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165. THE BUTTERFLY.

TAY near me! do not take thy flight!

STAY

A little longer stay in sight!

Much converse do I find in thee,

Historian of my infancy!

Float near me ! do not yet depart !

Dead times revive in thee;

Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art,
A solemn image to my heart,-

My father's family!

-

Oh, pleasant, pleasant were the days,
The time when, in our childish plays,
My sister Emmeline and I
Together chased the butterfly.
A very hunter did I rush

Upon the prey; with leaps and springs
I followed on from brake to bush;
But she (God love her!) fear'd to brush
The dust from off its wings.

WORDSWORTH.

166. THE SEVEN AGES.

[From As You LIKE IT.]

LL the world's a stage,

AL And all the men and women merely players:

They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms;

And then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel,
And shining morning face, creeping like snail

Unwillingly to school: and then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow: then, a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in the cannon's mouth: and then, the justice,
In fair round belly, with good capon lined,
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances,
And so he plays his part: the sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side;
His youthful hose well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound: last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion;
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

SHAKESPEARE.

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167.

DETACHED FRAGMENTS

H! what a tangled web we weave,
When first we practise to deceive!

The tear down childhood's cheek that flows,
Is like the dew-drop on the rose;
When next the wind comes hastening by,
And shakes the bush, the flower is dry!

Oh! many a shaft at random sent,
Finds mark the archer little meant;

And many a word at random spoken,

Can soothe or wound the heart that's broken.

Oh! woman, in our hour of ease
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
And variable as the shade

By the light, quivering aspen made!
When pain and anguish wring the brow,
A ministering angel thou!

Within this awful volume lies
The mystery of mysteries!
Oh! happiest they of human race,
To whom our God hath given grace
To hear, to read, to love, to pray,
To lift the latch, to force the way :
But better had they ne'er been born,
Who read to doubt or read to scorn!

SIR W. SCOTT.

168. THE BLESSING OF A CONCEALED

HE

FUTURE.

[From THE ESSAY ON MAN.]

TEAVEN from all creatures hides the book of Fate, All but the page prescribed, their present state: From brutes what men, from men what spirits know: Or who could suffer being here below?

The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day,
Had he thy reason, would he skip and play?
Pleased to the last, he crops the flowery food,
And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood.

Oh, blindness to the future! kindly given,
That each may fill the circle mark'd by Heaven :
Who sees with equal eye, as God of all,
A hero perish, or a sparrow fall,
Atoms or systems into ruin hurl'd,

And now a bubble burst, and now a world.

Hope humbly, then; with trembling pinions soar, Wait the great teacher, Death; and God adore. What future bliss, he gives not thee to know, But gives that hope to be thy blessing now Hope springs eternal in the human breast: Man never Is, but always To be blest : The soul, uneasy, and confined from home, Rests and expatiates in a life to come.

169. SENTIMENTAL RELIGION,

'TIS Sunday morning, and at early hour,

POPE.

The poet seeks his own sequester'd bower: The shining landscape stretches full in view; All heaven is glowing with unclouded blue; The hills lie basking in the sunny beams, Enriched with sprinkled hamlets, woods, and streams: And hark! from tower and steeple, here and there, The cheerful chime bespeaks the hour of prayer.

The poet's inmost soul responsive swells
To every change of those religious bells;
His fine eye ranges o'er the spacious scene,
With ecstacy unutterably keen:

His mind's exalted, melted, sooth'd, and free
From earthly tumult,—all tranquillity ;-
If this is not devotion, what can be?

But, gentle poet, wherefore not repair
To yonder temple? God is worshipped there.
Nay, wherefore should he? wherefore not address
The God of Nature in that green recess,

Surrounded by his works, and not confined
To rites adapted to the vulgar mind?
There he can sit, and thence his soul may rise,
Caught up in contemplation to the skies,
And worship Nature's God on reason's plan:
-It is delusion, self-applauding man!

The God of Nature is the God of

grace;
The contrite spirit is his dwelling-place;
And thy proud offering, made by reason's light,
Is all abomination in his sight.

Let him distinguish (if he car. indeed)
Wherein his differs from the deist's creed.
Oh, he approves the Bible, thinks it true,
(No matter if he ever read it through),
Admits the evidence that some reject,
For the Messiah professes great respect,
And owns the sacred poets often climb
Up to the standard of the true sublime.
And is this all? and were such wonders wrought,
And tongues, and signs, and miracles for nought ?
If this be all,-his reason's utmost scope,-

Where rests his faith, his practice, and his hope? Where lies the cross that he would daily bear? Where that reproach the Saviour's flock must share? Where is the dear indulgence he denies?

Which of his virtues is a sacrifice?

How has he learnt the easy yoke to take,
And count all things but loss for Jesus' sake?

JANE TAYLOR.

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