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And Bishop Mant's plain practical counsel is wise and good for the life that lies before us :

Ere the morning's busy ray
Call you to your work away;
Ere the silent evening close
Your wearied eyes in sweet repose,
To lift your heart and voice in prayer
Be your first and latest care.
He to whom the prayer is due,
From heaven His throne shall smile on you;
Angels sent by Him shall tend
Your daily labour to befriend;
And their nightly vigils keep,
To guard you in the hour of sleep.
When through the peaceful parish swells
The music of the Sabbath bells,
Duly tread the sacred road
Which leads you to the house of God;
The blessing of the Lamb is there,
And “ God is in the midst of her.”

And oh, where'er your days be passed,
And oh, howe'er your lot be cast,
Still think on Him whose ear surveys,
Whose hand is over all your ways;
Abroad, at home, in weal, in woe,
That service which to Heaven you owe,
That bounden service duly pay,
And God shall be your strength alway.

He only to the heart can give
Peace and true pleasure while you live;
He only, when you yield your breath,
Can guide you through the vale of death.

He can, He will, from out the dust
Raise the blest spirits of the just;
Heal every wound, hush every fear,
From every eye wipe every tear;
And place them where distress is o'er,
And pleasures dwell for evermore.

We are now to bear the burden and heat of the day—for “every day is a little life.” And rapidly the birthdays become saddened in early manhood, when deep passions are at work, and the heart and soul are agitated with tumultuous hopes and fears. We look back with regret, and are sad in the prospect of a maturity of toil and care :

O for the morning gleam of youth, the half-unfolded

flower, That sparkles in the diamond dew of that serener

hour, What time the broad and level sun shone gaily o’er

the sea, And in the woods the birds awoke to songs of

ecstasy. The sun, that gilds the middle arch of man's maturer

day, Smites heavy on the pilgrim's head who plods his

dusty way ; The birds are Aed to deeper shades, the dewy

flowers are dried; And hope, that with the day was born, before the

day has died : For who can promise to his soul a tranquil eventide ? Yes—though the dew will gleam anew, though from

its western sky The sun will give as mild a ray as morning could

supply ;

Though from the tufted thorn again will sing the

nightingale, Yet little will the ear of age enjoy her tender tale ; And night will find us toiling on, with joyless

travail worn; For day must pass and night must come before

another morn.


Slight and simple though they be, these lines may awaken some heart echoes :

Where is now the holly tree?
Where the orchard's minstrelsy?
Where is now the fresh’ning breeze,
Wafted in the summer trees ?
Here—'tis here—'tis lingering now,
Pressing o'er my feverish brow;
But oh! it seems not free and wild,
As when I roam'd a gentle child.

Where are the daisies to be found ?
The groves, the meads, the fragrant ground?
Where is now each festive scene?
Where is the fragrant meadow green?
Here—'tis here-in cheering light.
-Not for me its smiles so bright;
These scenes are not the free, the wild,
As when I roam'd a gentle child.

Friends who charm'd my infancy,
Tell me, tell me where they be ;
Tell me where the bounding mirth,
Happy gala-days of earth!

E’en my very natal air
Breathes the languid wind of care.
Oh, would I wander'd free and wild !
Oh, would I were again a child !


Young gives a melancholy picture of the various characters of youth, and their different fates :

Self-flatter'd, unexperienced, high in hope, When young, with sanguine cheer and streamers gay, We cut our cable, launch into the world, And fondly dream each wind and star our friend; All in some darling enterprise embark'd : But where is he can fathom its event ? Amid a multitude of artless hands, Ruin's sure perquisite, her lawful prize! Some steer aright, but the black blast blows hard, And puffs them wide of hope: with hearts of proof Full against wind and tide some win their way. And when strong effort has deserved the port, And tugg'd it into view, 'tis won !-'tis lost! Though strong their oar, still stronger is their fate. They strike! and while they triumph they expire : In stress of weather most, some sink outright; O’er them and o'er their names the billows close, To-morrow knows not they were ever born: Others a short memorial leave behind, Like a flag floating when the bark's engulf’d; It floats a moment, and is seen no more. One Cæsar lives; a thousand are forgot. How few beneath auspicious planets bornDarlings of Providence! fond Fate's elect! With swelling sails make good the promised port With all their wishes freighted!

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The change that comes over the spirit of our birthdays is most truthfully described by Moore: My birthday !-what a different sound

That word had in my youthful ears;
And how, each time the day comes round,

Less and less white the 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,
Pleased with the task, he little thinks

How hard that chain will press at last!
One marked change is described by Campbell :-

The more we live, more brief appear

Our life's succeeding stages;
A day to childhood seems a year,

And years like passing ages.
The gladsome current of our youth,

Ere passion yet disorders,
Steals, lingering, like a river smooth,

Along its grassy borders.
But as the careworn cheek grows wan,

And sorrow's shafts fly thicker,
Ye stars, that measure life to man,

Why seem your courses quicker?
When joys have lost their bloom and breath,

And life itself is vapid,
Why, as we reach the Falls of Death,

Feel we its tide more rapid ?
It may be strange-yet who would change

Time's course to slower speeding,
When one by one our friends have gone,

And left our bosoms bleeding?

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