Sing to the Lord! from damp, prophetic cave
No more the loose-haired Sybils burst and rave;
Nor watch the augurs pale the wandering bird:
No more on hill or in the murky wood,

Mid frantic shout and dissonant music rude,

In human tones are wailing victims heard;

Nor fathers, by the reeking altar stone,

Cowl their dark heads to escape their children's dying groan.

Sing to the Lord! no more the dead are laid

In cold despair beneath the cypress shade,

To sleep the eternal sleep, that knows no morn: There, eager still to burst death's brazen bands, The angel of the resurrection stands ;

While, on its own immortal pinions borne, Following the breaker of the imprisoning tomb, Forth springs the exulting soul, and shakes away its gloom.

Sing to the Lord! the desert rocks break out,
And the thronged cities in one gladdening shout,—-
The farthest shores by pilgrim step explored;
Spread all your wings, ye winds, and waft around,
Even to the starry cope's pale waning bound,

Earth's universal homage to the Lord;

Lift up thine head, imperial capitol,

Proud on thy height to see the bannered cross unroll,

Sing to the Lord! when time itself shall cease,
And final Ruin's 'desolating peace

Enwrap this wide and restless world of man;
When the Judge rides upon the enthroning wind,
And o'er all generations of mankind

Eternal Vengeance waves its winnowing fan;

To vast infinity's remotest space,

While ages run their everlasting race,

Shall all the beatific hosts prolong,

Wide as the glory of the Lamb, the Lamb's triumphant song.

LESSON IX.

Consolations of Religion to the Poor.-J. G. PERCIVAL

THERE is a mourner, and her heart is broken;
She is a widow; she is old and poor;
Her only hope is in that sacred token

Of peaceful happiness when life is o'er ;
She asks nor wealth nor pleasure, begs no more
Than Heaven's delightful volume, and the sight
Of her Redeemer. Sceptics, would you pour
Your blasting vials on her head, and blight
Sharon's sweet rose, that blooms, and charms her being's night?

She lives in her affections; for the grave

Has closed upon her husband, children; all
Her hopes are with the arm she trusts will save
Her treasured jewels: though her views are small,
Though she has never mounted high, to fall,
And writhe in her debasement,--yet the spring
Of her meek, tender feelings, cannot pall
Her unperverted palate, but will bring
A joy without regret, a bliss that has no sting.

Even as a fountain, whose unsullied wave
Wells in the pathless'valley, flowing o'er
With silent waters, kissing, as they lave,

The pebbles with light rippling, and the shore
Of matted grass and flowers,-so softly pour
The breathings of her bosom, when she prays,
Low-bowed, before her Maker: then no more
She muses on the griefs of former days;

Her full heart melts, and flows in Heaven's dissolving rays.

And faith can see a new world, and the eyes

Of saints look pity on her :

Death will come

A few short moments over, and the prize
Of peace eternal waits her, and the tomb

Becomes her fondest pillow; all its gloom
Is scattered. What a meeting there will be

To her and all she loved here! and the bloom
Of new life from those cheeks shall never flee:
Theirs is the health which lasts through all eternity.

LESSON X.

Character of a wise and amiable Woman.-FREEMAN.

THE Woman, whom I would exhibit to your view, possesses a sound understanding. She is virtuous, not from impulse, instinct, and a childish simplicity; for she knows that evil exists, as well as good; but she abhors the former, and resolutely chooses the latter. As she has carefully weighed the nature and consequences of her actions, her moral principles are fixed; and she has deliberately formed a plan of life, to which she conscientiously adheres. Her character is her own; her knowledge and virtues are original, and are not the faint copies of another character. Convinced that the duty of every human being, consists in performing well the part, which is assigned by divine Providence, she directs her principal attention to this object; and, whether as a wife, a mother, or the head of a family, she is always diligent and discreet.

She is exempt from affectation, the folly of little minds. Far from her heart is the desire of acquiring a reputation, or of rendering herself interesting, by imbecilities and imperfections. Thus she is delicate, but not timid: she has too much good sense, ever to be afraid where there is no danger; and she leaves the affectation of terror to women, who, from the want of a correct education, are ignorant of what is truly becoming. She is still farther removed from the affectation of sensibility; she has sympathy and tears for the calamities of her friends; but there is no artificial whining on her tongue, nor does she ever manifest more grief than she really feels.

In so enlightened an understanding, humility appears with

peculiar grace. Every wise woman must be humble; because every wise woman must know, that no human being has anything to be proud of. The gifts, which she possesses, she has received; she cannot therefore glory in them, as if they were of her own creation. There is no ostentation in any part of her behavior: she does not affect to conceal her virtues and talents, but she never ambitiously displays them. She is still more pleasingly adorned with the graces of mildness and gentleness.

Her manners are placid, the tones of her voice are sweet, and her eye benignant; because her heart is meek and kind. From the combination of these virtues arises that general effect, which is denominated loveliness,-a quality which renders her the object of the complacence of all her friends, and the delight of every one who approaches her. Believing that she was born, nct for herself only, but for others, she endeavors to communicate happiness to all who are around her; in particular, to her intimate connexions.

Her children, those immortal beings, who are committed to her care, that they may be formed to knowledge and virtue, are the principal objects of her attention. She sows in their minds the seeds of piety and goodness; she waters them with the dew of heavenly instruction; and she eradicates every weed of evil, as soon as it appears. Thus does she benefit the church, her country, and the world, by training up sincere Christians, useful citizens, and good men. It is scarcely necessary to observe, that, with so benevolent a heart, she remembers the poor, and that she affords them, not only pity, but substantial relief.

As she is a wise woman, who is not afraid to exercise her understanding, her experience and observation soon convince her, that the world, though it abounds with many pleasures, is not an unmixed state of enjoyment. Whilst, therefore, she is careful to bring no misfortunes on herself by imprudence, folly, and extravagance, she looks with a calm and steady eye on the unavoidable afflictions through which she is doomed to pass; and she arms her mind with fortitude, that she may endure, with resolution and cheerfulness, the severest trials.

When sickness and distress at last come, she submits to them with patience and resignation. A peevish complaint does not escape from her lips; nor does she once murmur because the hand of her heavenly Father lies heavy upon her. She is, if possible, more serene, more mild, more gentle, on the bed of disease, than she was in the seasons of health and felicity. So affectionate is she to her surrounding friends, and so grateful for the attentions which they pay to her, that they almost forget that she suffers any pain.

*

The love of God crowns all her virtues : religion is deeply fixed in her heart; but here, as in all her behavior, she is without parade. Her piety is sincere and ardent, but humble and retired. A mind, in which strength and gentleness are thus united, may be compared to the soft light of the moon, which shines with the perpetual rays of the sun. We are, at first view, ready to imagine that it is more lovely than great, more charming than dignified; but we soon become convinced, that it is filled with true wisdom, and endowed with noble purposes.

LESSON XI.

Scene of Filial Affection.-Lear, Cordelia and Physician.

SHAKSPEARE.

Cor. O My dear father! Restoration hang Her medicine on my lips, and let this kiss Repair those violent harms, that my two sisters

Have in thy reverence made!—

Had you not been their father, these white flakes
Did challenge pity of them. Was this a face
To be exposed against the warring winds?
To stand against the deep, dread-bolted thunder?
In the most terrible and nimble stroke

Of quick, cross lightning? My enemy's dog,