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Be kind unto the aged,

Their sun is going down;
O cast a light upon their gloom

And never on them frown.
Their burdens lighten when you can

They need your sympathy;
O lead them gently to the verge

Of dread eternity.

Be kind unto the aged,
Yourself may yet grow old,

How sad to think that friendship then

Will all be dark and cold.
Be kind, and kindness


shall meet,
When that you most require;
And when old age is coming round,

You'll have your heart's desire.




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? --The lark, my child !-
The morn has but just look'd out, and smiled,
When he starts from his humble grassy nest,
And is up and away, with the dew on his breast,
And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure, bright sphere,
To warble it out in his Maker's ear.

Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays
Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise.

What is that, Mother ?--The dove, my son !
And that low, sweet voice, like a widow's moan,
Is flowing out from her gentle breast,
Constant and pure, by that lonely nest,
As the wave is pour'd from some crystal urn,
For her distant dear one's quick return :

Ever, my son, be thou like the dove,
In friendship as faithful, as constant in love.

What is that, Mother ?—The eagle, boy !-
Proudly careering his course of joy;
Firm, on his own mountain vigour relying,
Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying,
His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun,
He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on.

Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine,
Onward, and upward, and true to the line.

What is that, Mother?—The swan, my love !
He is floating down from his native grove,
No loved one now, no nestling nigh,
He is floating down, by himself to die;
Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings,
Yet his sweetest song is the last he sings.

Live so, my love, that when death shall come,
Swan-like and sweet,


may waft thee home.



The dawn has broke, the morn is up,

Another day begun;
And there thy poised and gilded spear

Is flashing in the sun.
Upon that steep and lofty tower

Where thou thy watch hast kept,
A true and faithful sentinel,

While all around thee slept.

For years, upon thee, there has pour'd

The summer's noon-day heat,
And through the long, dark, starless night,

The winter storms have beat;

But yet thy duty has been done,

By day and night the same,
Still thou hast met and faced the storm,

Whichever way it came.
No chilling blast in wrath has swept

Along the distant heaven,
But thou hast watch'd its onward course,

And distant warning given;
And when mid-summer's sultry beams

Oppress all living things,
Thou dost foretell each breeze that comes

With health upon its wings.
How oft I've seen, at early dawn,

Or twilight's quiet hour,
The swallows, in their joyous glee,

Come darting round thy tower,
As if, with thee, to hail the sun

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,
Thou seem'st to watch the circling flight

Of each free, happy bird,
Till, after twittering round thy head

In many a mazy track,
The whole delighted company

Have settled on thy back.
Then, if, perchance, amidst their mirth,

A gentle breeze has sprung,
And, prompt to mark its first approach,

Thy eager form hath swung,
I've thought I almost heard thee say,

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,
An emblem of their fickleness,

Thou ever-faithful guide.
Each weak, unstable human mind

A “ weathercock” they call ;
And thus, unthinkingly, mankind

Abuse thee, one and all.
They have no right to make thy name

A by-word for their deeds :--
They change their friends, their principles,

Their fashions, and their creeds ;
Whilst thou hast ne'er, like them, been known

Thus causelessly to range;
But when thou changest sides, canst give

Good reason for the change.
Thou, like some lofty soul, whose course

The thoughtless oft condemn,
Art touch'd by many airs from heaven

Which never breathe on them,
And moved by many impulses

Which they do never know,
Who, round their earth-bound circles, plod

The dusty paths below.
Through one more dark and cheerless night

Thou well hast kept thy trust;
And now in glory o'er thy head

The morning light has burst.
And unto earth's true watcher, thus,

When his dark hours have pass'd,
Will come

“the day-spring from on high,” To cheer his path at last.

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