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In winter, when the ground is white,

With hoary frost and flakes of snow That daze and dazzle our old sight,

However cold the ice-winds blow, We feel our winter summer'd o'er

By our son Jo!

Well, well! a brief space more and we

Shall drop, and older cease to grow; Not many springs we now may see,

Soon, soon will come the common foe; Meantime our fathers' God be thank'd

For our son Jo!




STAND up-erect! Thou hast the form,

And likeness of thy God !—who more? A soul as dauntless mid the storm Of daily life, a heart as warm

And pure, as breast e'er wore.

What then ? - Thou art as true a man

As moves the human mass among ;
As much a part of the great plan
That with Creation's dawn began,

As any of the throng.

Who is thine enemy? the high

In station, or in wealth the chief ? The great, who coldly pass thee by, With proud step and averted eye:

Nay! nurse not such belief.

If true unto thyself thou wast,

What were the proud one's scorn to thee? A feather, which thou mightest cast Aside, as idly as the blast

The light leaf from the tree.

No:-uncurb'd passions, low desires,

Absence of noble self-respect, Death, in the breast's consuming fires, To that high nature which aspires

Forever, till thus check’d;

These are thine enemies—thy worst ;

They chain thee to thy lowly lot :
Thy labour and thy life accursed.
O, stand erect ! and from them burst!

And longer suffer not !

Thou art thyself thine enemy!

The great !—what better they than thou ? As theirs, is not thy will as free? Has God with equal favours thee

Neglected to endow?

True, wealth thou hast not—'tis but dust!

Nor place-uncertain as the wind ! But that thou hast, which, with thy crust And water, may despise the lust

Of both- -a noble mind.

With this, and passions under ban,

True faith, and holy trust in God, Thou art the


of Look


then: that thy little span Of life may be well trod !

any man.



Be kind unto the agèd

Their many years respect;
O pity their infirmities,

As kindness you'd expect,
Have patience with their little whims

And cheer the lonely heart;
A gentle word, a loving act,

A comfort will impart.
Be kind to grandpa,—there he sits

With shining, silvery hair ;
His sticks are in the corner,

Beside the old arm-chair.
Poor grandpa's hands are shaky now

And feeble is his voice;
O meet his little wants, and try

To make his soul rejoice.
Be kind to poor old granny there

With wrinkles on her brow,-
She once was young and beautiful,

Ah, e'en as thou art now.
But granny's eyes are growing dim

And she is blithe no more,
O help her when she fain would try

To totter o'er the floor.

Be kind to father, mother too,

As down the hill they go,— They bravely toiled through life's rough path

That you a man might grow. Repay them now with grateful acts

And kind, and tender words; Pierce not their ever yearning hearts With bitter, poison'd swords.

Be kind unto the aged,

Their sun is going down;
O cast a light upon their gloom

And never on them frown.
Their burdens lighten when you can

They need your sympathy;
O lead them gently to the verge

Of dread eternity.

Be kind unto the aged,

Yourself may yet grow old, -
How sad to think that friendship then

Will all be dark and cold.
Be kind, and kindness


shall meet,
When that you most require ;
And when old age is coming round,
You'll have


heart's desire.

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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.



What is that, Mother ?-The lark, my

child !
The morn has but just look'd out, and smiled,
When he starts from his humble grassy nest,
And is

and away,

with the dew on his breast, And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure, bright sphere, To warble it out in his Maker's ear.

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 !
And that low, sweet voice, like a widow's moan,
Is flowing out from her gentle breast,
Constant and pure, by that lonely nest,
As the wave is pour'd from some crystal urn,
For her distant dear one's quick return;

Ever, my son, be thou like the dove,
In friendship as faithful, as constant in love.

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