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A talisman unto thee shall they be,

To give thy weak arm strength-to make thy dim eye see.

Seek truth, that pure celestial truth-whose birth

Was in the heaven of heavens, clear, sacred, shrined In reason's light: Not oft she visits earth,

But her majestic port, the willing mind, Through faith, may sometimes see.

Give her thy soul, Nor faint, though error's surges loudly 'gainst thee roll.

Be free. Not chiefly from the iron chain,

But from the one which passion forges-be
The master of thyself. If lost, regain

The rule o'er chance, sense, circumstance. Be free.
Trample thy proud lusts proudly 'neath thy feet,
And stand erect, as for a heaven-born one is meet.

Seek virtue.

Wear her armor to the fight;

Then, as a wrestler gathers strength from strife, Shalt thou be nerved to a more vigorous might

By each contending turbulent ill of life.

Seek virtue.-She alone is all divine;

And having found, be strong, in God's own strength and thine.

Truth-freedom-virtue-these, dear child, have power,
If rightly cherished, to uphold, sustain,
And bless thy spirit, in its darkest hour;

Neglect them-thy celestial gifts are vain-
In dust shall thy weak wing be dragged and soiled;
Thy soul be crushed 'neath gauds for which it basely toiled.

17. "THERE'S DEATH IN THE POT."—Anonymous.

Hark! hark! the alarum has sped,

Dire pestilence stalks in the breeze,

Its pathway is strewed o'er with millions of dead-
It heeds neither mountain nor seas.

The Cossack and Turk to the ground it has brought,
To the Jew and the Gentile "there's death in the pot."

From Asia's dark morass it springs,
Upraised by the mandate of heaven:

In vain to arrest it are edicts of kings,

The command to "destroy" has been given,Its victims are marked.-To the vile, to the sot, Then haste with the tidings, "there's death in the pot."

Full oft have they sung of the bowl,
As a soothing oblivion to sorrow:
Full oft have they sung, that the soul

A feast from the wine-cup may borrow:

'Tis the voice of a syren-'tis false-heed it not! She sings to destroy thee-" there's death in the pot."

Intemperance! dread tyrant! too long

Thy reign has prevailed o'er the earth; Thy vassals, the children of song,

Have owned thee the source of their mirth. Thy throne is now falling-thy song is forgotThy worshipers tremble," there's death in the pot."

Who now tarries long at the wine

Who looks on the cup when 'tis redTo-day may be found at thy shrine :

To-morrow, may lie with the dead.

'Tis decreed-though the victim of rum heeds it not, Now die or reform :-"there is death in the pot."

18. THE FAMILY BIBLE.-Anonymous.

How painfully pleasing the fond recollection
Of youthful connexions and innocent joy,
When, blessed with parental advice and affection,
Surrounded with mercies, with peace from on high,
I still view the chair of my sire and my mother,

The seats of their offspring as ranged on each hand, And that richest of books, which excelled every otherThat family bible that lay on the stand;

The old-fashioned bible, the dear, blessed bible,
The family bible, that lay on the stand.

That bible, the volume of God's inspiration,

At morn and at evening, could yield us delight, And the prayer of our sire was a sweet invocation, For mercy by day, and for safety through night,

Our hymns of thanksgiving, with harmony swelling,
All warm from the heart of a family band,
Half-raised us from earth to that rapturous dwelling,
Described in the bible that lay on the stand;
That richest of books, which excelled every other-
The family bible, that lay on the stand.

Ye scenes of tranquillity, long have we parted;
My hopes almost gone, and my parents no more;
In sorrow and sadness I live broken-hearted,
And wander unknown on a far-distant shore.
Yet how can I doubt a dear Savior's protection,
Forgetful of gifts from his bountiful hand!
Oh, let me, with patience, receive his correction,
And think of the bible that lay on the stand;
That richest of books, which excelled every other-
That family bible, that lay on the stand.

19.

THE PATRIOT'S ELYSIUM.-Montgomery.

There is a land, of every land the pride,
Beloved by heaven o'er all the world beside;
Where brighter suns dispense serener light,
And milder moons imparadise the night;
A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth,
Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth.
The wandering mariner, whose eye explores
The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores,
Views not a realm so bountiful and fair,

Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air;
In every clime, the magnet of his soul,
Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole :
For in this land of heaven's peculiar grace,
The heritage of nature's noblest race,
There is a spot of earth supremely blest,
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest,
Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside
His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride,
While, in his softened looks, benignly blend
The sire, the son, the husband, father, friend.

Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife, Strews with fresh flowers the narrow way of life;

In the clear heaven of her delightful eye,
An angel-guard of loves and graces lie;
Around her knees domestic duties meet,
And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet.
Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found?
Art thou a man ?—a patriot ?—look around;
Oh! thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam,
That land thy country, and that spot thy home.

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I asked an aged man, a man of cares,
Wrinkled and curved, and white with hoary hairs;
"Time is the warp of life," he said, “Oh tell
The young, the fair, the gay, to weave it well!"
I asked the ancient venerable dead,
Sages who wrote, and warriors who bled;
From the cold grave a hollow murmur flowed,
"Time sowed the seed we reap in this abode !"
I asked a dying sinner, ere the tide

Of life had left his veins: "Time !" he replied,
"I've lost it! ah the treasure!" and he died.
I asked the golden sun, and silver spheres,
Those bright chronometers of days and years:
They answered, “Time is but a meteor glare!"
And bade us for eternity prepare.

I asked a spirit lost; but oh, the shriek
That pierced my soul! I shudder while I speak!
It cried, "A particle! a speck! a mite
Of endless years, duration infinite!"-
Of things inanimate, my dial I
Consulted, and it made me this reply:
"Time is the season fair of living well,
The path of glory, or the path of hell.
I asked old father Time himself, at last,
But in a moment he flew swiftly past;
His chariot was a cloud, the viewless wind
His noiseless steeds, which left no trace behind.
I asked the mighty angel, who shall stand,
One foot on sea, and one on solid land;

"By heavens," he cried, "I swear the mystery's o'er, Time was," he cried, "but time shall be no more!"

21. MACBETH'S SOLILOQUY.-Shakspeare.

Is this a dagger which I see before me,

The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.-
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.

Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling, as to sight? or art thou but
A dagger of the mind, a false creation
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable

As this which now I draw.

Thou marshalest me the way that I was going;
And such an instrument I was to use.

Mine eyes are made the fools of the other senses,
Or else worth all the rest-I see thee still;
And on the blade of the dudgeon, gouts of blood,
Which was not so before.-There's no such thing-
It is the bloody business, which informs

Thus to mine eyes.-Now o'er one half the world
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
The curtained sleep; now witchcraft celebrates
Pale Hecate's offerings: and withered murder,
Alarmed by his sentinel, the wolf,

Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace,
With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design
Moves like a ghost.-Thou sound and firm-set earth,
Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear
The very stones prate of my whereabout;

And take the present horror from the time,

Which now suits with it.-While I threat, he lives-
I go, and it is done; the bell invites me.
Hear it not, Duncan! for it is a knell
That summons thee to heaven or to hell.

22.

THE BATTLE OF BANNOCKBURN.—Campbell.

Wide o'er Bannock's heathy wold,

Scotland's deathful banners roll'd,

And spread their wings of sprinkled gold
To the purpling east.

Freedom beamed in every eye;

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