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He healeth the broken in heart and bindeth up their wounds."

O THOU who driest the mourner's tear,
How dark this world would be,

If when deceived and wounded here,
We could not turn to Thee.

The friends who in our sunshine live,
When winter comes are flown,

And he who has but tears to give
Must weep those tears alone;

But Thou wilt heal that broken heart,
Which, like the plants that throw
Their fragrance from the wounded part,
Breathes sweetness out of woe.

When joy no longer soothes and cheers,
And e'en the hope that threw

A moment's sparkle o'er our tears,
Is dimm'd and vanish'd too.

Oh! who would bear life's stormy doom,

Did not Thy wing of love

Come brightly wafting thro' the gloom,

A peace branch from above.

Then sorrow touch'd by Thee grows bright,
With more than rap'trous lay,

As darkness shows us worlds of light
We never saw by day.

AND if you dare!-Is that

The voice of manhood? Honest, if you dare!
'Tis the slave's virtue! 'tis the utmost limit
Of the base coward's honour.-Not a wretch,
There's not a villain, not a tool in power,
But silence interest, extinguish fear,
And he will prove benevolent to man.

The gen'rous heart does more; will dare do all
That honour prompts.

MURPHY.

By the force of a tyrant custom, which is misnamed a point of honour, the duellist kills his friend whom he loves, and the judge condems the duellist, while he approves his behaviour. Shame is then the greatest of all evils; what avail laws when death only attends the breach of them, and shame obedience to them?

ADDISON.

BLEST with that sweet simplicity of thought,
But rarely seen and never to be taught,
Of winning speech, endearing, artless, kind,
The loveliest pattern of the female mind;
Like some fair spirit from her realms of rest,
With all her native heaven within her breast,
So pure, so good, she scarce can guess at sin,
But thinks the world without, like that within.

MRS. BARBAULD.

WHATEVER enables genius to execute well, will enable taste to criticise justly.

BLAIR.

THERE is a rose-lip'd seraph sits on high,
Who ever bends his holy ear to earth

To mark the voice of Penitence-to catch
Her solemn sighs, to tune them to his harp,
And echo them in harmonies divine
Up to the throne of Grace.

MASON.

I LOVE the ivy mantled tower

Rock'd by the storms of thousand years;
The grave whose melancholy flower
Was nourish'd by a martyr's tears.
The sacred yew, so fear'd in war,
Which, like the sword to David given,
Inflicted more than human scar,

And lent to man the arms of Heaven.

I love the organ's joyous swell,
Sweet echo of the heav'nly ode;
I love the cheerful village bell,
Faint emblem of the call of God.
Waked by the sound, I bend my feet,
I bid my swelling sorrows cease;
I do but touch the mercy seat,

And hear the still small voice of peace.

AH! noblest minds

Sink soonest into ruin, like a tree

That with the weight of its own golden fruitage

Is bent down to the dust.

H. NEELE.

A PROMISE may be broke;

Nay, start not at it-Tis an hourly practice;
The trader breaks it-yet is counted honest;
The courtier keeps it not-yet keeps his honour;
Husband and wife in marriage promise much,
Yet follow sep'rate pleasures, and are-virtuous.
The churchmen promise too, but wisely they
To a long payment stretch the crafty bill,
And draw upon futurity: A promise!

'Tis the wise man's freedom, and the fool's restraint; It is the ship in which the knave embarks,

Who rigs it with the tackle of his conscience,
And sails with every wind.

HAVARD.

He experienced that nervous agitation, to which brave men as well as cowards are subject; with this difference, that the one sinks under it, like the vine under the hail-storm, and the other collects his energies to shake it off, as the cedar of Lebanon is said to elevate its boughs to disperse the snow which accumulates upon them.

WALTER SCOTT.

EVERY crime

Has, in the moment of its perpetration,
Its own avenging angel-dark misgiving,
An ominous sinking at the inmost heart.

COLERIDGE.

BURNS' EPITAPH ON HIMSELF.

Is there a whim-inspired fool,

Owre fast for thought, ower hot for rule,
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool,

Let him draw near;

And ower this grassy heap sing dool,

And drap a tear.

Is there a bard of rustic song,

Who, noteless, steals the crowd among,

That weekly this area throng,

O, pass not by!

But, with a frater-feeling strong,

Here heave a sigh.

Is there a man, whose judgment clear
Can others teach the course to steer,
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career,

Wild as the wave;

Here pause-and, thro' the starting tear,

Survey this grave.

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