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THE OBJECT OF LIFE.

149

and wept for another world to bring under the dominion of the Saviour; and returning to Babylon, should have died, like Martyn, the victim of Christian zeal. Cæsar should have made Gaul and Britain obedient to the faith, and crossing the Rubicon with the apostolic legions, and making the Romans freemen of the Lord, should have been the forerunner of Paul, and done half his work. Charlemange should have been a Luther,Charles of Sweeden should have been a Howard ; and, flying from the Baltic to the Euxine, like an angel of mercy, should have fallen, when on some errand of love, and, numbering his days by the good deeds he had done, should have died like Mills in an old age of charity. Voltaire should have written Christian tracts. Rousseau should have been a Fenelon. Hume should have unravelled the intricacies of theology, and defended like Edwards, the faith once delivered to the saints.”

We call ours the most enlightened nation on earth, inferior to none in owning the spirit of Christianity; and we claim this as an age behind none ever enjoyed, for high moral principle and benevolent, disinterested action. But what is the principle in the great mass of mankind! When clouds gather in the political horizon, and war threatens a nation, how are the omens received ? How many are there who turn aside and weep, and deprecate the guilt, the woe, and the indescribable evils and miseries of war? The great majority of the nation feel that the path of glory is now opening before them, and that the honour which may possibly be attained by a few battles, is ample compensation for the expense, the morals, the lives and the happiness, which must be sacrified for the possibility. Let that nation rush to war for some supposed point of honour.— Watch the population as they collect, group after group, under the burning sun, all anxious, all eager, and all standing as if in deep expectation for the signal which was to call them to judgment. They are waiting for the first tidings of the battle, where the honour of the nation is staked. No tidings that ever came from Heaven

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THE OBJECT OF LIFE.

can send a thrill of joy so deep as the tidings that one ship has conquered or sunk another.

Was it any thing remarkable, that, in the very heart of a Christian nation, a single horse-race brought over fifty thousand people together? Were they acting so much out of the character of the mass of mankind as to cause it to make any deep impression upon the moral sensibilities of the nation ?

Suppose it were known that a mind was now in process of training, which might, if its powers were properly directed, be equal to Milton or Locke; but that, instead of this, it will waste its powers in creating such song as Byron wrote, or in weaving such webs as the schoolmen wove. Would the knowledge of such a waste of mind, such perversion of powers, cause a deep sensation of regret among men? or have such perversions been so common in the world, that one such magnificent mind might be lost to mankind, and no one would mourn? The answer is plain. The world has become so accustomed to seeing mind prostituted to ignoble purposes, and influence which might reach round the globe like a zone of mercy thrown away forever, that we hardly think of it as greatly out of the way.

A generation of men come on the stage of action; they find the world in darkness, in ignorance, and in sin. They live, gain the few honours which are easily plucked, gather the little wealth which toil and anxiety will bestow, and then pass away. As a whole, the generation do not expect or try to throw an influence upon the world which shall be redeeming.–They do not expect to leave the world materially better than they found it. Why do we not mourn that such myriads of immortal minds are destined to pass away, and never to break out in acts of mercy and kindness to the world? Because we have so long been so prodigal of mind, that we hardly notice its loss.

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Che Bomb Child.

She is my only girl :
I asked for her as some most precious thing,
For all unfinished was love's jewelled ring,

Till set with this soft pearl :
The shade that time brought forth, I could not see;
How pure, how perfect, seemed the gift to me.

Oh, many a soft old tune, used to sing unto that deadened ear, And suffered not the lightest footstep near,

Lest she might wake too soon : And hushed her brothers' laughter while she layAh, needless care! I might have let them play!

'Twas long ere I believed That this one daughter might not speak to me: Waited and watched. God knows how patiently!

How willingly deceived.
Vain Love was long the untiring nurse of Faith,
And tended Hope until it starved to death.

Oh! if she could but hear
For one short hour, till I her tongue might teach
To call me mother, in the broken speech,

That thrills the mother's ear!
Alas! those sealed lips never may be stirred-
To the deep music of that lovely word.

My heart it sorely tries,
To see her kneel, with such a reverent air,
Beside her brothers, at their evening prayer;

Or lift those earnest eyes

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To watch our lips, as though our words she knew,
Then move her own, as she were speaking too.

I've watched her looking up,
To the bright wonder of a sunset sky,
With such a depth of meaning in her eye,

That I could almost hope,
The struggling soul would burst its binding cords,
And the long pent up thoughts, flow forth in words.

The
song

of bird and bee,
The chorus of the breezes, streams and groves,
All the grand music to which Nature moves,

Are wasted melody
To her; the world of sound a nameless void :
While even Silence hath its charms destroyed.

Her face is very

fair :
Her blue eye beautiful : of finest mould
The soft, white brow, o'er which in waves of gold

Ripples her shining hair.
Alas! this lovely temple closed must be ;
For He who made it, keeps the master-key.

Wills He the mind within
Should from earth's Babel-clamour be kept free,
E'en that His still small voice and step, might be

Heard at its inner shrine,
Through that deep hush of soul with clearer thrill?
Then should I grieve? Oh, murmuring heart be still!

She seems to have a sense
Of quiet gladness in her noiseless play,
She hath a pleasant smile, a gentle way,

Whose voiceless eloquence

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Touches all hearts, though I had once the fear,
That even her father would not care for her.

Thank God it is not so !
And when his sons are playing merrily,
She comes and leans her head

upon

his knee.
Oh! at such times I know-
By his full eye and tones subdued and mild,
How his heart yearns over his silent child.

Not of all gifts bereft,
Even now.

How could I say she did not speak ?
What real language lights her eye and cheek,

And renders thanks to Him who left
Unto her soul yet open, avenues
For joy to enter, and for love to use.

And God in love doth give
To her defect, a beauty of its own:
And we a deeper tenderness have known,

Through that for which we grieve.
Yet shall the seal be melted from her ear,
Yes, and my voice shall fill it—but not here!

When that new sense is given,
What rapture will its first experience be,
That never woke to meaner melody,

Than the rich songs of Heaven-
To hear the full toned anthem swelling round,
While angels teach the ecstacies of sound!

KNOWLEDGE is the treasure, but judgment the treasurer of a wise man.

WILLIAM PENN.

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