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Mournfully, tenderly,

Gaze on that brow;
Beautiful is it

In quietude now;
One look! and then settle

The loved to her rest,
The ocean beneath her,

The turf on her breast.

So have ye buried her

Up! and depart
To life and to duty

With undismayed heart:
Fear not for the love

Of the stranger will keep
The casket that lies

In the Rock of the deep.

Peace !

peace to thy bosom,
Thou servant of God!
The vale thou art treading

Thou hast before trod;
Precious dust thou hast laid

By the Hopia tree,
And treasure as precious

In the Rock of the sea.


Ecclesiastes, xii. 1

O, COME, pluck sweet flowers
In life's earliest hours,

Entwine a bright wreath for thy brow;
That their fragrance may last
When thy skies are o'ercast,

Their perfume around thy path throw.

When thy young eye is bright,
When thy spirits are light,

Go, gather the sweet flowers of love ;
Let meekness and truth
Be the flowers of thy youth,

And that kindness which comes from above.

Let wisdom direct
Thy young hand to select

Those flowerets which never decay;
Let faith and hope bind
A bouquet for the mind,

Fading not in life's wintry day.

Let the pages of truth
Fill thy memory, in youth,

With their precepts and lessons sublime ;
With a peace-loving mind,
With good will to mankind,

Those jewels untarnished by time.




My sister,

The Bible.

God's holy word,
Which he to sinful man has given ;

Bright morning star,

The only star
To point the wanderer home to Heaven.

My sister,

The Bible.

The only mirror
Which shows to man his base behavior

To Him who died,

The crucified,
But now the great - the risen Savior.

My sister,

The Bible.

A brother's gift;
A gift to prize above all others;

It gives you light,

It brings you life,
It brings you love beyond a brother's.

My sister,

The Bible.

O, prize it well; 'Tis heaven's chart to guide you home

To worlds of light,

Where, robed in white,
The Savior, smiling, bids you come.


As swift as a river,

Our time passes on; And sooner or later,

Its streams will be gone. How lovely the budding

Of life's early morn! How sad are the feelings

When pleasures are gone ! But time, in its fleetness,

Runs smooth over me; Why should I repine, then,

Who am joyful and free? But death, in its darkness,

Comes onward at last, And sooner or later

Its stream will be past. How pleasant the parting,

Life's drama played well, FIow joyful the feelings,

Which words cannot tell ! Then let us be joyful,

And glad let us be,
Till death, in its darkness,

Shall set us all free!




All who enter on the world are in pursuit of happiness. Each one questions of another where it is; or fancies he perceives it from afar; but very few confess that they have found it. The young, starting into life with sanguine hopes and spirits gay, expect it every where: the more experienced, having sought it long and found it not, decide that it is nowhere. The moralist tells us there is no such thing; and the historian almost proves it by the miseries he details. Poverty says, “It is not with me;" and Wealth says, “Not with me." Splendor dashes by the cottage door, heaves the rich jewel on her bosom with a sigh, and says that the dwellers there are happier than she is. Penury looks out upon her as she passes, loathes her own portion, and silently envies what she must not share. Ignorance, with dazzled and misjudging eye, admires the learned, and esteems them happy. Learning decides that "ignorance is bliss," and bewails the enlargement of capacity it cannot find enough to fill. Wherever we ask, the answer is still, “Seek farther.” Is it so, then, that there is no happiness on earth? Or if it does exist, is it a thing of cir

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