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'the everlasting Son of the everlasting Father! the Judge of mankind! the Sovereign of angels! the Lord of all things both in earth and heaven!
Valley of Jehoshaphat.-CHATEAUBRIAND. The valley of Jehoshaphat has in all ages served as the burying place to Jerusalem; you meet there, side by side, monuments of the most distant times, and of the present century. The Jews still come there to die, from the corners of the earth. A stranger sells to them, for almost its weight in gold, the land whieh contains the bones of their fathers.
Solomon planted that valley; the shadow of the temple by which it was overhung—the torrent, called after grief, which traversed it—the Psalms which David there composed—the lamentations of Jeremiah which its rocks reechoed, rendered it the fitting abode of the tomb. Christ commenced his Passion in the same place; that innocent David there shed, for our sins, tears which the guilty David let fall for his own transgressions. Few names awaken in our minds recollections so solemn, as the valley of Jehoshaphat.
The aspect of the celebrated valley is desolate; the western side is bounded by a ridge of lofty rocks which support the walls of Jerusalem, above which the towers of Jerusalem appear. The eastern side is formed by the Mount of Olives, and another eminence called the Mount of Scandal, from the idolatry of Solomon
These two mountains which adjoin each other, are almost bare, and of a red and sombre hue; on their desert side you see here and there some black and withered vineyards, some wild olives, some ploughed land, covered with hyssop, and a few ruined chapels. . At the bottom of the valley, you perceive a torrent, traversed by a single arch, which appears of great antiquity. The stones of the Jewish cemetery appear like a mass of ruins at the foot of the Mountain of Scandal, under the village of Siloam. You can hardly distinguish the buildings of the village, from the ruins with which they are surrounded.
Three ancient monuments are particularly, conspicuous, those of Zachariah, Jehoshaphat and Absalom. The sadness
of Jerusalem from which no smoke ascends, and in which no sound is to be heard; the solitude of the surrounding mountains, where not a living creature is to be seen; the disorder of these tombs, ruined, ransacked, and half exposed to view, would almost induce one to believe that the last trump had been heard, and that the dead were about to rise in the valley of Jehoshaphat.
A Mother's Death.-CRABBE.
Then died lamented, in the strength of life.
Slowly they bore, with solemn step, the dead:-
Swelled the full cadence of the grief by groans.
Curious and sad, upon the fresh-dug hill,
Arrived at home, how then they gazed around,
A Voice from the Wine Press.--Miss Gould.
Fostered every leaf and shoot,
And cherished it from branch to root!
It was screened and taught to run,
O'er the trellis, to the sun.
Every cluster from the stem;
Out our very blood for them!
Still our essence shall endure,
And the longer we are pent
From the air and cheering light, Greater, when they give us vent,
For our rest shall be our might. And our spirits, they shall see,
Can assume a thousand shapes; These are words of verity,
Uttered by the dying grapes. Many a stately form shall reel,
When our power is felt within; Many a foolish tongue reveal
What the recent draught has been; Many a thoughtless, yielding youth,
With his promise all in bloom, Go from paths of peace and truth
To an early, shameful tomb. We the purse will oft unclasp,
All its golden treasure take, And, the husband in our grasp,
Leave the wife with heart to break. While his babes are pinched with cold,
We will bind him to the bowl, Till his features we behold
Glowing like a living coal.
To his lip a glass or two,
Till it oversteps the shoe.
While he parries us in vain;
Till our thousands we have slain.
When we've drowned their peace and health,
Strength and hopes within the bowl, More we'll ask than life or wealth,
We'll require the very soul! Ye, who from our blood are free,
Take the charge we give you now; Taste not, till ye wait and see
If the grapes forget their vow.
TO-MORROW! didst thou say? Methought I heard Horatio say, To-morrow. Go to~I will not hear of it.-To-morrow! 'Tis a sharper, who stakes his penury Against thy plenty-who takes thy ready cash, And pays thee nought but wishes, hopes and promises, The currency of idiots. Injurious bankrupt, That gulls the easy creditor!-To-morrow! It is a period nowhere to be found In all the hoary registers of time, Unless perchance in the fool's calendar. Wisdom disclaims the word, nor holds society With those who own it. No, my Horatio, 'Tis Fancy's child, and Folly is its father; Wrought of such stuff as dreams are; and baseless As the fantastic visions of the evening.
But soft, my friend-arrest the present moments;
Then stay the present instant, dear Horatio;