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To improve the golden moment of opportunity, and catch the good that is within our reach, is the great art of life. Many wants are suffered, which might once have been supplied, and much time is lost in regretting the time which had been lost before. He that waits for an opportunity to do much at once, may breathe out his life in idle wishes, and regret, in the last hour, his useless intentions, and barren zeal. A wise man will make more opportunities than he finds. Men's behaviour should be like their apparel, not too strait, but free for exercise. Neglect no opportunity of doing good, nor check thy desire of doing it, by a vain fear of what may happen.

“Opportunity is the cream of time.”

CEAs E, every joy, to glimmer on my mind,
But leave — oh leave! the light of hope behind!
What though my winged hours of bliss have been, w
Like angel-visits, few and far between ;
Her musing mood shall every pang appease,
And charm—when pleasures lose the power to please.


As lamps burn silent with unconscious light,
So modest ease in beauty shines most bright;

Unaiming charms with edge resistless fall,

, And she, who meant no mischief, does it all.

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ALL that is good and great in the universe is on the side of clemency and mercy. If we look into the history of mankind, we shall find that in every age, those who have been respected as worthy have been distinguished for this virtue.

Revenge dwells in little minds; a noble and magnanimous spirit is superior to it. Collected within itself, it stands unmoved by the impotent assaults of our enemies; and with generous pity, rather than with anger, looks down on their unworthy conduct.

Anger and revenge are uneasy passions; “hence,” says Seed, “it appears that the command of loving your enemies, which has been thought a hard saying, and impossible to be fulfilled, is really no more when resolved into its first principles, than bidding us to be at peace with ourselves, which we cannot be, so long as we continue at enmity with others.”


HEAven from all creatures hides the book of fate,
All but the page prescribed, their present state,
Oh! blindness to the future kindly given,
That each may fill the circle mark'd by heaven.
Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions soar;
Wait the great teacher death; and God adore.
What future bliss he gives not thee to know,
But gives that hope to be thy blessing now.
Hope springs eternal in the human breast;
Man never is, but always to be blest.


I Miss thee from my side
With thy merry eyes and blue;
From thy crib at morning tide,
Oft its curtains peeping through;
In the kisses, not a few,
Thou wert wont to give me then;
In thy sleepy, sad adieu,
When 't was time for bed again.

I miss thee from my side,
When the dinner bustle's o'er;
When the orange I divide,
Or extract the apple's core;
What avails my hoarded store
Of barley sugar, comfits sweet;
Thou art by my side no more;
Vacant is thy wonted seat!

I miss thee from my side,
With thy query of repeated;
On thy rocking horse astride,
Or beneath my table seated;
Or when tired and overheated,
With a summer day's delight,
Many a childish aim defeated,
Sleep hath overpowered thee quite

I miss thee from my side
When brisk Punch is at the door;
Wainly pummels he his bride, –
Judy's wrongs can charm no more!
He may beat her till she's sore,
She may die, and he may flee;
Though I loved their squalls of yore,
What's the pageant now to me!


I miss thee from my side
When the light of day grows pale;
When with eyelids opened wide,
Thou wouldst list the oft-told tale,
And the murdered babes bewail ;
Yet so greedy of thy pain,
That when all my lore would fail,
I must needs begin again.

I miss thee from my side
In the haunts that late were thine;
Where thy twinkling feet would glide,
And thy clasping fingers twine;—
Here are checkered tumblers nine, –
Silent relics of thy play; —
Here the mimic tea-things shine,
Thou wouldst wash the livelong day!

Thy drum hangs on the wall;
The bird-organ sounds are o'er;
Dogs and horses, great and small —
Wanting some a leg or more;
Cows and sheep, — a motley store —
All are stabled near thy bed;
And not one but can restore
Memories sweet of him that's fled!

I miss thee from my side,
Blithe cricket of my hearth!
Oft in secret I have sigh'd
For thy chirping voice of mirth:
When the low-born cares of earth
Chill my heart, or dim my eye,
Grief is stifled in its birth,
If my little prattler's nigh!

I miss thee from my side,
With thy bright ingenuous smile;
With thy glance of infant pride,
And the face no tears defile;—
Stay, and other hearts beguile,
Hearts that prize thee fondly too;
I must spare thy pranks awhile ;
Cricket of my hearth, adieu !


Away from the path! silly dove,
Where the foot that may carelessly tread
Will crush thee! What dost thou not move 7
Alas ! thou art stiffened and dead :
Allured by the brightness of day,
To sink mid the shadows of night,
Too far from the cote thou didst stray,
And sadly hast ended thy flight!
For, thus, with the snow at thy breast,
With thy wing folded close to thy side,
And couched in the semblance of rest,
Alone of the cold thou hast died :

Poor Bird! thou hast pictured the fate
Of many in life's sunny day,
Who, trusting, have found but too late,
How fortune can smile to betray.
How of, for illusions that shine
In a cold and a pitiless world,
Bewilder'd and palsied, like thine,
Has the wing of the spirit been furl’d.
The heart the most tender and light,
In its warmth to the earth has been thrown,
With the chill of adversity's night,
To suffer and perish alone.

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