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O joy! that in our embers

Is something that doth live,
That nature yet remembers

What was so fugitive !
The thoughts of our past years in me doth breed
Perpetual benediction : not, indeed,
For that which is most worthy to be blest,
Delight and liberty, the simple creed
Of childhood, whether busy or at rest,
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast, —

Not for these I raise

The song of thanks and praise ;
But for those obstinate questionings
Of sense and outward things,
Fallings from us, vanishings,

Blank misgivings of a creature
Moving about in worlds not realized,
High instincts, before which our mortal nature
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised, —

But for those first affections,

Those shadowy recollections,

Which, be they what they may, Are yet the fountain-light of all our day, Are yet a master-light of all our seeing,

Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being

Of the eternal silence; truths that awake,

To perish never,
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor,

Nor man nor boy,
Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
Can utterly abolish or destroy !

Hence in a season of calm weather,

Though inland far we be,
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea

Which brought us hither,

Can in a moment travel thither,
And see the children sport upon the shore,
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.

And O, ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves,
Forebode not any severing of our loves !
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
I only have relinquished one delight
To live beneath your more habitual sway.
I love the brooks which down their channels fret,
Even more than when I tripped lightly as they ;
The innocent brightness of a new-born day
Is lovely yet ;
The clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober coloring from an eye
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;
Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

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TUDY how to be wise; and in all your gettings get un

derstanding. And especially would I urge upon your soul-wrapt attention that Book upon which all feelings, all opinions, are concentrated; which enlightens the judgment, while it enlists the sentiments, and soothes the imagination in songs upon the harp of the "sweet songster of Israel." The Book which gives you a faithful insight into your beart, and consecrates its character in

Such as the keen tooth of time can never touch."

Would you know the effect of that Book upon the heart ? It purifies its thoughts and sanctifies its joys; it nerves and strengthens it for sorrow and the mishaps of life; and when these shall have ended, and the twilight of death is spreading its dew-damp upon the wasting features, it pours upon the last glad throb the bright and streaming light of Eternity's morning. O, have you ever stood beside the couch of a dying saint, when

“ Without a sigh,
A change of feature or a shaded smile,
He gave his hand to the stern messenger,
And as a glad child seeks his father's arms,

Went home?

Then you have seen the deep, the penetrating influence of this Book

Would you know its name? It is the Book of books, - its author, God, — its theme, Heaven, Eternity. The Bible! Read it, search it. Let it be first upon the shelves of your library, and first in the affections of your heart. "Search the Scriptures, for in them ye think ye have eternal life; and they are they which testify of me." O, if there is sublimity in the contemplation of God, - if there is grandeur in the display of eternity, — if there is anything ennobling and purifying in the revelation of man's salvation, search the Scriptures, for they are they which testify of these things!

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JAMES SAERIDAN KNOWLES was born in Cork, Ireland, in 1784; and died in 1862. He was the author of “The Hunchback,'

.” Virginius,” “William Tell,” “The Wife,” and several other plays, some of which have been highly successful. He was originally an actor and teacher of elocution, but in his latter years he was a zealous and eloquent preacher of the Baptist denoinination.

The following extract is from “ William Tell," a play founded on the leading incidents in the life of the Swiss patriot of that name. Gesler (pronounced Gěs'ler) is the Austrian governor of Switzerland, and Sarnem one of his officers.


GESLER. What is thy name ?

TELL. My name ?
It matters not to keep it from thee now :
My name is Tell.

GES. Tell, — William Tell !
TELL. The same.

GES. What! he so famed 'bove all his countrymen
For guiding o'er the stormy lake the boat ?
And such a master of his bow, 't is said
His arrows never miss ! Indeed, I'll take
Exquisite vengeance! Mark! I'll spare thy life, -
Thy boy's too, — both of you are free,-

TELL. Name it.

Ges. I would see you make
A trial of your skill with that same bow
You shoot so well with.

TELL. Name the trial you
Would have me make.

GES. You look upon your boy
As though instinctively you guessed it.

Tell. Look upon my boy! What mean you ? Look upon My boy as though I guessed it, - guessed the trial

on one

You'd have me make, guessed it
Instinctively! You do not mean No, no,
You would have me make a trial of
My skill upon my child! Impossible !
I do not guess your meaning.

GES. I would see
Thee hit an apple at the distance of
A hundred paces.

TELL. Is my boy to hold it ?
GES. No.
TELL. No!—I'll send the arrow through the core !
GES. It is to rest upon his head.
TELL. Great Heaven, you hear him!

GES. Thou dost hear the choice I give, -
Such trial of the skill thou art master of,
Or death to both of you ; not otherwise
To be escaped.

TELL. O monster !
GES. Wilt thou do it?
ALBERT. He will! he will !

TELL. Ferocious monster ! — make
A father murder his own child !

GES. Take off
His chains, if he consent.

TELL. With his own hand !
Ges. Does he consent !
ALB. He does.
(GESLER signs to his officers, who proceed to take off TELL'S chains.

Tell all the time unconscious what they do.)
TELL. With his own hand!
Murder his child with his own hand, — this hand,
The hand I've led him, when an infant, by!
”T is beyond horror, — 't is most horrible!
Amazement! (His chains fall off.) What's that you 've done

to me.

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