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which were lately beheld with indifference occupy now all the powers and capacities of the soul, the contrast between the present and the past serving only to enhance and to endear so unlooked-for an acquisition. What Gray has so finely said of the pleasures of vicissitude conveys but a faint image of what is experienced by the man who, after having lost in vulgar occupations and vulgar amusements his earliest and most precious years, is thus introduced at last to a new heaven and a new earth.

"The meanest floweret of the vale,

The simplest note that swells the gale,
The common sun, the air, the skies,
To him are opening Paradise."

DUGALD STEWART.

WASHINGTON'S MORAL CHARACTER.

tend should be realized. His passions were strong, and sometimes they broke out with vehemence; but he had the power of checking them in an instant. Perhaps self-control was the most remarkable trait of his character. It was in part the effect of discipline, yet he seems by nature to have possessed this power to a degree which has been denied to other men.

A Christian in faith and practice, he was habitually devout. His reverence for religion is seen in his example, his public communications and his private writings. He uniformly ascribed his successes to the beneficent agency of the supreme Being. Charitable and humane, he was liberal to the poor and kind to those in distress. As a husband, son and brother he was tender and affectionate. Without vanity, ostentation or pride,

HIS moral qualities were in perfect har- he never spoke of himself or his actions un

mony with those of his intellect. Duty was the ruling principle of his conduct, and the rare endowments of his understanding were not more constantly tasked to devise the best methods of effecting an object than they were to guard the sanctity of conscience. No instance can be adduced in which he was actuated by a sinister motive or endeavored to attain an end by unworthy means. Truth, integrity and justice were deeply rooted in his mind, and nothing could rouse his indignation so soon or so utterly destroy his confidence as the discovery of the want of these virtues in any one whom he had trusted. Weaknesses, follies, indiscretions, he could forgive, but subterfuge and dishonesty he never forgot, rarely pardoned. He was candid and sincere, true to his friends and faithful to all, neither practising dissimulation, descending to artifice nor holding out expectations which he did not in

less required by circumstances which concerned the public interests. As he was free from envy, so he had the good fortune to escape the envy of others by standing on an elevation which none could hope to attain. If he had one passion more strong than another, it was love of his country. The purity and ardor of his patriotism were commensurate with the greatness of its object. Love of country in him was invested with the sacred obligation of a duty, and from the faithful discharge of this duty he never swerved for a moment, either in thought or deed, through the whole period of his eventful career.

JARED SPARKS.

POVERTY AND LOVE.-He travels safe and not unpleasantly who is guarded by poverty and guided by love. SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

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I drew my child's hand in my own-
The bride or groom I could not see—
And leaned against a pillared stone
To wait until they passed by me;

I did not know their names or why
I lingered on my
on my homeward way
This bridal company to see,

Or why I wept and longed to pray,
Or why I thought about myself.

I was not old, but pain and care Had left their shadow on my face

And scattered silver in my hair.

I heard the murmur of the crowd,
And saw in robe of fleecy white,
That clung about her fragile form

And coiled beneath in waves of light,
The girlish bride: her hair was wound
In golden bands about her head;
Her face was fair as folded flowers,
Her lips like dewy roses red.
And he upon whose arm she leaned-

A shudder ran through all my frame; For he was not her king, but mine: She had no right to bear his name.

My heart stood still, my lips were dumb; With frenzied grasp I clasped my boy; I saw it all at one swift glance

His love for her, their mingled joy. He thought me dead and little dreamed That I could utter one low cry And turn their golden fruit to dust,

Their happiness to misery.

I would not, but I breathed a prayer

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His great dark eyes were all ablaze, And oh how plainly I could trace His father's image!-there the same

Sweet smile and lofty brow, the same Unconquered air and heart of fire,

Crowned by the same untarnished name. With silent pain I clung to him :

My lost, lost king lived in my boy; Then wrung from out my wounded heart A wordless prayer: "God give them joy!"

ADA P. REYNOLDS.

MOTHER EGYPT.

Draw down your great ships to the seas;
Repass the Gates of Hercules:

Go back to wife with babe at breast,
And leave lorn Egypt to her rest."
Is Christ, then, dead as Egypt is?
Ah, Mother Egypt, torn in twain,
There's something grimly wrong in this,
So like some gray, sad woman slain.

What would you have your
mother do?
Hath she not done enough for you?
Go back; and when you learn to read,
Come read this obelisk. Her deed
Like yonder awful forehead is

ARK-BROWED she broods with weary Disdainful silence like to this.

DA

lids

Beside her Sphynx and pyramids,
With low and never-lifted head.
If she be dead, respect the dead;
If she be weeping, let her weep;
If she be sleeping, let her sleep;
For, lo! this woman named the stars;
She suckled at her tawny dugs
Your Moses while you reeked in wars
And prowled your woods nude, painted
thugs.

Then back, brave England-back in peace-
To Christian isles of fat increase!
Go back! else bid your high priests take
Your great bronze Christs and cannon make;
Take down the cross from proud St. Paul's
And coin it into cannon-balls.

Your tent not far from Nazareth,

Your camp spreads where His child-feet | strayed:

If Christ had seen this work of death,

If Christ had seen these ships invade,

I think the patient Christ had said,

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What lessons have you raised in stone

To passing nations that shall stand? Like years to hers will leave you lone And yellow as yon yellow sand.

St. George, your lions-whence are they?
From awful, silent Africa.

This Egypt is the lion's lair:
Beware, young Albion, beware!
I know the very Nile shall rise
To drive you from this sacrifice;
And if the seven plagues should come,

The Red Sea swallow sword and steed, Lo! Christian lands stand mute and dumb To see thy more than Moslem deed.

JOAQUIN MILLER.

BLUE-EYED ANN.

HEN the rough North forgets to howl,
And ocean's billows cease to roll;
When Libyan sands are bound in frost,
And cold to Nova Zembla's lost;
When heavenly bodies cease to move,-

Go back, brave men! Take up your dead; My blue-eyed Ann I'll cease to love.

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