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GOING TO CHURCH.
A NEGATIVE CHARACTER. WITH every pleasing, every prudent part, Say, “what can Chloe want?"-she wants a heart She speaks, behaves, and acts just as she ought; But never, never reach'd one generous thought. Virtue she finds too painful an endeavour, Content to dwell in decencies for ever. So very reasonable, so unmoved, As never yet to love, or to be loved.
Ever charming, ever new,
SOLITUDE. It was in this lone valley she would charm The ling'ring noon, where flowers a couch had
strewn; Her cheek reclining, and her snowy arm On hillock by the palm-tree half o'ergrown: And aye that volume on her lap is thrown, Which every heart of human mould endears ; With Shakspeare's self she speaks and smiles alone, And no intruding visitation fears, To shame th' unconscious laugh, or stop her sweetest tears.
ABOVE all things raillery decline,
For all must grant it needs no common art
POLITENESS. STUDY, with care, politeness, that must teach The modish forms of gesture and of speech : In vain formality with matron mien, And pertness apes with her familiar grin: They against nature for applauses strain, Distort themselves, and give all others pain: She moves with easy though with measured pace, And shows no part of study but the grace.
"Passing away is written on the world, and all the world contains."
It is written on the rose,
In its glory's full array;
* Passing away.”
Of the soft blue summer day;
It is written on the trees
As their young leaves glist’ning play;
* Passing away."
Where the spirit's ardent ray
Alas! that there decay
Where the spoiler finds no prey,
Pass not away?
With the thoughts that in them lay,
Which pass away?
Speed, speed, thou closing day!
THE GIFT OF A BIBLE.
BEHOLD that Book,--0'er which, from ancient time,
Sad penitence hath pour'd the prayerful breath,
And Nature arm'd her for the strife of death,
Behold the Book,—whose sacred truths to spread,
Christ's heralds toil beneath a foreign sky, Pouring its blessings o'er the heathen's head,
A martyr-courage kindling in their eye. Wide o'er the globe its glorious light must shine, As glows the arch of heaven :-that holy Book is
thine. Here search with humble heart, and ardent eye,
Where plants of peace, in bloom celestial grow, Here breathe to Mercy's ear the contrite sigh,
And bid the soul's unsullied fragrance flow, To Him who shuts the rose at even-tide, And opes its dewy eye when earliest sunbeams glide. May heaven's pure spirit touch thy youthful heart,
And guide thy feet through life's eventful lot, That when from this illusive scene I part,
And in my grave lie mould'ring and forgot, This my first gift, like golden link may join Thee to that angel-band around the throne divine.
"One struggle more, and I am free."
Byron. LEAVE me, oh! leave me!
-unto all below, Thy presence binds me with too deep a spell,
Thou makest these mortal regions, whence I go, Too mighty in their loveliness-farewell,
That I may part in peace. Leave me! thy footstep with its lightest sound, The very shadow of thy waving hair,
Wake in my soul a feeling too profound,
Oh! bid the conflict cease!