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The forming utterance, the inquiring glance,
The giant waking from his ten-fold trance,
Till up he starts, as conscious whence he came,
And all is light within the trembling frame!
What then a Father's feelings? Joy and Fear
Prevail in turn, Joy most; and through the year
Tempering the ardent, urging night and day
Him who shrinks back or wanders from the way,
Praising each highly—from a wish to raise
Their merits to the level of his Praise.
Onward in their observing sight he moves,
Fearful of wrong, in awe of whom he loves!
Their sacred presence who shall dare profane?
Who, when he slumbers, hope to fix a stain?
He lives a model in his life to show,

That, when he dies, and through the world they go, Some men may pause and say, when some admire, "They are his sons, and worthy of their sire!”



RIENDSHIP, contracted with the wicked,
Decreases from hour to hour,

Like the early shadow of the morning;

But if friendship be formed with the virtuous,
It will increase like the shadow of the evening,
Till the sun of life shall set.



ANY sounds were sweet,

Most ravishing, and pleasant to the ear; But sweeter none than voice of faithful friend,―

Sweet always, sweetest heard in loudest storm.

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Some I remember, and will ne'er forget,— My early friends, friends of my evil day; Friends in my mirth, friends in my misery too; Friends given by God in mercy and in love, My counsellors, my comforters, and guides; My joy in grief, my second bliss in joy; Companions of my young desires; in doubt My oracles, my wings in high pursuit. Oh! I remember, and will ne'er forget, Our meeting-spots, our chosen sacred hours; Our burning words, that uttered all the soul; Our faces beaming with unearthly love; Sorrow with sorrow sighing, hope with hope Exulting, heart embracing heart entire! As birds of social feather helping each His fellow's flight, we soared into the skies, And cast the clouds beneath our feet, and Earth With all her tardy, leaden-footed cares,

And talked the speech, and ate the food of Heaven.



RIEND after friend departs;

Who hath not lost a friend?

There is no union here of hearts

That finds not here an end:

Were this frail world our final rest,

Living or dying, none were blest.

Beyond the flight of time,

Beyond this vale of death,-
There surely is some blessed clime
Where life is not a breath,
Nor life's affections transient fire,

Whose sparks fly upward and expire.

There is a world above,

Where parting is unknown;
A long eternity of love,
Formed for the good alone;
And Faith beholds the dying here
Translated to that glorious sphere.

Thus star by star declines,
Till all are passed away,

As morning high and higher shines
To pure and perfect day;

Nor sink those stars in empty night,

But hide themselves in heaven's own light.



HILDREN we are all

Of one great Father, in whatever clime
His providence hath cast the seed of life,

All tongues, all colours; neither after death
Shall we be sorted into languages

And tints,-white, black, and tawny, Greek and

Northmen, and offspring of hot Africa.

The all-seeing Father,-He in whom we live and


He, the impartial Judge of all,—regards

Nations, and hues, and dialects alike;

According to their works shall they be judged,

When even-handed Justice in the scale

Their good and evil weighs.




ERE see, acquitted of all vain pretence,
The reign of genuine Charity commence.
Though scorn repay her sympathetic tears,
She still is kind, and still she perseveres;
The truth she loves, a sightless world blaspheme,
'Tis childish dotage, a delirious dream!
The danger they discern not they deny,
Laugh at their only remedy, and die.

But still a soul thus touched can never cease,
Whoever threatens war, to speak of peace.
Pure in her aim, and in her temper mild,
Her wisdom seems the weakness of a child:
She makes excuses where she might condemn,
Reviled by those that hate her, prays for them;
Suspicion lurks not in her artless breast,
The worst suggested, she believes the best;
Not soon provoked, however stung and teased,
And, if perhaps made angry, soon appeased;
She rather waives than will dispute her right,
And injured makes forgiveness her delight.

Such was the portrait the apostle drew,
The bright original was one he knew
Heaven held his hand, the likeness must be true.



OFT are the graces that adorn the maid— Softer than dew-drops to the sun-burnt glade! She's gracious as an unpolluted stream, And tender as a fond young lover's dream! Pity and Peace precede her as she flies, And Mercy beams benignant from her eyes! From her high residence, from realms above, She comes, sweet messenger of heavenly love!

The lofty pyramid shall cease to live,—
Fleeting the praise such monuments can give;
But Charity, by tyrant Time revered,
Sweet Charity, amidst his ruins spared,
Secures her votaries unblasted fame,

And in celestial annals 'graves their name.



ATHER of heaven! how bright and clear,
Within the record of thy grace,

The truth thy willing servants trace:

Of all the countless gifts that spring

Beneath the shadow of thy wing,

Not one is half so full of thee-
So like thyself-as charity!

Father of might! in ancient days,
Untutored lips thy Spirit caught,
And lisping tongues were instant taught
To show, in varied speech sublime,
Thy truth to men of every clime:
But they who spoke, if owned by thee,
Poured forth the words of charity!

Father of mercy! thou art nigh,
To smile on deeds of tenderness:
And, when afflictions rudely press,
Thou teachest us to scatter wide
The bounty which thy hands provide;
Yet, giving all, we please not thee,
Till warm our hearts with charity!

Father of Him who died to save!
Thou bidst us in his work believe;
By faith alone our souls receive

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