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THE bruiser of the serpent's head, the woman's promised seed,

The second in the Trinity, the food our souls to feed; The vine, the light, the door, the way, the shepherd of us all,

Whose manhood join'd to deity, did ransom us from thrall,

That was, and is, and evermore will be the same to His, That sleeps to none that wakes to Him, that turns our curse to bliss;

Whom yet unseen, the patriarchs saw, the prophets had foretold,

The apostles preach'd, the saints adored, and martyrs

do behold.

WARNER.

WHERE is the individual who can look back upon his past life without experiencing a single pang of remorse, a single emotion of regret? He alone is a stranger to the agitations of a scrupulous mind, who has never commenced the task of self-examination,— never sojourned in the solitude of his conscience.

BISHOP WATSON.

THRICE happy they, the wise contented poor, From lust of wealth, and dread of death secure; They tempt no deserts, and no griefs they find; Peace rules the day where reason rules the mind.

COLLINS.

AMBITION is a vulture vile,

That feedeth on the heart of pride,
And finds no rest, when all is tried.
For worlds cannot confine the one,
Th' other lists and bounds hath none;
And both subvert the mind, the state,
Procure destruction, envy, hate.

DANIEL.

TO-MORROW's action? Can that hoary wisdom,
Borne down with years, still dote upon To-morrow?
That fatal mistress of the young, the lazy,
The coward, and the fool, condemn'd to lose
A useless life in waiting for To-morrow,
To gaze with longing eyes upon To-morrow,
Till interposing Death destroys the prospect!
Strange! that this general fraud from day to day
Should fill the world with wretches undetected.
The soldier lab'ring through a winter's march,
Still sees To-morrow dress'd in robes of triumph;
Still to the lover's long-expecting arms
To-morrow brings the visionary bride;
But thou, too old to bear another cheat,
Learn, that the present hour alone is man's.

DR. JOHNSON.

How various his employments whom the world
Calls idle, and who justly in return

Esteems that busy world an idler too!

Friends, books, a garden, and perhaps his pen,

Delightful industry, enjoy'd at home,
And Nature in her cultivated trim,
Dress'd to his taste, inviting him abroad,-
Can he want occupation who has these?
Will he be idle who has much to enjoy ?
Me therefore studious of laborious ease,
Not slothful; happy to deceive the time,
Not waste it; and aware that human life
Is but a loan to be repaid with use,

When He shall call his debtors to account,
From whom are all our blessings; business finds
Ee'n here while sedulous I seek to improve,
At least neglect not, or leave unemploy'd
The mind he gave me ; driving it, though slack,
Too oft, and much impeded in its work

By causes not to be divulged in vain,
To its just point-the service of mankind.

COWPER.

WHEN thy last breath, ere Nature sunk to rest,
Thy meek submission to thy God expressed;
When thy last look, ere thought and feeling fled,
A mingled gleam of hope and trumph shed;
What to thy soul its glad assurance gave,
Its hope in death, its triumph in the grave?
The sweet remembrance of unblemish'd youth,
Th' inspiring voice of innocence and truth.

ROGERS.

E

WRITTEN UNDER A DRAWING REPRESENTING A

WEEPING FEMALE, WATCHING A

CHILD AT PRAYER.

THAT dewy eye, whose fringed lid
Just shades its beauteous orb of blue,—
That upturn'd forehead, almost hid
By glossy locks of golden hue,-

Those rosy hands with fervour prest,
And stretch'd devoutly tow'rds the sky,-
That quivering lip, that heaving breast,
Which throbs in holy ecstasy,-

Tell that the spotless Innocent
Breathes a petition to his God,
While angels' wings are kindly lent
To bear it to their blest abode.

Sweet Boy! pour forth thy guileless prayer,
And let its incense mount to Heaven;

For sure to one so pure and fair,

No harsh refusal can be given.

Oh, may his infant orison

Find grace before th' Almighty throne! Oh, may the virtues of my son

For all his mother's faults atone!

I then, with hopes of Heav'n elate,

In welcome death would close my eyes, Secure that here we separate,

Only to meet in Paradise!

CROFT.

Oн ever skill'd to bear the form we love,
To bid the shades of grief and fear depart!
Come, gentle Hope, with one gay smile remove
The poignant sadness of an aching heart.
Thy voice, benign enchantress, let me hear :
Say that for me some pleasure yet may bloom,
That fancy's radiance, friendship's precious tear,
Shall soften or shall chase misfortune's gloom;
But come not glowing in the dazzling ray
Which once with dear illusions charm'd my eye;
Oh, strew no more, sweet flatterer, on my way
The flowers I fondly thought too bright to die!
Visions less fair will soothe my pensive breast,
Which seeks not happiness, but longs for rest.

H. M. WILLIAMS.

He that has never known adversity, is but half acquainted with others, or with himself. Constant success shews us but one side of the world; for, as it surrounds us with friends, who will tell us only our merits, so it silences those enemies, from whom alone we can learn our defects.

A SOLITARY SUMMER CLOUD,

That look'd

As though an angel, in his upward flight,
Had left his mantle floating in mid-air.

JOANNA BAILLIE.

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