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HOPE.

LET Hope, my friend, let hope of happier hours
Far from thy bosom chase its cares away,
And though the morn of thy existence lours,
Unclouded splendour, may adorn its day.

For oft in this life the fav'rites of Heaven
(Since the best have err'd) some pangs must know;
And earthly punishments are kindly given
To save the soul from never ending woe!

As purest gold is most severely tried,
Even so, perhaps, is the distinguish'd mind;
And oft when earthly blessings are denied
In lesser medium, Fate is doubly kind.

For sure the bosom that ne'er felt a pain,
The real joys of life can never know;
And every blessing would be given in vain,
Were men insensible of grief or woe.

Art thou alone unhappy, and has Heaven
Reserv'd that cup for only thee?
For thee?-Ah no!-To all this cup is given;
How large a draught is portion'd out for me!

Young as I am, I've struggled with my woes,
And Heaven is witness, I have had my share;
Yet Hope still whispers ere life's awful close,
Content and Peace shall find a dwelling here.

Then Hope, my friend, let hope of happier hours
Far from thy bosom chase its cares away;
And though the morn of thy existence lours,
Unclouded splendour may adorn its day!

Hope, Heav'n born cherub, still appears
Howe'er misfortune seems to lour;
Her smile the threat'ning tempest clears,
And is the rainbow of the show'r.

THOSE who admire and love knowledge for its own sake, ought to wish to see its elements made accessible to all, were it only that they may be the more thoroughly examined into, and more effectually developed in their consequences, and receive that ductility and plastic quality which the pressure of minds of all descriptions, constantly moulding them to their purposes, can alone bestow.

HERSCHEL.

WE all do stamp our value on ourselves :

The price we challenge for ourselves is given us. There does not live on earth the man so stationed, That I despise myself compared with him.

Man is made great or little by his own will.

COLERIDGE.

Ir is the common fate of men of singular gifts of mind, to be destitute of those of fortune; which doth not any way deject the spirit of wiser judgments, who thoroughly understand the justice of this proceeding; and being enriched with higher donatives, cast a more careless eye on these vulgar parts of felicity. It is a more unjust ambition, to desire to engross the mercies of the Almighty, not to be content with the goods of mind, without a possession of those of body or fortune and it is an error, worse than heresy, to adore these complimental and circumstantial pieces of felicity, and undervalue those perfections and essential points of happiness, wherein we resemble our Maker. To wiser desires it is satisfaction enough to deserve, though not to enjoy the favours of fortune. Let Providence provide for fools: it is not partiality, but equity, in God, who deals with us but as our natural parents. Those that are able of body and mind he leaves to their deserts; to those of weaker merits he imparts a large portion; and pieces out the defect of one by the excess of the other. SIR THOMAS BROWNE.

WE cheat the world

With florid outside, 'till we meet surprize;
Then, Conscience, working inward like a mole,
Crumbles the surface, and reveals the dirt
From which our actions spring.

FENTON.

It was that gay and splendid confusion, in which the eye of youth sees all that is brave and brilliant, and that of experience much that is doubtful, deceitful, false, and hollow-hopes that will never be gratified-promises that will never be fulfilled-pride in the disguise of humility-and insolence in that of frank and generous bounty.

WALTER SCOTT.

FINE speeches are the instruments of fools,

Or knaves, who use them when they want good sense; But Honesty needs no disguise or ornament.

OTWAY.

If we consider God in his omnipresence, his being passes through, actuates, and supports the whole frame of nature. His creation, and every part of it, is full of him. There is nothing he has made that is either so distant, so little, or so inconsiderable, which he does not essentially inhabit. His substance is within the substance of every being, whether material or immaterial, and as intimately present to it as that being is to itself. It would be an imperfection in him were he able to move out of one place into another, or to withdraw himself from anything he has created, or from any part of that space which is diffused and spread abroad to infinity. In short, to speak of him in the language of an old philosopher, he is a Being whose centre is every where, and his circumference no where.

ADDISON.

TO THE BEE.

CHILD of patient Industry,
Little, active, busy Bee!
Thou art out at early dawn,
Just as opening flowers are born,
Among the green and grassy meads,
Where the cowslips hang their heads,
Or by hedge-rows, while the dew
Glitters in the harebell blue;
There on eager wings art flown
To thymy hillocks on the down;
Or to revel on the broom;

Or suck the clover's crimson bloom;
Murmuring still, thou busy Bee,
Thy little ode to Industry.

Go, while summer suns are bright,
Take at large thy wandering flight,
Go, and load thy tiny feet

With every rich and varied sweet;
Cling around the flowery thorn,
Dive in the woodbine's honied horn,
Seek the wild rose that shades the dell,
Explore the foxglove's freckled bell,
Or from the heath flower's fairy cup,
Drink the fragrant spirit up.

But when the meadows shall be sown,
And summer's garlands overblown,
Then come, thou little, busy Bee!
And let thy homestead be with me.

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