THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED. TREAD Softly! bow the head In reverent silence bow!- Stranger! however great, Beneath that beggar's roof, Lo, Death doth keep his state; Enter!-no crowds attend Enter!-no guards defend- That pavement, damp and cold, No smiling courtiers tread; Lifting with meagre hands No mingling voices sound An infant wail alone; That short deep gasp, and then Oh, change! oh, wondrous change! Burst are the prison bars- Oh, change! stupendous change! The sun eternal breaks The new immortal wakes- COURTEOUSNESS. THE roots of plants are hid under the ground, so that themselves are not seen, but they appear in their branches and flowers and fruits, which argue there is a root and life in them: thus the graces of the spirit planted in the soul, though themselves invisible, yet discover their being and life, in the tract of a Christian's life, his words and actions, and the frame of his carriage. THE SOURCES OF WIT. PERHAPS the most important of our intellectual operations are those of detecting the difference in similar, and the identity in dissimilar things. Out of the latter operation it is that wit arises; and it, generally regarded, consists in presenting thoughts or images in an unusual connexion with each other, for the purpose of exciting pleasure by the surprise. This connexion may be real; and there is in fact a scientific wit; though where the object conscientiously entertained is truth, and not amusement, we commonly give it some higher name. But in wit, popularly understood, the connexion may be, and for the most part is, apparent only and transitory; and this connexion may be by thoughts, or by words, or by images. The first is Butler's especial eminence; the second, Voltaire's; the third, which we oftener call fancy, constitutes the larger and more peculiar part of the wit of Shakespere. You can scarcely turn to a single speech of Falstaff's without finding instances of it. Nor does wit always cease to deserve the name by being transient, or incapable of analysis. I may add that the wit of thoughts belongs eminently to the Italians, that of words to the French, and that of images to the English. THE CONGRESS OF NATIONS. A MIGHTY dome is reared in solemn state, From every land which man has made his home, Where arts and science with due culture flourish, Or trackless wastes and billows crowned with foam, They come, the ardent mind with food to nourish. The trophies of the past fade into gloom, Which conquerors planted on the field of battle; Where breathing armies sunk before their doom, And shouts of glory drowned the low death rattle. These things were once, while yet the world was young, The sundered children of the human race, In foreign nations kindred features trace, The love of art engenders love to man, And this in turn the love of his creator; 'Tis Ignorance that mars Heaven's gracious plan, And rears in blood the murderer and manhater. A glorious epoch brightens history's page, A DOVE-LIKE TEMPER. GOD is our pattern in love and compassion; we are well warranted to endeavour to be like him in this. Men esteem much more of some other virtues that make more show, and trample upon these-love and compassion and meekness. But though these violets grow low, and are of a dark colour, yet they are of a very sweet and diffusive smell-odoriferous graces, and the Lord propounds himself our example in them. I HATE a style, as I do a garden that is wholly flat and regular, that slides along like an eel, and never rises to what one can call an inequality. |