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came to do all that I did after, and I made no work
about doing it, for I knew that I was safe as long as
I was said by the doctor. And this much I'll say
for my house, please your Lordship's honour, that
if ever your Lordship comes the way again, you'll
have the best of all good treatment, tay-tay, and
coffee-tay, and green-tay too, and yellow, if there's
such a thing to be had, high or low; for 'twas only
by the doctor's orders we gave your Lordship such
poor usage the last time. And as for the chimney,
it never puffed before nor after (which is saying a
great deal), only that once I just slipped a weeny
piece of a tile upon the chimney above, thinking to
please the doctor. Indeed, it went sore against my
heart to see you cutting away with yourself that
morning, please your Lordship, 'tis what the wife I
have said to me and you going out the doors, was
that you'd get your death by it. But as I said to
her-A’ hold your tongue, you foolish woman, says
you
think
you

know better than the doctor ? Indeed, I'll tell your Lordship no lie, 'tis the word the doctor wrote me, was to do something to make Lord Ulla know what poverty was !

Is that the way of it ? says I to myself; why then let me alone for giving him a taste of it:-as I did, I'm sure, please your Lordship, and more blame to those that put me up to it.”

The history informs us, that Lord Ulla prolonged

I, do

his residence beyond the summer, and discovered, by personal experiment, that the only way to enjoy the real comforts of life, is by bestowing them whereever they are needed.

FROM " THE CHRISTIAN PHYSIOLOGIST."

Morning Wymn.

Again we hail the golden light—the dawn Now breaks from purple clouds on grove and lawn ; Leave we our couches, let the morning rays Shining behold our gratitude and praise.

The glittering chariots of the night
Have fled, and lovely Morn again
Looks from her throne of lucid light,
And reassumes her fragrant reign.
Touched by her hand, the clouds that rolled
In gloom sublime, now brightly beam,
And seem a sheet of liquid gold
When viewed in some soft murmuring stream.

Thou Lord of Light, Thou God supreme,
Once more we seek on bended knee,
At morning's first returning beam,
To breathe our hymns of praise to Thee.

The flowers that late all hung as dead,
Faint, and oppressed with nature's dew,
Now meet the beam profusely shed,
Revive, and blush a lovelier hue.
Where thick the forest's branches wreathe,
And feathered songsters dwelling there,
Waked by the ray they grateful breathe
In melody to thee their prayer.

Then, Lord of Light, and God supreme,
Let man seek now on bended knee,
At morning's first returning beam,
To breathe his hymns of praise to Thee.

Midnight.

'Twas midnight, and I stole away From ev'ry haunt where life was gay ; Where blooming wreaths and festive boards Were in a wild profusion spread, And ev'ry bliss that earth affords To tempt me, was around me shed,

I flew, unheeded and alone,
To seek a spot my heart could own;

Where I could view the stars arise,
And watch the silvery moon's decline,
And glance from earth to sea and skies,
And make each passing moment mine.

I passed a vale where all was still,
And gained the summit of a hill,
From whence I saw the ocean far
In silent splendour calmly glide,
While o'er it many a lustrous star
Shed her soft radiance o'er the tide.

And thus unto myself I said,
“ When youthful years I've numbered,
Then, far away from worldly strife,
May I, with cool reflective brow,
Scan o'er my long fled tide of life,
With eye as calm as I gaze now.

And as o'er ocean's bosom shine Rays hallowed, brightning and divine, May 1 then, trembling, grateful feel, Within this aged breast of mine, Religion's rays consoling steal, And meekly bend before my MAKER's shrine.”

RICHARD RYAN.

The Comet.

How lonely in this wildered scene,

When silence, from her vault so blue, Steals soft o'er Teviot's mountains green,

To sleep embalmed in midnight dew!

All hail, ye hills, whose tow'ring height

Like shadows scoop the yielding sky! And thou, mysterious guest of night,

Dread trav’ller of immensity ! Stranger of heav'n, I bid thee hail !

Shred from the pall of glory riven, That flashest in celestial gale ;

Broad Pennon of the King of Heaven !

Art thou the flag of woe and death

From angel's ensign-staff unfurled ? Art thou the standard of his wrath,

Waved o'er a sordid sinful world ?

No; from thy pure pellucid beam,

That erst o'er plains of Bethlehem shone, No latent evil we can deem,

Fair herald of th' eternal throne !

Whate’er portends thy front of fire,

And streaming locks so lovely pale ;

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