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SKETCH.

A few days may-a few years must-
Repose us in the silent dust.
Then is it wise to damp our bliss ?
Yes—all such reasonings are amiss !
The voice of nature loudly cries,
And many a message from the skies,
That something in us never dies:
That on this frail uncertain state
Hang matters of eternal weight :
That future life in worlds unknown
Must take its hue from this alone;
Whether as heavenly glory bright,
Or dark as misery's woful night.-
Since then, my honor'd first of friends,
On this poor being all depends,
Let us the important now employ,
And live as those who never die.

ROBERT BURNS. PRAISE.

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PRAISE.

For what shall I praise thee, my God and my King? For what blessings the tribute of gratitude bring? Shall I praise thee for pleasure, for health and for

ease, For the spring of delight and the sunshine of peace? Shall I praise thee for flowers that bloom'd on my

breast, For joys in perspective and pleasures possessed ? For the spirits that heighten'd my days of delight, And the slumber that sat on my pillow at night ? For this should I thank thee, but only for this, I should leave half untold thy donation of bliss : I thank thee for sorrow,

for sickness and care; For the thorns I have gathered, the anguish I bear; For nights of anxiety, watching and tears, A present of pain, a perspective of fears: I praise thee, I bless thee, my King and my God, For the good and the evil thy hand has bestow'd! The flowers were sweet, but their fragrance is flown; They left me no fruit—they are withered and gone; The thorn it was poignant, but precious to me, As the message of mercy that led me to thee.

ANON.

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RETROSPECTIVE VIEW.

RETROSPECTIVE VIEW.

Oh, who that takes a retrospective view
Of years, now fading in the distant blue, -
The snares to which impetuous we had flown,
Restrained by God's resistless arm alone;
How, ever yielding to our own self-will,
We would refuse the good and choose the ill,
He interposing still on our behalf,
Still safely guiding by his rod and staff-
But with subdued, submissive heart would cry,
“Choose Thou my portion, guide me with thine

eye!

One sole condition would I dare suggest,
That Thou would'st save me from mine own re-

quest!"

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PLEASURES OF MEMORY.

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THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY.
Sweet Memory, wasted by thy gentle gale,
on up the stream of time I turn my sail,
To view the fairy-haunts of long-lost hours,
Blest with far greener shades, far fresher Aowers.

Ages and climes remote to thee impart
What charms in genius and refines in art;
Thee, in whose hand the keys of science dwell,
The pensive portress of her holy cell ;
Whose constant vigils chase the chilling damp
Oblivion steals upon her vestal lamp.

The friends of reason, and the guides of youth,
Whose language breathed the eloquence of truth;
Whose life, beyond preceptive wisdom, taught
The great in conduct, and the pure in thought;
These still exist, by thee to fame consigned,
Still speak and act, the models of mankind.

From thee sweet hope her airy coloring draws, And fancy's Rights are subject to thy laws; From thee that bosom-spring of rapture flows, Which only virtue, tranquil virtue, knows.

When joy's bright sun has shed his evening ray, And hope's delusive meteors cease to play ; When clouds on clouds the smiling prospect close, Still through the gloom thy star serenely glows; Like yon fair orb, she gilus the brow of night With the mild magic of reflected light.

SAMUEL ROGERS.

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TIME'S CHANGES.

TIME'S CHANGES.

There was a Child, a helpless Child,
Full of vain fears and fancies wild,
That often wept and sometimes smil'd,

Upon its mother's breast;
Feebly its meanings stammer'd out,
And totter'd tremblingly about,
And knew no wider world without

Its little home of rest.

There was a Boy, a light-heart Boy,
One whom no troubles could annoy,
Save some lost sport, or shatter'd toy,

Forgotten in an hour;
No dark remembrance troubled him,
No future fear his path could dim,
But joy before his eyes would swim,

And hope rise like a tower.

There was a Youth, an ardent Youth,
Full of high promise, courage, truth,
He felt no scathe, he knew no ruth,

Save Love's sweet wounds alone;
He thought but of two soft blue eyes,
He sought no gain but Beauty's prize,
And sweeter held Love's saddest sighs

Than Music's softest tone.

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