling with that of the soaring bird,
Who flingeth abroad his matin loud,
As he freshens his wing in the cold, gray cloud.

But when evening has quitted her sheltering yew,
Drowsily flying, and weaving anew

Her dusky meshes o'er land and sea,

How gently, O sleep, fall thy poppies on me!
For I drink water, pure, cold, and bright,
And my dreams are of Heaven the livelong night.
So hurrah for thee, Water! hurrah! hurrah!
Thou art silver and gold, thou art riband and star'.
Hurrah for bright water! hurrah! hurrah!

80. THE DAYS THAT ARE GONE. Charles Mackay. WHO is it that mourns for the days that are gone, When a Noble could do as he liked with his own? When his serfs, with their burdens well filled on their backs Never dared to complain of the weight of a tax? When his word was a statute, his nod was a law, And for aught but his "order" he cared not a straw? When each had his dungeon and racks for the poor, And a gibbet to hang a refractory boor?

They were days when the sword settled questions of right And Falsehood was first to monopolize might;

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