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To you 't is given

To wake sweet nature's untaught lays;
Beneath the arch of heaven
To chirp away a life of praise.

Then spread each wing,

Far, far above, o'er lakes and lands,
And join the choirs that sing

In yon blue dome not rear'd with hands.

Or if ye stay,

To note the consecrated hour,
Teach me the airy way,
And let me try your envied power.

Above the crowd,

On upward wings could I but fly,
I'd bathe in yon bright cloud,
And seek the stars that gem the sky.

'T were heaven indeed,
Through fields of trackless light to soar,
On nature's charms to feed,
And nature's own great God adore.


In the pleased infant see its power expand,
When first the coral fills his little hand;
Throned in his mother's lap, it dries each tear,
As her sweet legend falls upon his ear;
Next it assails him in his top's strange hum,
Breathes in his whistle, echoes in his drum;
Each gilded toy, that doting love bestows,
He longs to break and every spring expose.
Plac'd by your hearth, with what delight he pores
O'er the bright pages of his pictured stores;
How oft he steals upon your graver task,
Of this to tell you and of that to ask;
And, when the waning hour to-bedward bids,
Though gentle sleep sit waiting on his lids,
How winningly he pleads to gain you o'er,
That he may read one little story more.

Nor yet alone to toys and tales confined,
It sits, dark brooding, o'er his embryo mind:
Take him between your knees, peruse his face,
While all you know, or think you know, you trace;
Tell him who spoke creation into birth,

Arched the broad heavens and spread the rolling earth,

Who formed a pathway for the obedient sun,
And bade the seasons in their circles run,
Who filled the air, the forest, and the flood,
And gave man all, for comfort or for food;
Tell him they sprang at God's creating nod-
He stops you short with, "Father! who made God?"



THAT silent moon, that silent moon,
Careering now through cloudless sky,
Oh! who shall tell what varied scenes

Have pass'd beneath her placid eye, Since first, light this wayward earth,

She walk'd in tranquil beauty forth.

How oft has guilt's unhallow'd hand,

And superstition's senseless rite,
And loud, licentious revelry,

Profaned her pure and holy light:
Small sympathy is hers, I ween,

With sights like these, that virgin queen,

But dear to her, in summer eve,

By rippling wave, or tufted grove,
When hand in hand is purely clasp'd,

And heart meets heart in holy love,
To smile, in quiet loneliness,

And hear each whisper'd vow, and bless.

Dispersed along the world's wide way,

When friends are far, and fond ones rove,
How powerful she to wake the thought,

And start the tear for those we love!
Who watch, with us, at night's pale noon,
And gaze upon that silent moon.

How powerful, too, to hearts that mourn,
The magic of that moonlight sky,
To bring again the vanish'd scenes,

The happy eves of days gone by;
Again to bring, mid bursting tears,
The loved, the lost of other years.

And oft she looks, that silent moon,
On lonely eyes that wake to weep,
In dungeon dark, or sacred cell,

Or couch, whence pain has banish'd sleep:
Oh! softly beams that gentle eye,
On those who mourn, and those who die.

But beam on whomsoe'er she will,

And fall where'er her splendour may, There's pureness in her chasten'd light,

There's comfort in her tranquil ray: What power is hers to soothe the heart— What power, the trembling tear to start!

The dewy morn let others love,

Or bask them in the noontide ray;
There's not an hour but has its charm,

From dawning light to dying day:-
But oh! be mine a fairer boon-
That silent moon, that silent moon!


WHAT is that, Mother?

The lark, my child! The morn has but just looked out and smiled, When he starts from his humble, grassy nest And is up and away, with the dew on his breast* And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure, bright sphere, To warble it out in his maker's ear.—

Ever, my child, be thy morning lays
Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise.

What is that, Mother?

The dove, my son!
And that low, sweet voice, like a widow's moan,
Is flowing out from her gentle breast
Constant and pure, by that lonely nest,
As the wave is poured from some crystal urn;
For her distant dear one's quick return.-
Ever, my son, be thou like the dove;

In friendship as faithful, as constant in love!

What is that, Mother?

The eagle, boy!
Proudly careering his course of joy;
Firm, on his own mountain vigour relying,
Breasting the dark storin, the red bolt defying-

*The lav'rock in the morning she 'll rise frae her nest, And mount to the air wi' the dew on her breast.-Burns.

His wing on the wind, and his eye in the sun,
He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on.—
Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine,
Onward, and upward, and true to the linc.

What is that Mother?

The swan, my love!
He is floating down from his native grove
No loved one now, no nestling nigh,
He is floating down by himself to die.
Death darkens his eye and unplumes his wings,
Yet his sweetest song is the last he sings.-

Live so, my love, that when death shall come,
Swan-like and sweet, it may waft thee home!


THE Bible should never be studied for the mere gratification of cultivated taste or literary curiosity. It contains a record of the mind and will of Jehovah, communicated to man in order to teach him the way to everlasting life, and the means of preparation for that future and eternal existence. If we peruse the sacred volume for the pleasure it may afford the intellect or the imagination, and at the same time neglect to obey its commands and imbibe its spirit, or refuse to implore its Divine Author that he would sanctify us through his truth, we are guilty indeed of a great and criminal perversion. It is as if we should take the last, best gift of parental affection, and sell it for selfish amusement, or avaricious gain; only the religious sacrilege is infinitely more wretched and ungrateful. This is the error into which some of the ablest critics have fallen, and it is an error against which we should always guard ourselves, when we come to the critical or literary examination of the inspired writings.

With this caution before us, and with the spirit of religious veneration in our hearts, we shall experience the purest pleasure and the highest benefit, in whatever shape we undertake their investigation; and it is certainly desirable that we, to whom they are addressed, and for whose use they were intended, should possess a right conception of their intellectual as well as their moral character. Indeed the former is abso

lutely essential to the latter. Yet to this day the greater portion of those who read the Old Testament, are ignorant that it contains anything but prose, and few are aware, when they open its pages, that they are in the midst of the sublimest and most beautiful poetry in the world. If there be any portion of Hebrew poetry, in regard to which this mistake is not general,

it is the Psalms. These make their short and affecting ap peals directly to the heart, and we feel their poetical spirit. They exhibit, besides, the peculiar characteristics of the Hebrew poetry with so much sustained regularity and entireness, and the form of the original is in most cases so remarkably, though unintentionally, preserved by the literal English translation, that the dullest reader cannot but be sensible, at least that what he is reading is something in its nature different from prose.

In addition to this part of the Holy Scriptures, the books of Job, Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, the Song of Solomon, and all the prophetical books, with the exceptions of Daniel and Jonah, may be mentioned as possessing the characteristics of Hebrew poetry; some with a greater, some with a less degree of vividness and regularity, but all so evidently, that it is undoubtedly proper to rank them together, under the poetical division of the Old Testament. The four first are altogether and unequivocally poetical, except the two introductory chapters of Job; but several of the prophetical books, are made up of poetry, and prose intermingled; and some of the minor prophets do not possess the spirit of poetry, (even in those portions which exhibit its form) in any remarkable degree. Some parts also of the sublime Isaiah are prose,—much of the Lamentations is historical, and so is nearly half the book of Jeremiah. Isaiah and Jeremiah, among the prophets are the most elevated in the spirit and power of their poetry, but it is impossible here to notice in detail their individual characteristics.

The books of Job, Proverbs, and Ecclesiastes, are what in our language would be called didactic poetry. The first has been translated, within a short period, in a very beautiful and accurate manner, by the Rev. George R. Noyes. From this translation even those, who are totally ignorant of the original language, may gain some adequate conception of the deep spirit of Hebrew poetry, and some correct knowledge of its true, peculiar nature. The following paragraph from Lowth, in regard to the Schools of the Prophets, will not be uninteresting to the pupil.

"The prophets were chosen by God himself, and were certainly excellently prepared for the execution of their office. They were in general taken from those, who had been educated from childhood in a course of discipline adapted to the ministerial function. It is evident, from many parts of the sacred history, that even from the earliest times of the Hebrew republic, there existed certain colleges of prophets, in which the candidates for the prophetic office, removed altogether from an intercourse with the world, devoted themselves entirely to the exercises and study of religion: over each of these some prophet of superior authority, and more peculiarly under the divine influence, presided, as the moderator and preceptor of the whole assembly. Though the sacred history affords us but little information,and that in a cursory manner, concerning

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