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83.-THE LOVE OF THE WORLD REPROVED.-Cowper.

Thus says the prophet of the Turk, "Good Mussulman, abstain from pork! There is a part in every swine no friend or follower of mine may taste, whate'er his inclination, on pain of excommunication."-Such Mahomet's mysterious charge, and thus he left the point at large. Had he the sinful part expressed, they might with safety eat the rest; but for one piece they thought it hard from the whole hog to be debarred; and set their wit at work to find what joint the prophet had in mind. Much controversy straight arose, these choose the back, the belly those; by some 'tis confidently said, he meant not to forbid the head; while others at that doctrine rail, and piously prefer the tail. Thus-conscience freed from every clog-Mahometans eat up the hog.

You laugh-'tis well-the tale applied may make you laugh on t'other side. "Renounce the world!"-the preacher cries. "We do!"-a multitude replies. While one as innocent regards a snug and friendly game at cards; and one, whatever you may say, can see no evil in a play; some love a concert or a race; and others shooting, and the chase... Reviled and loved, renounced and followed, thus, bit by bit, the world is swallowed; each thinks his neighbour makes too free, yet likes a slice as well as he; with sophistry their sauce they sweeten, till quite from tail to snout 'tis

eaten.

84.-THE ATHEIST.-Knox.

The fool hath said, "There is no God."...No God !-Who lights the morn

ing sun,

And sends him on his heavenly road, a far and brilliant course to run? Who, when the radiant day is done, hangs forth the moon's nocturnal lamp, And bids the planets, one by one, steal o'er the night-vales dark and damp? No God!-Who gives the evening dew, the fanning breeze, the fostering shower?

Who warms the spring-morn's budding bough, and paints the summer's noontide flower?

Who spreads, in the autumnal bower, the fruit-tree's mellow stores around;
And sends the winter's icy power, to invigorate the exhausted ground?
No God!-Who makes the bird to wing its flight like arrow through the
sky;

And gives the deer its power to spring from rock to rock tri-mphantly?
Who formed Behemoth, huge and high, that at a draught the river drains,
And great Leviathan, to lie, like floating isle, on ocean plains?

K

No God! Who warms the heart to heave with thousand feelings soft and

sweet,

And prompts the aspiring soul to leave the earth we tread beneath our feet,
And soar away on pinions fleet, beyond the scene of mortal strife,
With fair ethereal forms to meet, that tell us of an after-life?

No God!-Who fixed the solid ground on pillars strong that alter not?
Who spread the curtained skies around? who doth the ocean-bounds allot?
Who all things to perfection brought on earth below, in heaven abroad?—
Go ask the fool of impious thought, that dares to say,-"There is no God!',

85.-BAUCIS AND PHILEMON.-Swift.

In ancient times, as story tells, the saints would often leave their cells, and stroll about, but hide their quality, to try good people's hospitality. It happened on a winter night, as authors of the legend write, two brother hermits, saints by trade, taking their tour in masquerade, disguis'd in tatter'd habits, went to a small village down in Kent; where, in the stroller's canting strain, they begg'd from door to door in vain, tried every tone might pity win-but not a soul would take them in. Our wandering saints, in woful state, treated at this ungodly rate, having through all the village pass'd, to a small cottage came at last, where dwelt a good old honest yeoman, call'd in the neighbourhood Philemon; who kindly did these saints invite in his poor hut to pass the night: and then the hospitable sire bid Goody Baucis mend the fire; while he from out the chimney took a flitch of bacon off the hook, and freely from the fattest side cut out large slices to be fried; then stepp'd aside to fetch them drink, fill'd a large jug up to the brink, and saw it fairly twice go round; yet (what is wonderful!) they found 'twas still replenish'd to the top, as if they ne'er had touched a drop. The good old couple were amaz'd, and often on each other gaz'd; for both were frightened to the heart, and just began to cry, "What ar't!" Then softly turn'd aside to view whether the lights were burning blue. "Good folks, you need not be afraid; we are but saints," the hermits said; "no hurt shall come to you or yours: but for that pack of churlish boors, not fit to live on Christian ground, they and their houses shall be drown'd; whilst you shall see your cottage rise, and grow a church before your eyes.'

They scarce had spoke when fair and soft the roof began to mount aloft; aloft rose every beam and rafter, the heavy wall climb'd slowly after; the chimney widen'd and grew higher-became a steeple with a spire! The kettle to the top was hoist, and there stood fasten'd to a joist, doom'd ever in suspense to dwell;-'tis now no kettle, but a bell! A wooden jack

which had almost lost by disuse the art to roast, a sudden alteration feels, increas'd by new intestine wheels; the jack and chimney, near allied, had never left each other's side: the chimney to a steeple grown, the jack would not be left alone, but up against the steeple rear'd, became a clock, and still adhered! The groaning chair began to crawl, like a huge snail, along the wall; there stuck aloft in public view—and with small change a pulpit grew!

The cottage, by such feats as these, grown to a church by just degrees, the hermits then desired the host to ask for what he fancied most. Philemon, having paus'd awhile, returned them thanks in homely style: "I'm old, and fain would live at ease; make me the parson, if you please."

Thus happy in their change of life were several years this man and wife. When on a day, which prov'd their last, discoursing on old stories past, they went by chance, amidst their talk, to the church-yard to take a walk; when Baucis hastily cried out, "My dear, I see your forehead sprout!" "Sprout!" quoth the man; "what's this you tell us? I hope you don't believe me jealous! But yet, methinks, I feel it true; and really yours is budding too! Nay-now I cannot stir my foot; it feels as if 'twere taking root." ... Description would but tire my muse; in short, they both were turn'd to yews.

86.-ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL.-Leigh Hunt.

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An Angel writing in a book of gold.
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the Presence in the room he said—
"What writest thou?" The vision raised its head,
And, with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answer'd, "The names of those who love the Lord."
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the Angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerily still; and said, "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men."

The angel wrote and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,

And show'd the names whom love of God had bless'd---
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest!

87.-SOLITUDE-MEDITATIONS AT SEA.-Byron.

'Tis night-when Meditation bids us feel
We once have loved, though love is at an end:
The heart, lone mourner of its baffled zeal,
Though friendless now, will dream it had a friend.
Who with the weight of years would wish to bend,
When Youth itself survives young Love and Joy?
Alas! when mingling souls forget to blend,
Death hath but little left him to destroy!

Ah! happy years! once more who would not be a boy?

Thus, bending o'er the vessel's laving side,
To gaze on Dian's wave-reflected sphere,

The soul forgets her schemes of Hope and Pride,
And flies unconscious o'er each backward year.
None are so desolate but something dear,
Dearer than self, possesses or possessed

A thought, and claims the homage of a tear;
A flashing pang! of which the weary breast
Would still, albeit in vain, the heavy heart divest.

To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell,
To slowly trace the forest's shady scene,
Where things that own not man's dominion dwell,
And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been;
To climb the trackless mountain all unseen,
With the wild flock that never needs a fold;
Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean;
This is not solitude; 'tis but to hold

Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores unrolled.

But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men,
To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess,

And roam along (the world's tired denizen!),
With none who bless us, none whom we can bless-
Minions of splendour shrinking from distress!-
None that, with kindred consciousness endued,
If we were not, would seem to smile the less
Of all that flattered, followed, sought, and sued;
This is to be alone; this, this is solitude!

88.-THE FAMILY MEETING.-Sprague.

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1 We are all here! father, mother, sister, brother, all who hold each other dear. Each chair is filled: we're all at home: to-night, let no cold stranger come: it is not often thus around our old familiar hearth we're found. Bless then the meeting and the spot; for once, be every care forgot; let gentle Peace assert her power, and kind Affection rule the hour; we're all-all here. 2 We're not all here! some are away-the dead ones dear, who thronged with us this ancient hearth, and gave the hour to guileless mirth. Fate, with a stern relentless hand, look'd in and thinn'd our little band: some, like a night-flash, passed away, and some sank lingering day by day; the quiet grave-yard-some lie there, and cruel Ocean has his share we're not all here!. We are all here! even they, the dead-though dead, so dear,—fond Memory, to her duty true, brings back their faded forms to view. How life-like, through the mist of years, each well-remembered face appears! we see them as in times long past,—from each to each kind looks are cast; we hear their words, their smiles behold, they're round us, as they were of old,-we are all here! We are all here! father, mother, sister, brother, you that I love with love so dear. This may not long of us be said; soon may we join the gathered dead, and by the hearth we now sit round, some other circle will be found. Oh! now that wisdom may we know, which yields a life of peace below; so, in the world to follow this, may each repeat in words of bliss, "We're all— all here!

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89.-THE MOTHER WHO HAS AT CHILD A SEA.-Eliza Cook.

1 There's an eye that looks on the swelling cloud, folding the moon in a funeral shroud; that watches the stars dying one by one, till the whole of heaven's calm light hath gone; there's an ear that lists to the hissing surge, as the mourner turns to the anthem dirge. That eye! that ear! oh, whose can they be, but a mother's who hath a child at sea? 2 There's a cheek that is getting ashy white, as the tokens of storm come on with night; there's a form that's fixed at the lattice pane, to mark how the gloom gathers over the main, while the yeasty billows lash the shore with loftier sweep and hoarser roar. That cheek! that form! oh, whose can they be, but a mother's who hath a child at sea? 3 The rushing whistle chills her blood, as the north wind hurries to scourge the flood; and the icy shiver spreads to her heart, as the first red lines of lightning start. The ocean boils! all mute she stands, with parted lips and tight-clasp'd hands: oh, marvel not at her fear, for she is a mother who hath a child at sea! She conjures up the fearful scene of yawning waves, where the ship, between,

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