« ПредишнаНапред »
MEMORY OF THE PAST.
And, by enjoying, live past life again. THERE is certainly no greater happiness than to be able to look back upon a life usefully and virtuously employed; to trace our own progress in existence, by such tokens as excite neither shame nor sorrow. Life in which nothing has been done or suffered, to distinguish one day from another, is to him that has passed it, as if it had never been, except that he is conscious how ill he has husbanded the great deposit of his Cre ator. Life made memorable by crimes, and diversified through its several periods by wickedness, is, indeed easily reviewed, but reviewed only with horror and remorse.
The great consideration which ought to influence us in the use of the present moment, is to arise from the effect, which, as well or ill applied, it must have upon the time to come for though its actual existence be inconceivably short, yet its effects are unlimited and there is not the smallest point of time but may extend its consequences either to our hurt or to our advantage, through all eternity, and give us reason to remember it for ever, with anguish or exultation.
The time of life in which memory seems particularly to claim predominance over the other faculties of the mind, is our declining age. It has been remarked by former writers, that old men are generally narrative, and fall easily into recitals of past transactions, and accounts of persons known to them in their youth. When we approach the verge of the grave it is more eminently true :
Life's span forbids thee to extend thy cares
And spread thy hopes beyond thy years. We have no longer any possibility of great vicissi tudes in our favor. The changes which are to happen in the world will come too late for our accommodation, and those who have no hope before them, and to whom their present state is painful and irksome, must of ne
cessity turn their thoughts back to try what retrospect will afford. It ought, therefore, to be the care of those who wish to pass their last hours with comfort, to lay up such a treasure of pleasing ideas, as shall support the expenses of that time, which is to depend wholly upon the fund already acquired.
Seek here, ye young, the anchor of your mind;
Here, suffering age, a blest provision find. In youth, however unhappy, we solace ourselves with the hope of better fortune, and however vicious, appease our consciences with intentions of repentance--but the time comes at last, in which happiness can be drawn only from recollection, and virtue will be all that we can recollect with pleasure.
“An Idler is a watch that wants both hands;
These persons who are familiar with foreign periodicals, may have noticed the effusions of a lady, by the name of Mary Ann Broune. She is the author of Mont Blanc, Ada, Repentance, and other poems. She is quite young, and is as fair as young. A vein of religious feeling pervades her compositions. We select as a specl. men, the following lines, from a piece entitled
How I love to look on the fresh green moss
In the pleasant time of Spring,
Like faries on the wing.
And a natural carpet weaves,
And autumn's fallen leaves.
And I love, I love to see it much,
When on the ruin gray,
It spreads its mantle gay,
As it shivereth, thoughts of fear,-
Like a friend, for ever near,
But oh, I love the bright moss most,
When I see it thickly spread
Of the forgotten dead.
The fame that earth has given, i
Aught that is not of heaven.
When Spring unlocks the flowers, to paint the laughing soil;
The birds that wake the morning, and those that love the shade,
Shall man, the lord of nature, expectant of the sky,
let the year forsake his course, the Seasons cease to be Thee, Master, must we always love: and, Saviour, honor Thee:
The flowers of Spring may wither-the hope of Summer fade-
"SEARCH THE SCRIPTURES."
BY A YOUNG LADY OF 8. C.
Yea, search them, for in them thou’lt surely find,
Knowledge, most precious, words of life and light; Wisdom, surpassing all of human kind,
And virtue, yielding the most pure delight. Faith that will stand thee in the hour of death,
Hope that will gild thy pathway to the tomb, And charity, that to thy latest breath,
Will cheer thy heart-and all thy soul Illume. Pure precepts, bright examples, there thou'lt find,
Purest and brightest—for the Lord on high
To teach us how to live, and how to die.
To ponder o'er the precepts of our Lord,
To Hin. who gave us His most precious word.
M. M. STÁNZAS. Hast thou not marked, when Winter's reign to Spring begins to yield,' How dreary, and how comfortless the prospect round revealed? The miry earth, the cloudy sky, the cold and driving rain, Seem worse than Winter's sparkling frosts, or fleecy-mantled plain.
No sudden, instantaneous change brings Summer's perfect day,
Meek pilgrim to a better world ! may not thine eye discern
If on thy dark and wintry heart a beam of light divine,
Be not dismayed by chilling blasts of self-reproof within,
In quiet hope, and patient faith, Spring's neeàful conflicts bear,
BY MARY ANN BROWNE.
Drops from the ocean of eternity,
Rays from the centre of unfailing light;
Are spirits--yet they dwell near human sight;
Though far apart, will to each other turn,
To meet their fellow spirits vainly burn;
Through streams of human sorrow, und
To no false earthly fire be reconciled;."
OMNIPRESENCE OF GOD.
ABOVE-below-where'er I gaze,
Thy guiding finger, Lord, I view,
Or glist'ning in the morning dew:
I hear thee in the stormy wid:
That turns the ocean wave to foam !
When summer airs around me roam;
I find thee in the noon of night,
And read thy name in every star
That flows from mercy's beaming car;
And when the radiant orb of light
Hath tipp'd the mountain tops with gola,
Sinks from the wonders I behold;
Thine is the silent noon of night,
The twilight eve-the dewy morn-
Thine hands have fashioned to adorn.
How beautiful is Spring, the maiden Spring !
Whose hand all warm and bright draws forth the flowers Who dy es with rainbow tints the young bird's wing-
Who fills with forest scents the April hours ; How beautiful she is, the year's first child,
(Its sweetest,) with her violet tresses crown'd; Her gesture, like the antelope's, shy and wild :
Her voice a song, her eyes in pleasure drown'd! And yet her fairest treasure ne'er is shown
In scents, rich blooms, bright skies, or running river.' (For streams may fail, and fair buds die ere blown,)
But that then HOPE, whose eyes are like the morn,
Sweet sister of the Spring, is newly born,