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Incentives to Devotion. - H. K. WHITE.
Lo! the unlettered hind, who never knew
To raise his mind excursive, to the heights
Of abstract contemplation, as he sits
On the green hillock by the hedge-row side,
What time the insect swarms are murmuring,
And marks, in silent thought, the broken clouds,
That fringe with loveliest hue, the evening sky,
Feels in his soul the hand of nature rouse
The thrill of gratitude, to Him who formed
The goodly prospect; he beholds the God
Throned in the west; and his reposing ear
Hears sounds angelic in the fitful breeze,
That floats through neighboring copse or fairy brake,
Or lingers, playful, on the haunted stream.
Go with the cotter to his winter fire,
When o'er the moors the loud blast whistles shrill,
And the hoarse ban-dog bays the icy moon;
Mark with what awe he lists the wild uproar,
Silent, and big with thought; and hear him bless
The God that rides on the tempestuous cloud,
For his snug hearth, and all its little joys.
Hear him compare his happier lot, with his
Who bends his way across the wintery wolds,
A poor night-traveler, while the dismal snow
Beats in his face, and dubious of his paths,
He stops, and thinks, in every lengthening blast,
He hears some village mastiff's distant howl,
And sees far streaming, some lone cottage light;
Then undeceived, upturns his streaming eyes,
And clasps his shivering hands, or overpowered,
Sinks on the frozen ground, weighed down with sleep
From which the hapless wretch shall never wake.
Thus the poor rustic warms his heart with praise
And glowing gratitude: he turns to bless,
With honest warmth, his Maker and his God.
And shall it e'er be said, that a poor hind,
Nursed in the lap of ignorance, and bred
In want and labor, glows with noble zeal
To laud his Maker's attributes, while he,
Whom starry science in her cradle rocked,
And Castaly enchastened with its dews,
Closes his eye upon the holy word;
And, blind to all but arrogance and pride,
Dares to declare his infidelity,
And openly contemn the Lord of Hosts?
O! I would walk
A weary journey to the furthest verge
Of the big world, to kiss that good man's hand,
Who, in the blaze of wisdom and of art,
Preserves a lowly mind; and to his God,
Feeling the sense of his own littleness,
Is as a child in meek simplicity!
What is the pomp of learning? the parade
Of letters and of tongues? Even as the mists
Of the gray morn before the
That pass away and perish. Earthly things
Are but the transient pageants of an hour;
And earthly pride is like the passing flower,
That springs to fall, and blossoms but to die.
Ode to Sickness.
The following ode was written by a young lady in the north of England, who, for many years, had been oppressed with a hopeless consump· tion.
Nor to the rosy maid, whom former hours
Beheld me fondly covet, tune I now
The melancholy lyre: no more I seek
Thy aid, Hygeia! sought so long in vain ;
But 't is to thee, O Sickness! 'tis to thee
I wake the silent strings; accept the lay.
Thou art no tyrant waving the fierce scourge O'er unresisting victims-but a nymph
Of mild though mournful mien, upon whose brow
Patience sits smiling, and whose heavy eye,
Though moist with tears, is always fixed on heaven.
Thou wrapp'st the world in clouds, but thou canst tell
Of worlds where all is sunshine, and, at length,
When through this vale of sorrow thou hast led
Thy patient sufferers, cheering them the while
With many a smile of promise, thy pale hand
Unlocks the bowers of everlasting rest;
Where Death's kind angel waits to dry their tears,
And crown them with his amaranthine flowers.
Yet have I known thee long, and I have felt
All that thou hast of sorrow
many a tear
Has fallen on my cold cheek, and many a sigh,
Called forth by thee, has swelled my aching breast,
Yet still I bless thee, O thou chastening power!
For all, I bless thee: thou hast taught my soul
To rest upon itself, to look beyond
The narrow bounds of time, and fix its hopes
On the sure basis of eternity.
Meanwhile, even in this transitory scene,
Of what hast thou deprived me? Has thy hand
Closed up the book of knowledge; drawn a veil
O'er the fair face of nature; or destroyed
The tender pleasures of domestic life?
Ah, no! 't is thine to call forth, in the heart,
Each better feeling; thou awakenest there
That unconfined philanthropy, which feels
For all the unhappy; that warm sympathy,
Which, casting every selfish care aside,
Finds its own bliss in seeing others blest;
That melancholy, tender, yet sublime,
Which, feeling all the nothingness of earth,
Exalts the soul to heaven; and, more than these,
That pure devotion, which, even in the hour
Of agonizing pain, can fill the eyes
With tears of ecstasy, - such tears, perhaps,
As angels love to shed.
These are thy gifts, O Sickness! these to me
Thou hast vouchsafed, and taught me how to prize.
Shall my soul shrink from aught thou hast ordained?
Shall I e'er envy the luxurious train,
Along whose path Prosperity has strewed
Her gilded toys? Ah! let them still pursue
Those shining trifles; never shall they know
Such pure and holy pleasures, as await
The heart, refined by sufferings. Not to them
Does Fancy sing her wild, romantic song;
"T is not for them her glowing hand undraws
The sacred veil, that hides the angelic world.
They hear not, in the music of the wind,
Celestial voices, that, in whispers sweet,
Call to the flowers, the
and bashful flowers
They see not, at the shadowy hour of ve,
Descending spirits, who, on silver wings,
Glide through the air, and, to their harps divine,
Sing in soft notes the vesper hymn of praise;
Or, pausing for a moment, as they turn
Their radiant eyes on this polluted scene,
Drop on their golden harps a pitying tear.
Prosperity! I court thy gifts no more,
Nor thine, O fair Hygeia! Yet to thee
I breathe one fervent
If, for my faded brow, thy hand prepare
Some future wreath, let me the gift resign;
Transfer the rosy garland: let it bloom
Around the temples of that friend beloved,
On whose maternal bosom, even now,
I lay my aching head! and, as I mark
The smile that plays upon her speaking face,
Forget that I have ever shed a tear.
Reply to the Address of a Missionary at a Council of the Chiefs of "the Six Nations," in 1805,- by Sagnyn Whathah, alias Red Jacket. - PHILANTHROPIST.
Friend and Brother:
Ir was the will of the Great Spirit, that we should meet together this day. He orders all things; and has given us a fine day for our council. He has taken his garment from before the sun, and caused it to shine with brightness upon us. Our eyes are opened that we see clearly; our ears are unstopped, that we have been able to hear distinctly the words you have spoken. For all these favors we thank the Great Spirit, and him only.
There was a time when
Brother! Listen to what we say. our forefathers owned this great island. Their seats extended from the rising to the setting sun: the Great Spirit had made it for the use of the Indians. He had created the buffalo, the deer, and other animals for food. He had made the bear and the beaver; their skins served us for clothing. He had scattered them over the country, and taught us how to take