« PreviousContinue »
Be kind unto the aged,
Their sun is going down;
And never on them frown.
They need your sympathy;
Of dread eternity.
Be kind unto the aged,
Will all be dark and cold.
You'll have your heart's desire.
EXCELLENCE OF THE SCRIPTURES.
In what other writings can we descry those excellences which we find in the Bible ? None of them can equal it in antiquity : for the first penman of the sacred Scriptures hath the start of all philosophers, poets, and historians, and is, without the least shadow of doubt, the most ancient writer extant in the world. No writings are equal to those of the Bible, if we mention only the stock of human learning contained in them. Here linguists and philologists may find that which is to be found nowhere else. Here rhetoricians and orators
be entertained with a more lofty eloquence, with a choicer composure of words, and with a greater variety of style, than any other writers can afford them. Here is a book, where more is understood than expressed, where words are few, but the sense is full and
redundant. No book equals this in authority, because it is the word of God himself, and dictated by an unerring Spirit. It excels all other writings in the excellency of its matter, which is the highest, noblest, and worthiest; and of the greatest concern to all mankind. Lastly, the Scriptures transcend all other writings in their power and efficacy.
Wherefore, with great seriousness and importunity, I request the reader that he entertain such thoughts and persuasions as these :that Bible-learning is the highest accomplishment, that this book is the most valuable upon earth, that there is a library in one single volume, that this alone is sufficient for us, though all the libraries in the world were destroyed.
WHAT IS THAT, MOTHER ? "
GEORGE W. DOANE,
What is that, Mother? --The lark, my child !-
Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays
What is that, Mother ?--The dove, my son !
Ever, my son, be thou like the dove,
What is that, Mother ?—The eagle, boy !-
Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine,
What is that, Mother?—The swan, my love !
Live so, my love, that when death shall come,
may waft thee home.
ALBERT G. GREENE.
The dawn has broke, the morn is up,
Another day begun;
Is flashing in the sun.
Where thou thy watch hast kept,
While all around thee slept.
For years, upon thee, there has pour'd
The summer's noon-day heat,
The winter storms have beat;
But yet thy duty has been done,
By day and night the same,
Whichever way it came.
Along the distant heaven,
And distant warning given;
Oppress all living things,
With health upon its wings.
Or twilight's quiet hour,
Come darting round thy tower,
And catch his earliest light, And offer ye the morn's salute,
Or bid ye both,-good-night. And when, around thee, or above,
No breath of air has stirr'd,
Of each free, happy bird,
In many a mazy track,
Have settled on thy back.
A gentle breeze has sprung,
Thy eager form hath swung,
As far aloft they flew,“Now all away!-here ends our play,
For I have work to do!"
Men slander thee, my honest friend,
And call thee, in their pride,
Thou ever-faithful guide.
A “ weathercock” they call ;
Abuse thee, one and all.
A by-word for their deeds :--
Their fashions, and their creeds ;
Thus causelessly to range;
Good reason for the change.
The thoughtless oft condemn,
Which never breathe on them,
Which they do never know,
The dusty paths below.
Thou well hast kept thy trust;
The morning light has burst.
When his dark hours have pass'd,
“the day-spring from on high,” To cheer his path at last.