Nancy. And would you let yourself be trod upon? and sure you will, if you don't show spirit.
Rose. I think people that mind their own business, and live lovingly with their neighbours, are never trod
Nancy. O, it's hard to live lovingly with some; and when I've said my say, it's all over in a minute; besides, the best natured people are the most passionate; that's my comfort.
Rose. Nancy, dear, can you believe that foolish saying, invented, and spread abroad by the passionate, to excuse themselves? Pray recollect amongst your own friends and acquaintances, if the best natured were not always the gentlest, and the mildest too.
Nancy. I can't say but they are. ture to be hasty, and I can't help it. Rose. Every person can help it. Do you ever see any one in a passion with those who can do them great service? a man, for instance, with an old person, from whom he expects a good legacy? or a tenant with his landlord? No, no, they take care to keep their passion for those that are under them and in their power. Besides, as to saying it's your nature, Nancy, to be sure it is the nature of us all to do wrong; and we must try to get the better of our bad inclinations, and pray against them, and not let them grow into bad habits.
Paraphrase of the Nineteenth Psalm.-ADDISON.
THE spacious firmament on high,
With all the blue etherial sky,
And spangled heavens, a shining frame,
Their great original proclaim.
The unwearied sun, from day to day,
Does his Creator's power display;
And publishes to ev'ry land,
The work of an almighty hand.
Soon as the evening shades prevail,
The moon takes up the wond'rous tale,
And nightly, to the list'ning earth,
Repeats the story of her birth;
Whilst all the stars, that round her burn,
And all the planets, in their turn,
Confirm the tidings, as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole to pole.
What, though in solemn silence, all
Move round this dark terrestrial ball!
What, though no real voice nor sound
Amid their radiant orbs be found!
In reason's ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice,
Forever singing, as they shine,
"The hand that made us is divine."
The Sacrifice of Abraham.-WILLIS.
MORN breaketh in the east.
Are putting on their gold and violet,
To look the meeter for the sun's bright coming.
Sleep is
upon the waters and the wind;
And nature, from the tremulous forest leaf
To her majestic master, sleeps. As yet
There is no mist upon the deep blue sky,
And the clear dew is on the blushing bosoms
Of crimson roses, in a holy rest.
How hallowed is the hour of morning! meet,
Aye, beautifully meet, for the pure prayer.
The patriarch standeth at his tented door,
With his white locks uncovered.
To gaze upon the gorgeous orient;
And at that hour the awful majesty
Of one who talketh often with his God,
Is wont to come again and clothe his brow
As at his fourscore strength. But now he seemeth
To be forgetful of his vigorous frame,
And boweth to his staff as at the hour
Of noontide sultriness; and that bright sun!
He looketh at its pencilled messengers,
Coming in golden raiment, as if light
Were opening a fearful scroll in heaven.
Ah! he is waiting till it herald in
The hour to sacrifice his much loved son!
Light poureth on the world. And Sarah stands, Watching the steps of Abraham and her child Along the dewy sides of the far hills,
And praying that her sunny boy faint not.
Would she have watched their path so silently,
If she had known that he was going up,
Even in his fair-haired beauty, to be slain
As a white lamb for sacrifice? They trod
Together onward, patriarch and child;
The bright sun throwing back the old man's shade,
In straight and fair proportions, as of one
Erect in early vigour. He stood up
Firm in his better strength, and like a tree
Rooted in Lebanon, his frame bent not..
His thin, white hairs had yielded to the wind,
And left his brow uncovered; and his face,
Impressed with the stern majesty of grief,
Nerved to a solemn duty, now stood forth
Like a rent rock, submissive, yet sublime.
But the young boy, he of the laughing eye
And ruby lip, the pride of life was on him.
He seemed to drink the morning. Sun and dew,
And the aroma of the spicy trees,
And all that giveth the delicious East
Its fitness for an Eden, stole like light
Into his spirit, ravishing his thoughts
With love and beauty. Every thing he met,
Floating or beautiful, the lightest wing
Of bird or insect, or the palest dye
Of the fresh flowers, won him from his path;
And joyously broke forth his tiny shout,
As he flung back his silken hair, and sprung
Away to some green spot or clustering vine,
To pluck his infant trophies. Every tree
And fragrant shrub was a new hiding-place,
And he would crouch till the old man came by,
Then bound before him with his childish laugh,
Stealing a look behind him playfully,
To see if he had made his father smile.
The sun rode on in heaven.
Like a light veil from nature, and the heat
Came like a sleep upon the delicate leaves,
And bent them with the blossoms to their dreams.
Still trod the patriarch on with that same step,
Firm and unfaltering, turning not aside
To seek the olive shades, or lave his lips
In the sweet waters of the Syrian wells,
Whose gush hath so much music. Weariness
Stole on the gentle boy, and he forgot
To toss his sunny hair from off his brow,
And spring for the light wings and gaudy flowers,
As in the early morning; but he kept
Close by his father's side, and bent his head
Upon his bosom like a drooping bud,
Lifting it not, save now and then to steal
A look up to the face whose sternness awed
His childishness to silence.
And Abraham on Moriah bowed himself,
And buried up his face, and prayed for strength.
He could not look upon his son and
But with his hand upon the clustering curls
Of the fair, kneeling boy, he prayed that God
Would nerve him for that hour. Oh! man was made
For the stern conflict. In a mother's love
There is more tenderness; the thousand cords
Woven with every fibre of her heart,
Complain, like delicate harp strings, at a breath;
But love in man is one deep principle,
Which, yielding not to lighter influence,
Abides the tempest. He rose up, and laid
The wood upon the altar. All was done.
He stood a moment, and a vivid flush
Passed o'er his countenance; and then he nerved
His spirit with a bitter strength, and spoke :
Isaac! my only son! The boy looked up,
And Abraham turned his face away, and wept.
Where is the lamb, my father?' Oh! the tones,
The sweet, the thrilling music of a child!
How it doth agonize at such an hour!
It was the last, deep struggle. Abraham held
His loved, his beautiful, his only son,
And lifted up his arm, and called on God-
And lo! God's Angel stayed him; and he fell
Upon his face and wept.
ABSENCE of occupation is not rest,
A mind quite vacant is a mind distress'd.
The vet'ran steed, excus'd his task at length,
In kind compassion of his failing strength,
And turn'd into the park or mead to graze,
Exempt from future service all his days,
There feels a pleasure perfect in its kind,
Ranges at liberty, and snuffs the wind:
But when his lord would quit the busy road,
To taste a joy like that he had bestow'd,
He proves, less happy than his favour'd brute,
A life of ease a difficult pursuit.
Thought, to the man that never thinks, may seem
As natural as when asleep to dream;
But reveries (for human minds will act)
Specious in show, impossible in fact,
Those flimsy webs, that break as soon as wrought, Attain not to the dignity of thought:
Nor yet the swarms that occupy the brain,
Where dreams of dress, intrigue, and pleasure reign. Whence, and what are we? to what end ordained? What means the drama by the world sustained? Business or vain amusement, care or mirth,
Divide the frail inhabitants of earth.
Is duty a mere sport, or an employ?
Life an intrusted talent, or a toy?
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