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and sink into nothingness. Else why is it, that the high and glorious aspirations, which leap like angels from the temple of our hearts, are for ever wandering about unsatisfied ? Why is it that the rainbow and the cloud come over us with a beauty that is not of earth, and then pass off and leave us to muse upon their faded loveliness? Why is it that the stars which “hold their festival around the midnight throne,” are set above the grasp of our limited faculties; for ever mocking us with their unapproachable glory? And finally, why is it that bright forms of human beauty are presented to our view and then taken from us; leaving the thousand streams of our affections to flow back in an Alpine torrent upon our hearts? We are born for a higher destiny than that of earth. There is a realm where the rainbow never fades—where the stars will spread out before us like the islands that slumber on the ocean, and where the beautiful beings which here pass before us like shadows, will stay in our presence for ever.
THE ROSE-BY MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY.
I saw the rose, perfect in beauty; it rested gracefully upon its stalk, and its perfume filled the air. Many stopped to gaze upon it, many bowed to taste its fragrance, and its owner hung over it with delight. I passed again, and behold it was gone—its stem was leafless; its roots had withered, and the enclosure which surrounded it was broken. The spoiler had been there; he saw that many admired it; he knew it was dear to him who planted it, and beside it he had no other plant to love. Yet he snatchéd it secretly from the hand that cherished it; he wore it on his bosom till it hung its head and faded, and, when he saw that its glory was departed, he fiung it rudely away. But it left a thorn in his bosom, and vainly did he seek to extract it; for now it pierced the spoiler in his hour of mirth. And when I saw that no man who had loved the beauty of the rose, gathered the leaves, or bound up the stalk which the hand of violence had broken, I looked earnestly at the spot where it grew, and my soul re
ceived instruction. And I said; Let her who is full of beauty, and admiration, sitting like the queen of filowers in majesty among the daughters of women, let her watch lest vanity enter her heart, beguiling her to rest proudly upon her own strength; let her remember that she standeth upon slippery places, "and be not high minded, but fear."
Evils take their rank more from the temper of the mind that suffers them, than from their abstract nature. Upon a man of a hard and insensible disposition, the shafts of misfortune often fall pointless and impotent. There are persons by no meanis hard and insensible, who, from an elastic and sanguine turn of mind, are continually prompted to look on the fair side of things, and having suffered one fall, immediately rise again to pursue their course, with the same eagerness, the same gayety as before. On the other hand, we not unfrequently meet with persons, endowed with the most exquisite and delicious sensibility, whose minds seem almost of too fine a texture to encounter the vicissitudes of human affairs, to whom pleasure is transport, and disappointment is agony indescribable.-Godwin.
ABBE GUILLON. During the massacres which took place in Paris, in the French revolution, there were two Abbé Guillons confined in the prison of the Abbaye. One of them was called into the court yard, while the ruffians were busy in assassinating their victims, and a note, containing an order of the municipality, tantamount to a reprieve, was put into his hand. After examining it minutely, he paused for a few moments, ani' knowing from circumstances that it was not intended for himseli, he turned round to the messenger, and observing that there was another Abbé of the saine name in prison, returned with a firm step and an unaltered countenanco to die.
Written for the Monthly Repository, and Library of Entertaining Knowledge,
BY MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY,
"I HEARD A VOICE FROM HEAVEN, SAYING COME UP HITHER.''
Ye have a land of mist and shade,
Where spectres roam at will,
And damps your valleys chill;
Eclips'd our changeless ray,
The bliss of perfect day.
A blight where'er ye tread,
no traitorous foe assails
“ Come” and that warmth partake.
Death dims your brightest rose,
Where will ye find repose ?
Sharp thorns your path infest,
And Christ shall give you rest.
The angel's lay came down,
When droughts of summer frown,
Swell'd out the music free,
Sing ye that song to me.
Writton for the Monthly Repository and Library of Entertaining Knowledge,
BY REV. JOSEPH RUSLING.
REMEMBER ME WHEN THOU COMEST INTO THY KINGDOM.
Jesus permit a feeble worm
The visions of thy face to see;
Let me thy gracious image bear,
Purge me from all corruptions free;
Goodness, and love, and purity,
In audience with the Deity,
To praise, or bend the suppliant knee,
O! may I lean my soul on thee,
From nature struggling to be free,
Which millions crowned enraptured see,
THEY HEARD HIS WORDS WITH SCORN.
BY ALONZO LEWIS.
They heard his words with scorn, and cried, “Is this not Joseph's
son? And whence hath he the wondrous power to be some mighty one? Are not his brethren here with us, and who hath ever seen The day a noble deed was done by servile Nazarene?" The humble sufferer bowed his head, and passing through the
crowd, With patience saw their scornful smiles, and heard their tauntings
loud ; He saw the ox returning to his owner's nightly shed, But found no friendly dwelling there to rest his weary
head. He passed along where Cedron's brook divides the humble vale, And heard their sounds of revelry come down the evening gale: He entered then a garden lone, whose gate invited there, And kneeling spent the tedious night in solitude and prayer.
Hark! heard ye not the dreadful cry that rent the yielding air ?
graves, Beneath whose feet the kindling earth heaves high like rolling
waves! And who is he on yon white horse, whose eyes are eyes of flame? And on his head are many crowns, and on his thigh a name; And he is clad in vesture red, dipped in his own best bloodHe was—the trembling nations cry—he is the Son of God!
The billows run along in gold
Over the yielding main,
They gather up again,
These children of the wind,
Leave the green land behind.
Come always to Death's shore,
Some with a hollow roar;
Yet still defying time,
They roll from clime to clime.
The main sinks back to earth
The grave hath life and birth;
Grass grows from scattered clay;
To life find back its way.
Like water, changing forms;
And gather into storms;
To'fresh the drooping land;
And, alter, and expand.