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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 while here! and the bloom
Of new life from those cheeks shall never flee.
There is the health which lasts through all eternity.

J. G. PERCIVAL.

LESSON CXCVII.

TIME'S LAST VISIT.

[There is a Persian legend, representing Time, before commencing his "New Year's Flight," warning those who are to die during the coming season, of their inevitable fate."]

THE night was a cold and stormy one,

And the year was running low,

When Time threw his traveling mantle on,

As he was about to go:

And he cast on his glass a rueful look;

"The sands will be out," he said,

(Seizing his memorandum book,)

"And these visits must be made:
But it does little good the fools to warn;
I almost lose my labors;

They think the last visit I make to them
Is always meant for their neighbors.

Last year my duty was faithfully done;
I traversed the city through,

Revealing to every devoted one,

I had come for a final adieu :

Why, they treated my warning as Nicholas treats

The groans of the dying Poles:

Or thought 't was to save (how this avarice cheats!)
Their money, not their souls,

That my hint of a speedy departure was given,
Though I bade them farewell like a lover;
And how few there were who prepared for heaven!
I can easily reckon them over.

And first to a BANKER's house I hied,

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Though I knew he was often surly,

But these Rothchilds, one must humor their pride; So I hastened to warn him early.

I found him within, at a sumptuous feast,

An Apician sauce was before him,

And its flavor he praised to each smiling guest;
"TiS DEATH!' thus my warning came o'er him.

Oh, how his eye glared as he bade me flee!
I was off like a twinkle of light,

And he ate at that dinner enough for three,
And he died of a spasm that night.

I hurried away to a DOCTOR, then,

Though I knew I might spare my pains, That he thought of disease as the end of men, And of death as the doctor's gains;

'My patient must die,' he was maundering on; As he glanced a fee-bill o'er,

'And his money will go to his graceless son, My bill might be somewhat more;

For the youth will ne'er take the trouble to note That I've charged five visits a day.'

So he figured away, while I laughed in his ear, 'REMEMBER MY VISITS TO PAY!'

I told an OLD MAN it was time he should go,
And he was too deaf to hear:

I called, at the play, on a dashing BEAU,
And he was too gay to fear:

I paused in a Merchant's counting-room,
And a dunce was I to stop,

Scarce would he have heeded the crash of doom,

While reckoning his leger up.

"THERE IS ONE DEMAND,' I began to say,

He burst with a hurried breath,

'Show me your bill, I've the cash to pay ;' I left him to settle with death!

I stopped at a POOR MAN's humble shed,
And thought 't would delight him so,
For I knew he had often wished he was dead;
But he flatly refused to go:

And O, the wild agony of his eye,

As he begged me one year to give!

Saying 't was too bad for a man to die
Who had struggled so hard to live;

That his wife must beg, and his children starve:

I whispered of charity;

He raised his eye with a look of despair; 6 'Tis a broken reed,' sighed he.

I had fared so ill with the lords of earth,
Of the earth they had proved indeed,
That I turned to the sex of gentler birth,
Hoping more kindly to speed!

On the beautiful BELLE I made a call;
A milliner's girl stood by,

She brought a new dress for the New Year's ball;
I breathed a sepulchral sigh,

And the rich, red flowers looked ghastly white;
'How odd!' cried the beauty, in sorrow;
'These do not become me at all to-night,
But bring me some brighter to-morrow.'

And then-but why continue the list,
So fraught with chagrin to me:
Who likes to remember the times he has missed,
When recounting his archery?

I called, in fine, on the old and the young,
Fair, ugly, and sober, and gay,

The chorus the same to the tune they all sung;
They would not be hurried away.

There were many who hated the world, to be sure,
And called Time an old, villainous cheat,

But Heaven was so distant, so bright, and so pure; They had no inclination to see 't.

WORMS OF THE DUST! I murmured in wrath,

As I entered a stately dome,

And, following the clue of my fated path,

Repaired to a nursery room ;

The children were sleeping like nestled birds,

And SHE, the sweet mother dove,

With a face too happy to paint by words,

Was choosing her gifts of love

For the New Year's morn; I touched her cheek,

She knew the deadly thrill,

And raising her eyes with a smile so meek;

'My Father, 'tis thy will.'

Yes, WOMAN should always be ready to go,
She has nothing on earth but LOVE;
A dowry that bears little value below,
But 'tis priceless, transferred above:
O, lavish it not on my brightest joys,
"Tis folly, 't is worse than vain ;
I never bestow them except as toys,
I mean to resume again.

Even now I shall gather a thousand fair things,

I gave when this year was new,

And the hopes for the NEXT, that I shake from my wings,
Will prove as deceitful too.

MRS. S. J. HALE.

LESSON CXCVIII,

THE LITTLE BROOK AND THE STAR.

ONCE upon a time, in the leafy covert of a wild, woody dingle, there lived (for it was, indeed, a thing of life) a certain little brook, that might have been the happiest creature in the world, if it had but known when it was well off, and been content with the station assigned to it by an unerring Providence. But in that knowledge and that content, consists the true secret of happiness; and the silly little brook never found out the mystery, until it was too late to profit by it.

I cannot say, positively, from what source the little brook came; but it appeared to well out from beneath the hollow root of an old thorn; and, collecting together its pellucid waters, so as to form a small pool, within that knotty reservoir, it swelled imperceptibly over its irregular margin, and slipped away, unheard, almost unseen, among mossy stones and entangling branches. No emerald was ever so green: never was velvet so soft, as the beautiful moss which encircled that tiny lake: and it was gemmed and embroidered, too, by all flowers that love the shade; pale primroses and nodding violets; anemones, with their fair, down-cast heads; and starry clusters of forget-me-not, looking lovingly, with their pale, tender eyes, into the bosom of their native rill.

The hawthorn's branches were interwoven above, with those of a holly; and a woodbine, climbing up the stem of one tree,

flung across to the other its flexible arms, knotting together the mingled foliage, with its rich clusters and elegant festoons, like a fair sister, growing up under the guardianship of two beloved brothers, and, by her endearing witchery, drawing together, in closer union, their already united hearts. Never was little brook so delightfully situated; for its existence, though secluded, was neither monotonous nor solitary. A thousand trifling incidents (trifling, but not uninteresting,) were perpetually varying the scene; and innumerable living creatures, the gentlest and loveliest of the silvan tribes, familiarly haunted its retreat.

Beautiful, there, was every season with its changes. In the year's fresh morning, delicious May or ripening June, if a light breeze but stirred in the hawthorn tops, down on the dimpling water came a shower of milky blossoms, loading the air with fragrance as they fell. Then, came the squirrel with his mirthful antics. Then, rustling through fern and brushwood, stole the timid hare, half startled, as she slaked her thirst at the still fountain, by the liquid reflection of her own large, lustrous eyes. There was no lack of music round about. song-thrush had his domicil hard by; and, even at night, his mellow voice was heard, contending with a nightingale, in scarce unequal rivalry. And other vocalists, innumerable, awoke those woodland echoes. Sweetest of all, the low, tremulous call of the ring-dove floated, at intervals, through the shivering foliage, the very soul of sound and tenderness.

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In winter, the glossy-green and coral clusters of the holly, flung down their rich reflections on the little pool, then visited through the leafless boughs with a gleam of more perfect daylight; and a red-breast, which had built its nest, and reared its young among the twisted roots of that old tree, still hovered about his summer bower, still quenched his thirst at the little brook, still sought his food on its mossy banks; and, tuning his small pipe, when every other feathered throat, but his own, was mute, took up the eternal hymn of gratitude, which began with the birth-day of Nature, and shall only cease with her expiring breath. So, every season brought but changes of pleasantness to that happy little brook: and happier still it was, or might have been, in one sweet and tender companionship, to which passing time and revolving seasons brought no change.

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