CCXX.-SHORT SELECTIONS.

THE TEMPEST.

THE night came down in terror. Through the air
Mountains of clouds, with lurid summits roll'd;
The lightning kindling with its vived glare

Their outlines, as they rose, heaped fold on fold;
The wind, in fitful sighs, swept o'er the sea;

And then a sudden lull, gentle as sleep, Soft as an infant's breathing, seem'd to be

Lain, like enchantment, on the throbbing deep. But false the calm! for soon the strengthen'd gale Burst in one loud explosion, far and wide, Drowning the thunder's voice!

- Epes Sargent.

TIME.

Time flows from instants; and, of these, each one

Should be esteemed as if it were alone.

The shortest space, which we so highly prize
When it is coming, and before our eyes,
Let it but slide into th' eternal main,
No realms, no worlds, can purchase it again.
Remembrance only makes the footsteps last

When winged time, which fix'd the prints, is gone.
·Sir John Beaumont.

THE PATH OF DUTY.

THE path of duty is the way of glory;

He that walks it, only thirsting

For the right, and learns to deaden

Love of self, before his journey closes

He shall find the stubborn thistle bursting
Into glossy purples which outredden
All voluptuous garden roses.

The path of duty is the way of glory;

He that, ever following her commands

On with toil of heart and knees and hands

Through the long gorge to the fair light, has won

His path upward, and prevailed,

Shall find the toppling crags of duty, scaled,
Are close upon the shining table-lands

To which our God himself is moon and sun.

-Tennyson.

CCXXI. THE ISLE OF LONG AGO.

Он, a wonderful stream is the river Time,
As it runs through the realm of tears,
With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme,
And a boundless sweep and a surge sublime,
As it blends with the Ocean of Years.

How the winters are drifting, like flakes of snow,
And the summers, like buds between;

And the year in the sheaf-so they come and they go
On the river's breast, with its ebb and flow,
As it glides in the shadow and sheen.

There's a magical isle up the river of Time,
Where the softest of airs are playing;
There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime,
And a song as sweet as a vesper chime,

And the Junes with the roses are staying.

And the name of that isle is the Long Ago;
And we bury our treasures there;
There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow-
There are heaps of dust-but we loved them so!-
There are trinkets and tresses of hair:

There are fragments of song that nobody sings,
And a part of an infant's prayer;

There's a lute unswept, and a harp without strings,
There are broken vows and pieces of rings,

And the garments that she used to wear.

There are hands that are waved, when the fairy shore By the mirage is lifted in air;

And we sometimes hear, through the turbulent roar, Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before, When the wind down the river is fair.

Oh, remembered for aye, be the blessed Isle,
All the day of our life till night—
When the evening comes with its beautiful smile,
And our eyes are closing to slumber awhile,
May that "Greenwood" of Soul be in sight!

-B. F. Taylor.

CCXXII. THE LOST ARTS.

THE art of making daily bread,
With work of hands and work of head,
Instead of basely plotting for it,
Seems lost to many a mind and heart,
Whose fathers loved industrious art

As much as their fast sons abhor it.

The art of living frugal lives,
With honest husbands, faithful wives,
Without a thought of mean divorces,
Is half forgotten there and here,
By those who never love or fear

The law which fate at last enforces.

The art of holding public trust,
Without vile crawling in the dust

To reach the high or humble station,

Is classed among forgotten arts,

So many sacrifice their hearts,

On shrine of base humiliation.

The noble art of seeking out
The man we scarce can do without,

To stop the public treasures leaking,
The manly art ignoring self,
Undazed by golden gleams of pelf,

Is lost, alas! in office-seeking.
The art of earning more, not less,
Than's paid for vain parade and dress,
And saving for a day that's rainy,
And wintry age, that comes too soon,
And sickness, that may smite at noon,
Is lost in fashion's maze by many.

The art of paying as you go,
And dreading any debt to owe,
Preferring corduroy and cotton
To costly silks obtained on trust,
And satins trailing in the dust,

Is almost lost and quite forgotten.

CCXXIII. THE INSPIRATION OF THE BIBLE.

SUCH is the intrinsic excellence of Christianity that it is adapted to the wants of all, and it provides for all, not only by its precepts and by its doctrines, but also by its evidence.

The poor man may know nothing of history, or science, or philosophy; he may have read scarcely any book but the Bible; he may be totally unable to vanquish the skeptic in the arena of public debate; but he is nevertheless surrounded by a panoply which the shafts of infidelity can never pierce.

You may go to the home of the poor cottager, whose heart is deeply imbued with the spirit of vital Christianity; you may see him gather his little family around him; he expounds to them the wholesome doctrines and principles of the Bible; and, if they want to know the evidence upon which he rests his faith, of the divine origin of his religion, he can tell them, upon reading the book which teaches Christianity, he finds not only a perfectly true description of his own natural character, but in the provisions of this religion a perfect adaptation to all his needs.

It is a religion by which to live-a religion by which to die; a religion which cheers in darkness, relieves in perplexity, supports in adversity, keeps steadfast in prosperity, and guides the inquirer to that blessed land where "the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.”

We entreat you, therefore, to give the Bible a welcome

a cordial reception; obey its precepts, trust its promises, and rely implicitly upon that Divine Redeemer, whose religion brings glory to God in the highest, and on earth, peace and good will to men.

Thus will you fulfill the noble end of your existence, and the great God of the universe will be your father and your friend; and, when the last mighty convulsion shall shake the earth, and the sea, and the sky; and the fragments of a thousand barks, richly freighted with intellect and learning, are scattered on the shores of error and delusion, your vessel shall in safety outride the storm, and enter in triumph the haven of eternal rest.

CCXXIV.

-Edw. Winthrop.

PRAYER AND POTATOES.

AN old lady sat in her old arm-chair,
With wrinkled visage and disheveled hair,
And pale, hunger-worn features;

For days and for weeks her only fare,
As she sat there in her old arm-chair,
Had been potatoes.

But, now they were gone; of bad or good,
Not one was left for the old lady's food

Of those potatoes;

And she sighed and said, "What shall I do?
Where shall I send and to whom shall I go
For more potatoes?"

And she thought of the deacon over the way,
The deacon so ready to worship and pray,

Whose cellar was full of potatoes;

And she said, "I will send for the deacon to come;

He'll not mind much to give me some

Of such a store of potatoes."

And the deacon came over as fast as he could,
Thinking to do the old lady some good,

But never once of potatoes;