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I know his spirit feels no more this weary load of flesh,
But his sleep is bless'd with endless beams of joy for ever
I know the angels fold him close beneath their glittering wings, And soothe him with a song that breathes of Heaven's divinest things.
I know that we shall meet our babe (his mother dear and I), Where God for aye shall wipe away all tears from every eye. Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can never cease, Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is certain peace.
When we think of what our darling is, and what we still must be:
When we muse on that world's perfect bliss, and this world's misery :
When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel this grief and pain,
Oh! we'd rather lose our other two, than have him here again. Rev. John Moultrie, Herne Bay.
THE EMPEROR NAPOLEON.
"THE following," says the Courier Francais, “is a statement of the progress of the Emperor Napoleon's military and civil rank:He was born on the 15th of August, 1769; Major of Artillery at the siege of Toulon in 1793, at 24 years of age; Commander of the Artillery in Italy in 1794, at 25; Generalin-Chief of the army in Italy, 1797, at 28; General-in-Chief of the expedition to Egypt in 1798, at 29; First Consul in 1799, at 30; Consul for life after the battle of Marengo, in 1800, at 31; Emperor of the French in 1804, at 35; abdicated after Waterloo, 18th of June, 1815, at 46; died in exile at St. Helena, the 5th of May, 1821, at 52 years of age."
THE OLD OAK TREE.
WOODMAN, spare that tree!
Touch not a single bough;
In youth it sheltered me,
And I'll protect it now;
'Twas my forefather's hand
That placed it near his cot,
There, woodman, let it stand,
Thy axe shall harm it not.
That old familiar tree,
Whose glory and renown
Are spread o'er land and sea,
And would'st thou hew it down?
Woodman, forbear thy stroke!
Cut not its earth-bound ties,
O! spare that aged oak,
Now towering to the skies.
When but an idle boy
I sought its grateful shade;
In all their gushing joy
Here, too, my sisters played;
My mother kiss'd me here;
My father press'd my hand;
Forgive this foolish tear,
But let that old oak stand.
My heart-strings round thee cling,
Close as thy bark, old friend!
Here shall the wild-bird sing,
And still thy branches bend.
Old tree! the storm still brave!
And woodman leave the spot;
While I've a hand to save,
Thy axe shall harm it not.
THE PROPHECY OF THE TWELVE TRIBES.
THE patriarch sat upon his bed,
His cheek was pale, his eye was dim,
Long years of woe had bow'd his head,
And feeble was the giant limb,
And his twelve mighty sons drew nigh
In grief to see their father die.
But sudden as the thunder roll
A new-born spirit fill'd his frame,
His fainting visage flash'd with soul,
His lip was touch'd with living flame,
And burst with more than prophet ire
The stream of judgment, love and fire.
"Reuben, thou spear-head in my side,
Thy father's first-born and his shame,
Unstable as the rolling tide,
A blight has fallen on thy name;
Decay shall follow thee and thine,
Go, outcast of a hallow'd line!
"Simeon and Levi, sons of blood
That still hangs heavy on the land,
Your flocks shall be the robber's food,
Your folds shall blaze beneath his brand.
In swamp and forest shall ye dwell,
Be scattered among Israel.
"Judah, all hail! thou priest, thou king,
The crown, the glory shall be thine,
Thine in the fight the eagle's wing,
Thine on the hill the corn and wine.
Thou lion; nations shall turn pale
When swells thy roar upon the gale.
“Judah, my son, ascend the throne,
Till comes from Heaven the unborn King,
The prophesied, the mighty one,
Whose heel shall bruise the serpent's sting,
Till sin is dead and Death is slain,
And earth is Paradise again.
"Wide as the surges, Zebulun,
Thy daring keel shall plough the sea,
Before thee sink proud Zidon's son,
And strong Issachar toil for thee.
Thou reaper of his corn and oil,
Lord of the giant and the soil.
"Whose banner flames in battle's van,
Whose mail is first with slaughter gor'd,
Thou, subtler than the serpent, Dan,
Prince of the lion and the sword,
Woe to the Syrian charioteer,
When rings the rushing of thy spear.
"Crush'd to the earth by war and woe,
Gad shall the cup of bondage drain,
Till bold revenge shall give the blow
That pays the long arrear of pain;
Thy cup be filled with tyrant gore;
Be thou, my son, a man once more.
"Lov'd Naphtali, thy snow-white hind
Shall bask beneath the rose and vine;
Proud Asher to the mountain wind
Shall, star-like, blaze thy battle sign;
All bright to both from birth to tomb,
The heavens all sunshine, earth all bloom.
"Hear me, thou God of Israel,
Thou who hast been his living shield
In the dark forest's desert dell,
In Egypt's famine-stricken field,
On the dark dungeon's chilling stone,
In Pharaoh's chain, by Pharaoh's throne.
"My son, all blessings be on thee;
Be bless'd abroad, be bless'd at home;
Thy nation's strength, her living tree,
The well to which the thirsty come;
Bless'd be thy valley, bless'd thy hill;
Thy father's God be with thee still.
"Thou man of blood, thou man of might,
Thy soul shall ravin, Benjamin;
Thou wolf by day, thou wolf by night,
Rushing through slaughter, spoil and sin,
Thy eagle's beak and vulture's wing,
Shall curse thy nation with a king.'
Then ceas'd the voice, and all was still;
The hand of death was on the frame,
Yet gave the heart one final thrill,
And breath'd the dying lips one name-
"Sons, let me rest by Leah's side
He raised his brow to heaven and died.
Be kind to thy father, for when thou wert young,
Who lov'd thee so fondly as he?
He caught the first accents that fell from thy tongue, And join'd in thy innocent glee.
Be kind to thy father, for now he is old,
His locks intermingled with grey;
His footsteps are feeble, once fearless and bold;
Thy father is passing away.
Be kind to thy mother; for, lo! on her brow
May traces of sorrow be seen.
O! well may'st thou cherish and comfort her now,
For loving and kind hath she been.
Remember thy mother-for thee will she pray
As long as God giveth her breath;
With accents of kindness, then, cheer her lone way,
E'en to the dark valley of death.
Be kind to thy brother-his heart will have dearth
If the smile of thy love be withdrawn;
The flowers of feeling will fade at their birth,
If the dew of affection be gone.
Be kind to thy brother-wherever you are,
The love of a brother shall be
An ornament purer and richer by far,
Than pearls from the depth of the sea.
Be kind to thy sister-not many may know
The depths of true sisterly love;
The wealth of the ocean lies fathoms below
The surface that sparkles above.
Thy kindness shall bring to thee many sweet hours,
And blessings thy pathway to crown;
Affection shall weave thee a garland of flowers
More precious than wealth or renown.
THE glass was at my lip-
Clear, sparkling spirit 'twas
I was about to sip,
When a voice came from the glass :