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came to do all that I did after, and I made no work
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
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."
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
Thou Lord of Light, Thou God supreme,
The flowers that late all hung as dead,
Then, Lord of Light, and God supreme,
'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,
Where I could view the stars arise,
I passed a vale where all was still,
And thus unto myself I said,
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.”
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 ;