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They soothe the grieved, the stubborn they chastise,
Fools they admonish, and confirm the wise:
Their aid they yield to all: they never shun
The man of sorrow, nor the wretch undone :
Unlike the hard, the selfish, and the proud,
They fly not sullen from the suppliant crowd;
Nor tell to various people various things,
But show to subjects what they show to kings.
Come, child of care! to make thy soul serene,
Approach the treasures of this tranquil scene;
Survey the dome, and, as the doors unfold,
The soul's best cure, in all her cares, behold!
Where mental wealth the poor in thought may find,
And mental physic the diseased in mind;
See here the balms that passion's wounds assuage;
See coolers here, that damp the fire of rage;
Here alt'ratives, by slow degrees control
The chronic habits of the sickly soul!
And round the heart and o'er the aching head,
Mild opiates here their sober influence shed.
Now bid thy soul man's busy scenes exclude,
And view composed this silent multitude :-
Silent they are—but though deprived of sound,
Here all the living languages abound;

Here all that live no more; preserved they lie,
In tombs that open to the curious eye.

Blest be the gracious Power, who taught mankind

To stamp a lasting image of the mind!

Beasts may convey, and tuneful birds may sing,
Their mutual feelings, in the opening spring;
But man alone has skill and power to send
The heart's warm dictates to the distant friend;
"Tis his alone to please, instruct, advise
Ages remote, and nations yet to rise.

CRABBE.

XXIX. THE BELEAGUERED CITY.

"I HAVE already observed, that when we let in religious consideraations, we often let in light upon the difficulties of nature. So in the fact now to be accounted for, the degree of happiness which we usually enjoy in this life, may be better suited to a state of trial and probation, than a greater degree would be. The truth is, we are rather too much delighted with the world, than too little. Imperfect, broken, and precarious, as our pleasures are, they are more than suffi

THE BELEAGUERED CITY.

245 cient to attach us to the eager pursuit of them. A regard to a future state can hardly keep its place as it is. If we were designed therefore, to be influenced by that regard, might not a more indulgent system, a higher or more uninterrupted state of gratification, have interfered with the design? At least it seems expedient, that mankind should be susceptible of this influence, when presented to them; that the condition of the world should not be such, as to exclude its operation, or even to weaken it more than it does. In a religious view (however we may complain of them in every other), privation, disappointment and satiety, are not without the most salutary tendencies."-Paley.

I HAVE read in some old marvellous tale,
Some legend strange and vague,
That a midnight host of spectres pale
Beleaguered the walls of Prague.

Beside the Moldau's rushing stream,
With the wan moon over head,
There stood, as in an awful dream,
The army of the dead.

White as a sea-fog, landward bound,
The spectral camp was seen,
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,
The river flowed between.

No other voice nor sound was there,
No dream, nor sentry's pace;
The mist-like banners clasped the air,
As clouds with clouds embrace.

But when the old cathedral bell

Proclaimed the morning prayer,
The white pavilions rose and fell
On the alarmed air.

Down the broad valley fast and far
The troubled army fled;

Up rose the glorious morning star,
The ghastly host was dead.

I have read the marvellous heart of man,
That strange and mystic scroll,

That an army of phantoms vast and wan
Beleaguered the human soul.

Encamped beside life's rushing stream,
In fancy's misty light,

Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam
Portentous through the night.

Upon its midnight battle-ground
The spectral camp is seen,

And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,
Flows the river of life between.
No other voice nor sound is there,
In the army of the grave;
No other challenge breaks the air,
But the rushing of life's wave.

And when the solemn and deep church bell
Entreats the soul to pray,

The midnight phantoms feel the spell,
The shadows sweep away.

Down the broad vale of tears afar
The spectral camp is fled;

Faith shineth as a morning star,
Our ghastly fears are dead.

LONGFELLOW.

XXX. REMEMBRANCE.

"WE smile at the child running after the rainbow; but the impulse and the delight which excite him, are the natural effect of the splendid pageant of the cloud on his vision at that season; as natural to him, as the activities of his limbs; and such emotions leave impressions which the cultivated mind loves afterwards to cherish. * * * Whenever, then, we feel grateful to Providence for having made nature so charming to us, let us be equally thankful that He has blessed us with a season of youthful sensibility, both of frame and spirit, to be thus susceptible of its bounteous beauty."- Turner's Sacred History of the World.

I REMEMBER, I remember,

The house where I was born,

The little window, where the sun,
Came peeping in at morn;
He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day;-
But now I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away!
I remember, I remember,
The roses red and white,
The violets and the lily-cups-
Those flowers made of light;
The lilacs where the robins built,
And where my brother set
The laburnum, on his birth-day-
The tree is living yet!

MUTABILITY.

I remember, I remember,
Where I was used to swing,

And thought the air would rush as fresh
To swallows on the wing;

My spirit flew in feathers, then,
That is so heavy now,

And summer pools could hardly cool
The fever on my brow!

I remember, I remember,
The fir trees dark and high;
I used to think their slender spires,
Were close against the sky!
It was a childish ignorance,-

But now 'tis little joy

To know I'm farther off from heaven,
Than when I was a boy.

247

HOOD.

XXXI. MUTABILITY.

"THE time in which I live is but a small moment of this world's history. It is a flight of a shadow; it is a dream of vanity; it is the rapid glance of a meteor; it is a flower which every breath of heaven can wither into decay; it is a tale which as a remembrance vanishes; it is a day which the silence of a long night will darken and overshadow. In a few years our heads will be laid in the cold grave, and the green turf will cover us. The children who come after us will tread upon our graves; they will weep for us a few days; they will talk of us for a few months; they will remember us for a few years; when our memory shall disappear from the face of the earth, and not a tongue shall be found to recall it."-Dr. Chalmers.

WE are as clouds that veil the midnight moon;
How restlessly they speed, and gleam, and quiver,
Stretching the darkness radiantly!—yet soon
Night closes round, and they are lost for ever:

Or like forgotten lyres, whose dissonant strings
Give various response to each varying blast,
To whose frail frame no second motion brings
One mood or modulation like the last.

We rest-a dream has power to poison sleep;

We rise-one wandering thought pollutes the day;
We feel, conceive or reason, laugh or weep;
Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away.

It is the same!-For, be it joy or sorrow,

The path of its departure still is free;

Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow;
Nought may endure but mutability.

SHELLEY.

XXXII. PROCRASTINATION.

"TIME We ought to consider as a sacred trust committed to us by God; of which we are now the depositaries, and are to render an account at the last. That portion of it which he has allotted to us, is intended partly for the concerns of this world; partly for those of the next. Let each of these occupy, in the distribution of our time, that space which properly belongs to it. Let not the hours of hospitality and pleasure, interfere with the discharge of our necessary affairs: and let not what we call necessary affairs, encroach upon the time which is due to devotion. To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven. If we delay till to-morrow, what ought to be done to-day, we overcharge the morrow with a burden which belongs not to it. We load the wheels of time, and prevent them from carrying us along smoothly. He who every morning plans the transactions of the day, and follows out that plan, carries on a thread which will guide him through the labyrinth of the most busy life. The orderly arrangement of his time is like a ray of light, which darts itself through all his affairs. But, where no plan is laid, where the disposal of time is surrendered merely to the chance of incidents, all things lie huddled together in one chaos, which admits neither of distribution nor review." -Blair.

SHUN delays, they breed remorse;

Take thy time while time is lent thee;
Creeping snails have weakest force;
Fly thy fault, lest thou repent thee;
Good is best when soonest wrought;
Lingering labours come to nought.
Hoist up sail while gale doth last;
Tide and wind wait no man's pleasure;
Seek not time when time is past;
Sober speed is wisdom's leisure;
Afterwits are dearly bought,
Let thy forewit guide thy thought.

Time wears all his locks before,
Take thou hold upon his forehead;
When he flies he turns no more,
And behind his scalp is naked:
Works adjourned have many stays,
Long demurs breed new delays.

ROBERT SOUTHWELL.

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