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Took from his store of sheaves a generous third,
And added them unto his brother's heap;
Then he went back to sleep and happy dreams.

6. So the next morning with the early sun

The brothers rose, and went out to their toil.
And when they came to see the heavy sheaves,
Each wondered in his heart to find his heap,
Though he had given a third, was still the same.

7. Now the next night went Zimri to the field,
Took from his store of sheaves a generous share,
And placed them on his brother Abram's heap,
And then lay down behind his pile to watch.
The moon looked out from bars of silvery cloud,
The cedars stood up black against the sky,
The olive-branches whispered in the wind.

8. Then Abram came down softly from his home,
And, looking to the left and right, went on,
Took from his ample store a generous third,
And laid it on his brother Zimri's pile.
Then Zimri rose, and caught him in his arms,
And wept upon his neck, and kissed his cheek;
And Abram saw the whole, and could not speak;
Neither could Zimri, for their hearts were full.




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 attributes2 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', cov ers 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 an 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* lavished 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 contrite9 affliction over the dead, and henceforth be more faithful and affectionate in the discharge of thy duties to the living.

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1. WHEN streams of unkindness, as bitter as gall,
Bubble up from the heart to the tongue,
And meekness is writhing in torment and thrall,
By the hands of ingratitude wrung:
In the heat of injustice, unwept and unfair,
While the anguish is festering yet,

None, none but an angel of God can declare
I now can forgive and forget.

2. But if the bad spirit is chased from the heart,
And the lips are in penitence steeped,

With the wrong so repented, the wrath will depart,
Though scorn on injustice were heaped;
For the best compensation is paid for all ill,
When the cheek with contrition is wet,
And every one feels it is possible still
At once to forgive and forget.

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,
And but for the future to live.

Then how shall it be? for, at every turn,
Recollection the spirit will fret,

And the ashes of injury smoulder and burn,
Though we strive to forgive and forget.

4. O, hearken! my tongue shall the riddle unseal,
And mind shall be partner with heart,
While thee to thyself I bid conscience reveal,
And show thee how evil thou art:

Remember thy follies, thy sins, and thy crimes,
How vast is that infinite debt!


mercy hath seven by seventy times. Been swift to forgive and forget.

5. Brood not on insults or injuries old,

For thou art injurious too;

Count not the sum till the total is told,
For thou art unkind and untrue;

And if all thy harms are forgotten, forgiven,
Now mercy with justice is met;

O, who would not gladly take lessons from heaven,
And learn to forgive and forget?

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,
And whisper, forgive and forget.




1. CLEON hath a million acres-ne'er a one have I;
Cleon dwelleth in a palace-in a cottage, I;
Cleon hath a dozen fortunes-not a penny, I;
But the poorer of the twain is Cleon, and not I.
2. Cleon, true, possesseth acres-but the landscape, I;
Half the charms to me it yieldeth money can not buy;
Cleon harbors sloth and dullness-freshening vigor, I;
Hę in velvet, I in fustian-richer man am I.

3. Cleon is a slave to grandeur-free as thought am I;
Cleon fees a score of doctors-need of none have I.
Wealth-surrounded, care-environed, Cleon fears to die;
Death may come-he'll find me ready-happier man am I.
4. Cleon sees no charms in Nature—in a daisy, I;
Cleon hears no anthems ringing in the sea and sky.
Nature sings to me forever-earnest listener, I;

State for state, with all attendants, who would change?

Not I.


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