CCXX.-SHORT SELECTIONS. THE TEMPEST. THE night came down in terror. Through the air Their outlines, as they rose, heaped fold on fold; 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 winged time, which fix'd the prints, is gone. 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 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, To which our God himself is moon and sun. -Tennyson. CCXXI. THE ISLE OF LONG AGO. Он, a wonderful stream is the river Time, How the winters are drifting, like flakes of snow, And the year in the sheaf-so they come and they go There's a magical isle up the river of Time, And the Junes with the roses are staying. And the name of that isle is the Long Ago; There are fragments of song that nobody sings, There's a lute unswept, and a harp without strings, 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, -B. F. Taylor. CCXXII. THE LOST ARTS. THE art of making daily bread, As much as their fast sons abhor it. The art of living frugal lives, The law which fate at last enforces. The art of holding public trust, 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 To stop the public treasures leaking, Is lost, alas! in office-seeking. The art of paying as you go, 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, For days and for weeks her only fare, But, now they were gone; of bad or good, Of those potatoes; And she sighed and said, "What shall I do? And she thought of the deacon over the way, 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, But never once of potatoes; |