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There is something in sickness that breaks down the pride of manhood; that softens the heart, and brings it back to the feelings of infancy. Who that has languished, even in advanced life, in sickness and despondency; who that has pined on a weary bed in the neglect and loneliness of a foreign land; but has thought on the mother "that looked on his childhood," that smoothed his pillow and administered to his helplessness; Oh! there is an enduring tenderness in the love of a mother to a son, that transcends all other affections of the heart. It is neither to be chilled by selfishness, nor daunted by danger, nor weakened by worthlessness, nor stifled by ingratitude. She will sacrifice every comfort to his convenience; she will surrender every pleasure to his enjoyment, she will glory in his fame and exult in his prosperity ;-and, if misfortune overtake him, he will be the dearer to her from misfortune; and if disgrace settle upon his name, she will still love and cherish him in spite of his disgrace; and if all the world besides cast him off, she will be all the world to him.


If we look, says Sir Humphrey Davy, with wonder upon the great remains of human works, such as the columns of Palmyra, broken in the midst of the desert ; the temples of Pæstum, beautiful in the decay of twenty centuries; or the mutilated fragments of Greek sculpture in the Acropolis of Athens, or in our own museum, as proofs of the genius of artists, and the power and riches of nations now past away; with how much deeper a feeling of admiration must we consider those grand monuments of nature which mark the revolutions of the globe; continents broken into islands; one land produced, another destroyed; the bottom of the ocean becomes a fertile soil; whole races of animals extinct, and the bones and exuviæ of one class covered with the remains of another: and upon the graves of past generations—the marble or rocky tombs, as it were of

a former animated world-new generations arising, and order and harmony established, and a system of life and beauty produced, as it were out of chaos and death, proving the infinite power

, wisdom and goodness of the great Čause of all being

ALWAYS HAPPY. An Italian Bishop struggled through great difficulties without repining, and met with much opposition in discharge of his Episcopal functions, without betraying the least impatience. One of his intimate friends, who highly admired those virtues which he thought it impossible to imitate, one day asked the Prelate if he could communicate the secret of being always easy ?—“Yes," replied the old man, “I can teach you my secret, and with great facility: it consists of making a right use of my eyes." His friend begged of him to explain himself. "Most willingly," returned the Bishop. "In whatever state I am, I first of all look up to Heaven and remember that my principal business here is to get there; I then look down upon the earth, and call to mind how small a space I shall occupy in it when I come to he interred; I then look abroad into the world, and observe what multitudes there are who are in all respects more unhappy than myself. Thus, I learn where true happiness is placed—where all our cares must end, and what little reason I have to repine or to complain.'


Dr. Watts was remarkable for vivacity in conversation, and ready wit; though he never showed a disposition for displaying it. Being one day in a coffee-room with some friends, he overheard a gentleman say, "what, is that the great Dr. Watrs?" when, turning suddenly round, and in good humor, he repeated a stanza from his lyric poems, which produced silent admiration:

Were I so tall to reach the pole,

Or mete the ocean with my span;
I must be measur'd by my soul,

The mind's the standard of the man. Dr. Watts was short in stature, being only about five feet high.


'Tis the rich hour, when gladsome waters leaping,

Smile in the beauty of the gorgeous sky:
When golden clouds, o'er distant summits sleeping,

Like spirit-islands, bathed in glory lie;-
When to the South, to swelling gem-buds given,

Come the bland kisses of the loving air,
Burdened with balm, and wandering forth in heaven,

While sounds of brooks and birds are mingling there.
Wake! ye that slumber! and a glorious vision,

Richer than fancy to the mind can bring,
Will on the observant eye in peace have risen,

'Till gushes from the heart, Affection's spring:
For the broad sunlight, in rich foods descending,

Each hill and vale paints deep in quivering gold,
Gay light and music in one flow are blending,

Where amber clouds their graceful skirts unfold.
And while from vale to vale, like incense given,

Sounds on the breeze of morn the Sabbath bell,
The chastened soul may lift its dream to heaven

Till the rapt heart seems kindling in the spell; ??1. While, touched with day-beams, grove, and fount and river

In the soft beauty of Contentment sleep,
How should man conquer Passion's stormy fever

And drink of peacefulness so pure and deep?
Why, when the anthems of the streams are swelling,

And the fresh blossoms odorous tribute yield:-
When gales delicious of sweet buds are telling,

That humbly blooming, bend in every field.
Why should Man's heart no pure emotions cherish-

Why should its reverence and affection die ;-
When fragile birds and blossoms, born to perish,
Make glad the Chambers of the open sky!
Philadelphia, 1831.

W. G. C.

All the fountains of the great deep were broken up and the windows

of heaven were opened.-Genesis.
A doom to the fallen! The earth where they trod,
Shall be laden no longer with the scoffers of God;
He speaks ! and his banner of wrath is unfurled,
And the avalanche-deluge comes down on the world

A doom to the fallen! It rides on the wind-
They look back in terror, the wave is behind;
While onward, and onward, in anguish they flee,
Still darkly sweeps onward the flash of the sea.
They trust not the valleys, hope perishes there
But they rush to the hills with the strength of despair;
The palm trees are bended by myriads of forms,
As forests are bowed by the spirit of storms !
There's a hush of the weak, and a cry from the stronger,
And the rock and the tree are a refuge no longer;
The waters have closed in a midnight of gloom,
And sullenly roll o'er a world-peopled tomb.
'Tis morn on the wave-like a bird on its breast,
Floats the ark of the godly—a haven of rest;
A sign and a pledge to the wanderers are given,
And the promise-bow arches the blue vault of heaven.

I've seen the swan, with snow-white breast,

Sitting upon the troubled wave
Seeming as fearlessly to rest,

As though there were no storms to brave.
Her long white neck was lifted high

Above the troubled element,
While with her look of majesty,

Still on her gentle course she went.
The rude wave could not penetrate

Her shielded breast, and if a spray,
A moment on her white back sate,

It seemed a diamond in the ray
Of light, which loved to glisten there,
Making the fair bird still more fair.
So rests the Christian, when the tide

Of life is surged by sorrow's blast,
Its fiercest rage he can abide,

And calmly wait till all be past.
No storm nor angry wind he fears,

His eye is set on things above,"
While his unwavering course he steers,

Scoming whate'er that course would move.
And if, for this world's grief, there spring

A tear into his hope-fixed eye,
Tis but to show the visiting

Of His bright smile that tear can dry,
And serves to lend a moment's grace
of radiance from his Father's face.

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