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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!
WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER.
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 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 :
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
then: that thy little span Of life may be well trod !
BE KIND TO THE AGED,
Be kind unto the agèd
Their many years respect;
As kindness you'd expect,
And cheer the lonely heart;
A comfort will impart.
With shining, silvery hair ;
Beside the old arm-chair.
And feeble is his voice;
To make his soul rejoice.
With wrinkles on her brow,-
Ah, e'en as thou art now.
And she is blithe no more,
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;
And never on them frown.
They need your sympathy;
Of dread eternity.
Be kind unto the aged,
Yourself may yet grow old, -
Will all be dark and cold.
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 ? "
GEORGE W. DOANE,
What is that, Mother ?-The lark, my
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
What is that, Mother ?—The dove, my son !
Ever, my son, be thou like the dove,