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Whate'er thy lot, where'er thou be,
Confess thy folly-kiss the rod;
And in thy chastening sorrows see

The hand of God.

A bruised reed He will not break;
Afflictions all His children feel ;
He wounds them for His mercy's sake-

He wounds to heal !

Humbled beneath His mighty hand,
Prostrate, His providence adore :
'Tis done! arise! He bids thee stand,

To fall no more.

Now, traveller in the vale of tears,
To realms of everlasting light,
Through Time's dark wilderness of years,

Pursue thy flight.

There is a calm for those who weep,
A rest for weary pilgrims found;
And while the mouldering ashes sleep

Low in the ground,

The soul, of origin divine,
God's glorious image, freed from clay,
In heaven's eternal sphere shall shine,

A star of day!

The sun is but a spark of fire,
A transient meteor in the sky;
The soul, immortal as its sire,

Shall never die!”

Montgomery:

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So loth we part from all we love,

From all the links that bind us; So turn our hearts, as on we rove,

To those we 've left behind us !

When, round the bowl, of vanish'd years

We talk with joyous seeming-
With smiles that might as well be tears,

So faint, so sad their beaming;
While memory brings us back again

Each early tie that twined us,
Oh, sweet 's the cup that circles then

To those we've left behind us !

And when, in other climes, we meet

Some isle or vale enchanting,
Where all looks flowery wild and sweet,

And nought but love is wanting;
We think how great had been our bliss

If Heaven had but assign'd us
To live and die in scenes like this,

With some we've left behind us!

As travellers oft look back at eve

When eastward darkly going,
To gaze upon that light they leave

Still faint behind them glowing -
So, when the close of pleasure's day

To gloom hath near consign'd us, We turn to catch one fading ray

Of joy that 's left behind us.

Moore. . MARRIAGE.

L IFE or death, felicity or a lasting sorrow, are in the power of marriage.

A woman indeed ventures most, for she hath no sanctuary to retire to from an evil husband; she must dwell upon her sorrow, and hatch the eggs which her own folly or infelicity hath produced ; and she is more under it, because her tormentor hath a warrant of prerogative, and the woman may complain to God as subjects do of tyrant princes, but otherwise she hath no appeal in the causes of unkindness. And though the man can run from many hours of his sadness, yet he must return to it again, and when he sits among his neighbours, he remembers the objection that lies in his bosom, and he sighs deeply. It is the unhappy chance of many men, finding many inconveniences upon the mountains of single life, they descend into the valleys of marriage to refresh their troubles, and there they enter into fetters, and are bound to sorrow by the cords of a man's or woman's peevishness; and the worst of the evil is, they are to thank their own follies, for they fell into the snare by entering an improper way; Christ and the Church were no ingredients in their choice; but as the Indian women enter into folly for the price of an elephant, and think their crime warrantable, so do men and women change their liberty for a rich fortune, and show themselves to be less than money, by overvaluing that to all the content and wise felicity of their lives; and when they have counted the money and their sorrows together, how willingly would they buy, with the loss of all that money, modesty, or sweet nature to their relative ! the odd thousand pounds would gladly be allowed in good nature and fair manners. As very a fool is he that chooses for beauty principally; it is an ill band of affections to tie two hearts together by a little thread of red and white. And they can love no longer but until the next ague comes; and they are fond of each other but at the chance of fancy, or the small-pox, or care, or time, or anything that can destroy a pretty flower.

There is nothing can please a man without love, and if a man be weary of the wise discourses of the apostles, and of the innocency of an even and a private fortune, or hates peace or a fruitful year, he hath reaped thorns and thistles from the choicest flowers of paradise ; for nothing can

sweeten felicity itself but love ; but when a man dwells in love, then the eyes of his wife are fair as the light of heaven, she is a fountain sealed, and he can quench his thirst, and ease his cares, and lay his sorrow down upon her lap, and can retire home as to his sanctuary and refectory, and his gardens of sweetness and chaste refreshments. No man can tell but he that loves his children, how many delicious accents make a man's heart dance in the pretty conversation of those dear pledges; their childishness, their stammering, their little angers, their innocence, their imperfections, their necessities, are so many little emanations of joy and comfort to him that delights in their persons and society; but he that loves not his wife and children, feeds lioness at home, and broods a nest of sorrows, and blessing itself cannot make him happy.

Jeremy Taylor.

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