Be kind unto the aged, Be kind unto the agèd, Yourself may yet grow old,— Be kind, and kindness you shall meet, In what other writings can we descry those excellences which we find in the Bible? None of them can equal it in antiquity for the first penman of the sacred Scriptures hath the start of all philosophers, poets, and historians, and is, without the least shadow of doubt, the most ancient writer extant in the world. No writings are equal to those of the Bible, if we mention only the stock of human learning contained in them. Here linguists and philologists may find that which is to be found nowhere else. Here rhetoricians and orators may be entertained with a more lofty eloquence, with a choicer composure of words, and with a greater variety of style, than any other writers can afford them. Here is a book, where more is understood than expressed, where words are few, but the sense is full and redundant. No book equals this in authority, because it is the word of God himself, and dictated by an unerring Spirit. It excels all other writings in the excellency of its matter, which is the highest, noblest, and worthiest; and of the greatest concern to all mankind. Lastly, the Scriptures transcend all other writings in their power and efficacy. Wherefore, with great seriousness and importunity, I request the reader that he entertain such thoughts and persuasions as these:-that Bible-learning is the highest accomplishment, that this book is the most valuable upon earth, that there is a library in one single volume, that this alone is sufficient for us, though all the libraries in the world were destroyed. 66 WHAT IS THAT, MOTHER?" GEORGE W. DOANE, WHAT is that, Mother?-The lark, my child!— Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise. What is that, Mother?-The dove, my son !- Ever, my son, be thou like the dove, In friendship as faithful, as constant in love. What is that, Mother?-The eagle, boy!— Firm, on his own mountain vigour relying, Onward, and upward, and true to the line. What is that, Mother?-The swan, my love!— Live so, my love, that when death shall come, THE WEATHERCOCK. ALBERT G. GREENE. THE dawn has broke, the morn is up, And there thy poised and gilded spear Upon that steep and lofty tower A true and faithful sentinel, For years, upon thee, there has pour'd And through the long, dark, starless night, The winter storms have beat; But yet thy duty has been done, Still thou hast met and faced the storm, No chilling blast in wrath has swept Along the distant heaven, But thou hast watch'd its onward course, And when mid-summer's sultry beams Thou dost foretell each breeze that comes How oft I've seen, at early dawn, The swallows, in their joyous glee, Or bid ye both,-good-night. And when, around thee, or above, Thou seem'st to watch the circling flight In many a mazy track, Have settled on thy back. Then, if, perchance, amidst their mirth, I've thought I almost heard thee say, "Now all away!-here ends our play, For I have work to do!" Men slander thee, my honest friend, They have no right to make thy name They change their friends, their principles, Their fashions, and their creeds; Whilst thou hast ne'er, like them, been known Thus causelessly to range; But when thou changest sides, canst give Thou, like some lofty soul, whose course Which they do never know, Who, round their earth-bound circles, plod Through one more dark and cheerless night And now in glory o'er thy head And unto earth's true watcher, thus, Bright symbol of fidelity, And may the lesson thou dost teach Be never lost on me: |