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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 his head, And, with a look made of all sweet

accord, Answered: “The names of those who

love the Lord.” And is mine one?” said Adhem.

“Nay, not so, Replied the angel. Abou spoke more

low, But cheerily still, and said: “I pray

thee then,

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Write me as one who loves his fellow

men. The angel wrote and vanished. The

next night He came again with a great awakening

light And showed the names whom love of

God had bless'd, And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

-Leigh Hunt.



HEN I consider how my

light is spent Ere half my days in this

dark world and wide,

And that one talent which is death to hide, Lodged with me useless, though my soul

more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest he, returning, ,

chide: “Doth God exact day-labor, light

denied ?” I fondly ask; but Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies : “God

doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts ;

who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him

best: his state Is kingly; thousands at his bidding

speed, And post o'er land and ocean without

rest; They also serve who only stand and wait.'


HOU lingering star, with

lessening ray, T

That lov'st to greet the

early morn, Again thou usher'st in the day My Mary from my soul was torn.

O Mary! dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his


That sacred hour can I forget

Can I forget the hallowed grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met

To live one day of parting love!

Eternity will not efface

Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace;

Ah! little thought we 'twas our last! Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, O’erhung with wild woods, thickening

green; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, Twined amorous round the raptured


The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,

The birds sang love on every sprayTill soon, too soon, the glowing west

Proclaimed the speed of wingèd day.

Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes,

And fondly broods with miser care! Time but the impression stronger makes,

As streams their channels deeper wear.

My Mary! dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

-Robert Burns.

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