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Took from his store of sheaves a generous third,
6. So the next morning with the early sun.
The brothers rose, and went out to their toil.
7. Now the next night went Zimri to the field,
8. Then Abram came down softly from his home,
SORROW FOR THE DEAD.
1. THE Sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced.1 Every other wound we seek to heal, every other affliction to forget; but this wound we consider it a duty to keep open; this affliction we cherish and brood over in solitude.
2. Where is the mother who would willingly forget the infant that perished like a blossom from her arms, though every recollection is a pang'? Where is the child that would
willingly forget the most tender of parents, though to remember be but to lament'? Who, even in the hour of agony, would forget the friend over whom he mourns'? Who, even when the tomb is closing upon the remains of her he most loved, when he feels his heart, as it were, crushed in the closing of its portal, would accept of consolation that must be bought by forgetfulness'?
3. No; the love which survives the tomb is one of the noblest attributes of the soul. If it has its woes', it has likewise its delights'; and when the overwhelming burst of grief is calmed into the gentle tear of recollection', when the sudden anguish and the convulsive agony over the present ruins of all that we most loved is softened away into pensive meditation on all that it was in the days of its loveliness', who would root out such a sorrow from the heart'?
4. Though it may sometimes throw a passing cloud over the bright hour of gayety, or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of gloom', yet who would exchange it even for the song of pleasure or the burst of revelry'? No; there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song. There is a remembrance of the dead, to which we turn even from the charms of the living.
5. O, the grave! the grave! It buries every error', covers every defect', extinguishes every resentment'. From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can look down upon the grave even of ar enemy, and not feel a compunctious3 throb that he should ever have warred with the poor handful of earth that lies mouldering before him?
6. But the grave of those we loved-what a place for meditation! There it is that we call up in long review the whole history of virtue and gentleness, and the thousand endearments lavished5 upon us almost unheeded in the daily intercourse of intimacy; there it is that we dwell upon the tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness of the parting scenethe bed of death, with all its stifled griefs, its noiseless attendants, its mute, watchful assiduities-the last testimonies of expiring love—the feeble, fluttering, thrilling —O how thrilling!-pressure of the hand-the last fond look of the
glazing eye, turning upon us even from the threshold of existence the faint, faltering accents, struggling in death to give one more assurance of affection.
7. Ay, go to the grave of buried love, and meditate! There settle the account with thy conscience for every past benefit unrequited, every past endearment unregarded, of that departed being who can never-never-never return to be soothed by thy contrition!
8. If thou art a child', and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul, or a furrow to the silver brow of an affectionate parent'; if thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth'; if thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged, in thought, or word, or deed, the spirit that generously confided in thee'; if thou art a lover, and hast ever given one unmerited pang to that true heart which now lies cold and still beneath thy feet', then be sure that every unkind look', every ungracious word', every ungentle action', will come thronging back upon thy memory, and knocking dolefully at thy soul'; then be sure that thou wilt lie down sorrowing and repentant on the grave, and utter the unheard groan, and pour the unavailing tear, more deep, more bitter, because unheard and unavailing.
9. Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the beauties of nature about the grave; console thy broken spirit, if thou canst, with these tender yet futiles tributes of regret; but take warning by the bitterness of this thy contrite affliction over the dead, and henceforth be more faithful and affectionate in the discharge of thy duties to the living.
1 DI-VÕR ́CED, separated.
2 AT-TRI-BUTE, quality; that which longs to.
3 COM-PUNC'-TIOUS, causing grief or
4 EN-DEAR'-MENTS, acts of affection.
15 LAV'-ISHED, bestowed freely.
be-6 UN-RE QUIT'-ED, not repaid; not recom
8 FU'-TILE, of no effect; unavailing.
19 CON'-TRĪTE, penitent; humble.
FORGIVE AND FORGET.
1. WHEN streams of unkindness, as bitter as gall,
In the heat of injustice, unwept and unfair,
2. But if the bad spirit is chased from the heart,
With the wrong so repented, the wrath will depart,
3. To forget? It is hard for a man with a mind, However his heart may forgive,
To blot out all perils and dangers behind,
Then how shall it be? for, at every turn,
And the ashes of injury smoulder and burn,
4. O, hearken! my tongue shall the riddle unseal,
Yet mercy hath seven by seventy times.
5. Brood not on insults or injuries old,
Count not the sum till the total is told,
And if all thy harms are forgotten, forgiven,
O, who would not gladly take lessons from heaven,
6. Yes, yes, let a man, when his enemy weeps,
Be quick to receive him a friend;
For thus on his head in kindness he heaps
Hot coals, to refine and amend;
And hearts that are Christian more easily yearn,
As a nurse on her innocent pet,
Over lips that, once bitter, to penitence turn,
"CLEON AND I."
1. CLEON hath a million acres-ne'er a one have I;
2. Cleon, true, possesseth acres-but the landscape, I;
Half the charms to me it yieldeth money can not buy;
3. Cleon is a slave to grandeur-free as thought am I;
4. Cleon sees no charms in Nature-in a daisy, I;
Cleon hears no anthems ringing in the sea and sky.