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CALM AFTER A STORM IN ASIA.

How calm, how beautiful comes on
The stilly hour, when storms are gone :
When warring winds have died away,
And clouds, beneath the glancing ray,
Melt off, and leave the land and sea
Sleeping in bright tranquillity,-
Fresh as if day again were born,
Again upon the lap of morn!
When the light blossoms, rudely torn
And scatter'd at the whirlwind's will,
Hang floating in the pure air still,
Filling it all with precious balm,
In gratitude for this sweet calm ;-
And ev'ry drop the thunder-showers
Have left upon the grass and flowers
Sparkles, as 'twere that lightning gem
Whose liquid flame is born of them;
When, 'stead of one unchanging breeze,
There blow a thousand gentle airs,
And each a different perfume bears.-
As if the loveliest plants and trees
Had vassal breezes of their own
To watch and wait on them alone,
And waft no other breath than theirs!

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MOORE.

A precious stone, called by the ancients Ceraunium, because it was supposed to be found where thunder had fallen. Tertullian says it has a glittering appearance, as if there had Deen fire in it; and a modern author supposes it to be the opal.

ON VISITING A MISSIONARY SETTLEMENT.

By Heaven directed, by the world revil'd,
Amidst the wilderness they sought a home,
Where beasts of prey and men of murder roam,
And untam'd Nature holds her revels wild.
There, on their pious toils their Master smil'd,
And prosper'd them, beyond the thoughts of men,
Till in the satyr's haunt and dragon's den
A garden bloom'd, and savage hordes grew mild.
So, in the guilty heart when heavenly grace
Enters, it ceaseth not till it uproot

All evil passions from each hidden cell;
Planting again an Eden in their place,

Which yields to men and angels pleasant fruit And God himself delighteth there to dwell.

PRINGLE.

O! WOULD you

LOVE OF GOD.

be assur'd you love your God, Make him a God that must be loy'd of need, A God you cannot otherwise than love. Throw off that yoke of joyless servitude, That niggard balancing of right and wrong, Which fears to give too little or too much. Doubt is not love suspicion is not love! Believe that He has known you, pitied you, Taken you himself from prison and from death, Sought and pursu'd you through a world of ill Restrain'd you, taught you, rear'd you for his own. Believe that he forgives you ev'ry sin,

Pays ev'ry debt, and cancels ev'ry claim

Watches beside your pillow while you sleep,

Supports you, leads you, guards you when you wake, And bids his angels know no better task

Than to administer to you, his child.

And while in heaven's high mansion he prepares
The seat of royalty he bids you claim,
Arrays you in a vesture so divine,

Of holiness and virtue not your own,
That when the hour of just adjudgment comes,
All may confess in you the heir of heaven.
Believe the Lord your God is such an one,
And you must love him, even to your soul.

CAROLINE FRY.

TO ENGLAND.

THEY are but selfish visions at the best,
Which tempt us to desire that we were free
From the dear ties that bind us unto thee,
That so we might take up our lasting rest,
Where some delightful spot, some hidden nest
In brighter lands has pleas'd our phantasy:
And might such vows at once accomplish'd be,
We should not in the accomplishment be blest,
But oh! most miserable, if it be true
Peace only waits upon us while we do
Heaven's work and will: for what is it we ask,
When we would fain have leave to linger here,
But to abandon our appointed task,

Our place of duty and our natural sphere?

TRENCH.

SHORTSIGHTEDNESS OF MAN.

AN ALLEGORY.

A DEW-DROP falling on the ocean-wave,
Exclaim'd in fear - "I perish in this grave;"
But in a shell receiv'd, that drop of dew
Unto a pearl of marvellous beauty grew;
And, happy now, the grace did magnify
Which thrust it forth as it had fear'd, to die ;-
Until again, "I perish quite," it said,
Torn by rude diver from its ocean bed:
O unbelieving!-so it came to gleam
Chief jewel in a monarch's diadem.

TRENCH.

VENICE.

THERE is a glorious city in the sea.
The sea is in the broad, the narrow streets,
Ebbing and flowing; and the salt sea-weed
Clings to the marble of her palaces.

No track of men, no footsteps to and fro,
Lead to her gates. The path lies o'er the sea,
Invisible; and from the land we went,
As to a floating city-steering in,
And gliding up her streets as in a dream,
So smoothly, silently - by many a dome,
Mosque-like, and many a stately portico,
The statues rang'd along an azure sky;
By many a pile in more than Eastern pride,
Of old the residence of merchant-kings;
The fronts of some, though time had shatter'd them,
Still glowing with the richest hues of art,

As though the wealth within them had run o'er.

ROGERS.

MY BIRTHDAY.

"My birth-day!" What a different sound
That word had in my youthful ears!
And how, each time the day comes round,
Less and less white its mark appears!

When first our scanty years are told,
It seems like pastime to grow old;
And, as Youth counts the shining links
That Time around him binds so fast,
Pleas'd with the task, he little thinks
How hard that chain will press at last.

Vain was the man, and false as vain,
Who said

"were he ordain'd to run

His long career of life again,

He would do all that he had done."Ah! 'tis not thus the voice that dwells In sober birthdays speaks to me; Far otherwise - of time it tells

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Lavish'd unwisely, carelessly

Of counsels mock'd- of talents, made
Haply for high and pure designs,
But oft, like Israel's incense, laid
Upon unholy, earthly shrines -

*

All this it tells, and, could I trace
Th' imperfect picture o'er again,
With power to add, retouch, efface

The lights and shades, the joy and pain,
How little of the past would stay!
How quickly all should melt away -

1 Fontenelle,

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