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How long must we dwell on the joyless earth;
How long must we linger here?

Say, dost thou not pine for a prouder lot?—
Answer me, sister, dear.

A faint sweet sound, like a lute's last note,
On the morning stillness broke,

And the air was stirred with an odorous breath,
As the meek young violet spoke :-
"There's a quiet bliss in our own sweet vale,
And I love its calm beauty well ;—

There's a joy, there's a joy in each passing breeze, 'Tis a home where I love to dwell.

"Our roof is the azure vault of heaven;
Our food is the dew drops bright;

The sun throws its beams on our path by day,
And the stars are our lamps by night;

We sprang up 'mid odour, and bloom, and light,
We are woo'd by the minstrel wind;

Here rest then, dear rose, in thine own sweet home, For a fairer thou can'st not find."

But the rose still pined for a prouder lot,

And it pined not long in vain,

For a maiden, with cheek like its own read leaf, Came dancing o'er the plain;

She gazed on its hue with admiring eye,

And she praised it with gentle voice,

And placed in her bosom of spotless white;
Oh, then did the rose rejoice.

A few brief hours of light and joy,
And the flower was all forgot,
And it longed again for its quiet home,
For it saw it was heeded not.

It withered apace in its high abode,
Unnoticed by beauty's eye,

And when the dim shadows of twilight came,
'Twas cast on its home to die.

The violet still lived in its loveliness,
And the moon and the stars looked down,
And silver'd the misty veil of dew

That the even had over it thrown:

The zephyrs wooed it, and sportively strove
Its odorous breath to share,

Whilst they turned aside from the faded rose,
And left it to perish there.

Thus, thou mayest learn from a simple flower,
A lesson thy course to guide,

Then cling to the bliss of thy quiet home,

And dream not of wealth and pride.

And oh! when ambition would taint thy soul,
Or thou sighest for pomp and state,
Think thou of the lowly violet's lot,
And remember the rose's fate.

J. R. K.

Good men are comforted under their troubles by the hope of heaven, while bad men are not only deprived of this hope, but distressed with fears arising from a

future state. The soul of man can never divest itself wholly of anxiety about its fate hereafter; there are hours when even to the prosperous, in the midst of their pleasures, eternity is an awful thought, but much more when those pleasures, one after another, begin to withdraw: when life alters its forms, and becomes dark and cheerless, when its changes warn the most inconsiderate, that what is so mutable, will soon pass entirely away; then with pungent earnestness comes home that question to the heart, Into what world are we next to go? How miserable the man, who, under the distractions of calamity, hangs doubtful about an event which so nearly concerns him, who, in the midst of doubts and anxieties, approaching to that awful boundary which separates this world from the next, shudders at the dark prospect before him, wishing to exist after death, and yet afraid of that existence, catching at every feeble hope which superstition can afford him, and trembling in the same moment, from reflection upon his crimes. Blair.

Of this nature are the resources which religion provides for good men. By its previous discipline, it trains them to fortitude,-by the reflections of a good conscience it soothes,-by the sense of divine favour it supports them, and when every comfort fails them on earth, it cheers them with the hope of heaven. Distinguishing his servants with such advantages, God is justly said to erect his pavilion over them in the evil time: he not only spreads a tent for them in the wil

M

derness, but he transforms in some measure the state of nature around them. To use the beautiful language of ancient prophecy, "In the desert, the thirsty land where no water is, he openeth springs; instead of the thorn, he maketh the fir-tree to come up; instead of the brier, the myrtle to spring; in the midst of the habitation of dragons, he maketh the green pastures to rise, and still waters to flow round his people.

Blair.

GOD is never mistaken in the character of his servants, for he seeth their hearts, and judgeth according to the truth; but the world is often deceived in those who court its favour, and of course, is unjust in the distribution of its rewards; flattery gains the ear of power, fraud supplants innocence, and the pretending and assuming, occupy the place of the worthy and modest. In vain you claim any merit with the world, on account of your good intentions; the world knows them not, it judges of you solely by your actions, which often depend not on yourselves; but in the sight of the Supreme Being, good intentions supply the place of good deeds, which you had not the opportunity of performing. The well-meant endeavours of the poor, find the same acceptance with him, as the generous actions of the rich; the widow's mite is, in his eye, a costly offering; and even he who giveth to a disciple a cup of cold water, when he can give him no more, goeth not without his reward. Blair

DAVID saith, "Whoso privily slandereth his neighbour, him will I cut off: him that hath an high look and a proud heart, will not I suffer.

"Mine eyes shall be upon the faithful of the land, that they may dwell with me: he that walketh in a perfect way, he shall serve me.

"He that worketh deceit shall not dwell within my house: he that telleth lies shall not tarry in my sight."

TO-MORROW.

How sweet to the heart is the thought of to-morrow,
When hope's fairy pictures, bright colours display;
How sweet, when we can, from futurity borrow,
A balm for the grief that afflicts us to-day.

When travelling alone, quite forlorn, unbefriended, Sweet's the thought, that to-morrow my wanderings will cease,

That at home then with cares sympathetic attended, I shall rest unmolested, and slumber in peace.

Or when from the friends of my heart long divided,
The fond expectation, with joy how replete ;
That from far distant regions, by Providence guided,
To-morrow will see us most happily meet.

When six days of labour each other succeeding, That with hurry and toil have my spirit oppress'd, What a pleasure, to think, as the last is receding, That to-morrow will be a sweet Sabbath of rest.

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