Behind him lowered the thunder-storm, which the caldron of his

wickedness had brewed;

Before him was the smooth, steep cliff, whose base is ruin and de

spair.

So he madly rushed on, and tried to forget his being:

The noisy revel, and the low debauch, and fierce excitement of play, With dreary interchange of palling pleasures, filled the dull round of existence.

Memory was to him as a foe; so he flew for false solace to the wine

cup,

And stunned his enemy at even, but she rent him as a giant in the morning.

I TURNED aside to weep; I lost him a little while :

I looked, and years had passed: he was hoar with the winter of his age. And what was now his hope? where was the balm for his sadness; The memory of the past was guilt; the feeling of the present,

remorse.

Then he set his affections on gold, he worshipped the shrine of
Mammon,

And to lay richer gifts before his idol, he starved his own bowels;
So the youth spent in profligacy ended in the gripings of want:
The miser grudged himself husks, to take deeper vengeance of the
prodigal.

And I said, this is sorrow; but pity cannot reach it.

This is to be wretched indeed, to be guilty without repentance.

OF JOY.

My soul was sickened within me; so I sought the dwelling-place of Joy:

And I met it not in laughter; I found it not in wealth or power; But I saw it in the pleasant home, where religion smiled upon con

tent,

And the satisfied ambition of the heart rejoiced in the favor of its God.

Behold the happy man; his face is rayed with pleasure;

His thoughts are of calm delight, and none can know his blessed

ness:

I have watched him from his infancy, and seen him in the grasp of

death,

Yet never have I noted on his brow the cloud of desponding sor

row.

He hath knelt beside his cradle; his mother's hymn lulled him to

sleep:

In childhood he hath loved holiness, and drank from that fountainhead of peace.

Wisdom took him for her scholar, guiding his steps in purity:

He lived unpolluted by the world; and his young heart hated sin. But he owned not the spurious religion engendered of faction and moroseness,

Neither were the sproutings of his soul seared by the brand of superstition.

His love is pure and single, sincere, and knoweth not change:
For his manhood hath been blessed with the pleasant choice of his

youth:

Behold his one beloved; she leaneth on his arm,

And he looketh on the years that are past, to review the dawn of her affection.

Memory is sweet unto him as a perfect landscape to the sight;
Each object is lovely in itself, but the whole is the harmony of

nature.

Behold his little ones around him; they bask in the sunshine of his smile,

And infant innocence and joy lighten their happy faces:

He is holy, and they honor him; he is loving, and they love him; He is consistent, and they esteem him; he is firm, and they fear

him.

His friends are the excellent among men; and the bands of their friendship are strong:

His house is the palace of peace; for the Prince of Peace is there. As the wearied man to his couch, as the thoughtful man to his

musings,

Even so, from the bustle of life, he goeth to his well-ordered home. And though he often sin, he returneth with weeping eyes;

For he feeleth the mercies of forgiveness, and gloweth with warmer gratitude.

THUS did he walk in happiness, and sorrow was a stranger to his

soul;

The light of affection sunned his heart, the tear of the grateful be

dewed his feet,

He put his hand with constancy to good, and angels knew him as a brother,

And the busy satellites of evil trembled as at God's ally:

He used his wealth as a wise steward, making him friends for fu

turity;

He bent his learning to religion, and religion was with him at the

last:

For I saw him after many days, when the time of his release was

come,

And I longed for a congregated world, to behold that dying saint. As the aloe is green and well-liking, till the last best summer of its

age,

And then hangeth out its golden bells to mingle glory with corrup

tion;

As a meteor travelleth in splendor, but bursteth in dazzling light; Such was the end of the righteous: his death was the sun at his setting.

LOOK on this picture of Joy, and remember that portrait of Sorrow:
Behold the beauty of holiness, behold the deformity of sin!
How long, ye sons of men, will ye scorn the words of wisdom?
How long will ye hunt for happiness in the caverns that breed de-

spair?

Will ye comfort yourselves in misery, by denying the existence of delight,

And from experience in woe, will ye reason that pone are happy?
Joy is not in your path, for it loveth not that bleak, broad road,
But its flowers are hung upon the hedges that line a narrower way;
And there the faint travellers of earth may wander and gather for
themselves,

To soothe their wounded hearts with balm from the amaranths of heaven.

ΘΕΩ ΔΟΞΑ.

PROVERBIAL PHILOSOPHY.

Second Series.

INTRODUCTORY.

COME again, and greet me as a friend, fellow-pilgrim upon life's high

way;

Leave awhile the hot and dusty road, to loiter in the greenwood of

Reflection.

Come unto my cool, dim grotto, that is watered by the rivulet of truth,

And over whose time-stained rock climb the fairy flowers of content;
Here, upon this mossy bank of leisure fling thy load of cares;
Taste my simple store, and rest one soothing hour.

BEHOLD, I would count thee for a brother, and commune with thy charitable soul;

Though wrapt within the mantle of a prophet, I stand mine own weak scholar.

Heed no disciple for a teacher, if knowledge be not found upon his tongue;

For vanity and folly were the lessons these lips untaught could

give:

The precious staple of my merchandise cometh from a better coun

try,

The harvest of my reaping sprang of foreign seed:

And this poor pensioner of Mercy,—should he boast of merit?

The grafted stock, should that be proud of apples not its own?

Into the bubbling brook I dip my hermit shell;

Man receiveth as a cup, but Wisdom is the river.

MOREOVER, for this filagree of fancy, this Oriental garnish of similitude,

Alas! the world is old,—and all things old within it:

I walk a trodden path, I love the good old ways;

Prophets, and priests, and kings have tuned the harp I faintly touch.

Truth in a garment of the past, is my choice and simple theme; No truth is new to-day; and the mantle was another's.

STILL, there is an insect swarm, the buzzing cloud of imagery, Mote-like steaming on my sight, and thronging my reluctant

mind;

The memories of studious culling, and multiplied analogies of na

ture,

Fresh feelings unrepressed, welling from the heart spontaneous, Facts, and comparisons, and meditative atoms, gathered on the heap of combination,

Mingle in the fashion of my speech with gossamer dreams of Reverie.

I need not beat the underwood for game; my pheasants flock upon the lawn,

And gamboling hares disport fearless in my dewy field:

I roam no heath-empurpled hills, wearily watching for a covey,
But thoughts fly swift to my decoy, eager to be caught;

I sit no quiet angler, lingering patiently for sport,

But spread my nets for a draught, and take the glittering shoal; I chase no solitary stag, tracking it with breathless toil,

But hunt with Aureng-zebe, and spear surrounded thousands! (29)

WHAT then, - count ye this a boast? - sweet charity, think it other,

For the dog-fish and poisonous ray are captured in the mullet-haul: The crane and the kite are of my thoughts, alike with the partridge and the quail,

And unclean meats as of the clean hang upon my Seric shambles. -How, saith he? shall a man deceive, dressing up his jackal as a

lion?

Or color in staid hues of fact the changing vest of falsehood?