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“ 'Tis self-defence in each profession :
An Angel came. “ Āh friend !” he cried,
“ But why such haste ?” the sick man whines; " Who knows as yet what Heaven designs ? “ Perhaps I may recover still. “ That sum and more are in my will.
“ Fool!” says the Vision, “now 'tis plain, “ Your life, your soul, your heaven was gain. “ From every side, with all your might, “ You scraped, and scraped beyond your right; “ And after death would fain atone, “ By giving what is not your own.
" While there is life there's hope,” he cried : “ Then why such haste ?” so groaned and died !
THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM.
When marshalled on the nightly plain
The glittering host bestud the sky, One star alone, of all the train,
Can fix the sinner's wandering eye. Hark! hark! to God the chorus breaks,
From every host, from every gem ; But one alone the Saviour speaks,
It is the Star of Bethlehem. Once on the raging seas I rode,
The storm was loud—the night was dark, The ocean yawned—and rudely blowed
The wind that tossed my foundering bark. Deep horror then my vitals froze,
Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem;
It was the Star of Bethlehem.
It bade my dark forebodings cease;
peace. Now safely moored-my perils o'er,
I'll sing, first in night's diadem, For ever and for evermore,
The Star!—The Star of Bethlehem !
THE BOY AND THE RAINBOW.
Declare, ye sages, if ye find
Each kind pursues his proper good,
The happiness of human kind Consists in rectitude of mind, A will subdued to reason's sway, And passions practised to obey ; An open and a generous heart, Refined from selfishness and art; Patience which mocks at Fortune's power, And Wisdom never sad nor sour: In these consists our proper bliss, Else Plato reasons much amiss. But foolish mortals still pursue False happiness in place of true : Ambition serves us for a guide, Or lust, or avarice, or pride ; While Reason no assent can gain, And Revelation warns in vain. Hence, through our lives, in every stage From infancy itself to age, A happiness we toil to find, Which still avoids us like the wind; Ev’n when we think the prize our own, At once 'tis vanished, lost and gone. You'll ask me why I thus rehearse All Epictetus in my verse, And if I fondly hope to please With dry reflections such as these, So trite, so hackneyed, and so stale ?I'll take the hint and tell a tale.
One evening, as a simple swain
spy, Which warns us when a shower is nigh;
With brightest rays it seemed to glow;
had, it seems, been told
The spearman heard the bugle sound,
And cheerily smiled the morn,
Attend Llewellyn's horn:
gave a louder cheer;
Llewellyn's horn to hear?
Oh, where does faithful Gelert roam ?
The flower of all his race !
A lion in the chase !"
That day Llewellyn little loved
The chase of hart or hare ;
For Gelert was not there.
Unpleased, Llewellyn homeward hied,
When, near the portal seat, His truant Gelert he espied,
Bounding his lord to greet.
But when he gained the castle door,
Aghast the chieftain stood ; The hound was smeared with gouts of gore,
His lips and fangs ran blood !
Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise,
Unused such looks to meet :
And crouched and licked his feet.
Onward in haste Llewellyn passed,
(And on went Gelert too,) And still, where'er his eyes were cast,
Fresh blood-gouts shocked his view!
O’erturned his infant's bed, he found
The blood-stained cover rent,
With recent blood besprent.
He called his child—no voice replied ;
He searched-with terror wild ;
But nowhere found the child !