« السابقةمتابعة »
Thou hast, my child, at thy command, The treasures of that promised land, Thou hast within thy youthful breast, The image of that world of rest. The boundless wish that fills thy soul Attests the nature of its goal;
"Tis not in mortal power to give
The blessing which thou would'st receive,
It therefore asks another sphere
To lead it to its holy shrine.
Oh think not then that He who spread
The canopy above our head,
And scattered wide on every land
"The kingdom of heaven is within you."
Oн, say what are thy thoughts of heaven? Still are they those thy childhood knew, When gazing on the skies at even,
Beyond the stars thy fancy flew,
Peopling the regions far above
With seraph forms of beauty rare, Whose golden harps, with hymns of love Melodious fill the perfumed air?
But riper years perchance have given, Thoughts less of earthly joy than this, And the bright hope that pictures heaven Paints it a state of endless bliss,
Known but to spirits, who have passed
This earthly scene, life's sorrows o'er, Whom mercy's hand admits at last
To joys unknown, unthought before.
Ah deem not so-on this side death
We know this blessed empire won
Oh, wait not for the parting breath
"Tis found, in passions tamed, subdued, Felt in a heart made pure within, Found in the power of doing good, Felt to the full in loving Him.
"Tis in that faith which dries the tear That starts so oft in sorrow's eye; "Tis in that hope, o'ercoming fear, Which gives o'er death the victory.
Oh, if thou knowest, ere life be o'er,
Naught of that heaven begun in thee, Well may'st thou fear it has in store No joy to bless Eternity.
FROM LEIGH RICHMOND TO HIS CHILDREN, ON THEIR CHOICE OF BOOKS.
CHARACTERS are speedily discovered by their choice of books. Novels in prose I need not now forbid. Ignorant as you are of their bad tendency, by experience, you, I am persuaded, trust me on that head, and will never sacrifice time, attention, and affection to them. But beware of novels in verse. Poets are more dangerous than prose writers, when their principles are bad; for when a good poet makes his good poetry the vehicle of his bad sentiments, he does mischief by wholesale. Do not be ashamed of not having read the fashionable poems of the day. A Christian has no time, and should have no inclination for any reading that will not improve the heart. "There are too many valuable books on a variety of subjects, which ought to be read, to allow of time to be dedicated to unworthy or useless ones."
NOT worlds on worlds, in phalanx deep,
The daisy, fresh from winter's sleep,
What power but His who arched the skies, And poured the day-spring's purple flood, Wondrous alike in all it tries,
Could rear the daisy's curious bud;
Mould its green cup, its wiry stem,
And fling it, with a hand so free,
O'er hill, and dale, and desert sod,
That man, where'er he walks, may see every step, the stamp of God?
J. M. GOOD.