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It seems to quiver; yet shall this night pass,
This night alone, without the lifted voice
Of adoration in our narrow cell,

As if unworthy fear, or wavering faith,
Silenced the strain? No! let it waft to Heaven
The prayer, the hope of poor mortality,

In its dark hour once more! And we will sleep-
Yes-calmly sleep, when our last rite is closed.
Evening Hymn.

We see no more in thy pure skies,
How soft, O God! the sunset dies:
How every colored hill and wood
Seems melting in the golden flood:
Yet, by the precious memories won
From bright hours now forever gone,
Father! o'er all thy works, we know,
Thou still art shedding beauty's glow:
Still touching every cloud and tree
With glory, eloquent of Thee:

Still feeding all thy flowers with light,

Though man has barred it from our sight.

We know thou reign'st, the unchanging One, th' All Just!
And bless thee still with free and boundless trust!

We read no more, O God! thy ways
On earth, in these wild, evil days;
The red sword in th' oppressor's hand
Is ruler o'er the weeping land;
Fallen are the faithful and the pure,
No shrine is spared, no hearth secure;
Yet, by the deep voice from the past,
Which tells us these things cannot last;
And by the hope which finds no ark,
Save in thy breast, when storms grow dark;
We trust thee! As the sailor knows,
That, in its place of bright repose

His pole-star burns, though mist and cloud

May vail it with a midnight shroud.

We know thou reign'st! All Holy One, All Just!
And bless thee still with love's own boundless trust.

We feel no more that aid is nigh,
When our faint hearts within us die.
We suffer; and we know our doom
Must be one suffering till the tomb.

Yet, by the anguish of thy Son
When his last hour came darkly on;
By his dread cry, the air which rent
In terror of abandonment;

And by his parting word, which rose,
Through faith, victorious o'er all woes;

We know that thou may'st wound, may'st break
The spirit, but wilt ne'er forsake.

Sad suppliants, whom our brethren spurn,
In our deep need to thee we turn!

To whom but thee? All Merciful, All Just!
In life, in death, we yield thee boundless trust.




NOTWITHSTANDING the lessons of moralists, and the declamations of philosophers, it cannot be denied that all mankind have a natural love, and even respect, for external beauty. In vain do they represent it as a thing of no value in itself, as a frail and perishable flower; in vain do they exhaust all the depths of argument, all the stories of fancy, to prove the worthlessness of this amiable gift of nature. However persuasive their reasonings may appear, and however we may, for a time, fancy ourselves convinced by them, we have in our breasts a certain instinct, which never fails to tell us, that all is not satisfactory; and though we may not be able to prove that they are wrong, we feel a conviction that it is impossible they should be right.

They are certainly right in blaming those, who are rendered. vain by the possession of beauty, since vanity is, at all times, a fault. But there is a great difference between being vain of a thing, and being happy that we have it; and that beauty, however little merit a woman can claim to herself for it, is really a quality which she may reasonably rejoice to possess, demands, I think, no very labored proof. Every one naturally wishes to please. To this end we know how important it is, that the first impression we produce should be favorable.

Now, this first impression is commonly produced through the medium of the eye; and this is frequently so powerful as to

resist, for a long time, the opposing evidence of subsequen observation. Let a man of even the soundest judgment be presented to two women, equally strangers to him, but the one extremely handsome, the other without any remarkable advantages of person, and he will, without deliberation, attach himself first to the former. All men seem in this to be actuated by the same principle as Socrates, who used to say when he saw a beautiful person, he always expected to see it animated by a beautiful soul.

The ladies, however, often fall into the fatal error of imagining that a fine person is, in our eyes, superior to every other accomplishment; and those, who are so happy as to be endowed with it, rely with vain confidence on its irresistible power to retain hearts, as well as to subdue them. Hence the lavish care bestowed on the improvement of exterior and perishable charms, and the neglect of solid and durable excellence; hence the long list of arts that administer to vanity and folly, the countless train of glittering accomplishments, and the scanty catalogue of truly valuable acquirements, which compose for the most part, the modern system of fashionable female education. Yet so far is beauty from being, in our eyes, an excuse for the want of a cultivated mind, that the women who are blessed with it, have, in reality, a much harder task to perform, than those of their sex who are not so distinguished. Even our self-love here takes part against them; we feel ashamed of having suffered ourselves to be caught like children, by mere outside, and perhaps even fall into the contrary extreme.

Could "the statue that enchants the world,"-the Venus de Medicis,—at the prayer of some new Pygmalion, become suddenly animated, how disappointed would he be, if she were not endowed with a soul answerable to the inimitable perfection of her heavenly form! Thus it is with a fine woman, whose only accomplishment is external excellence. She may dazzle for a time; but when a man has once thought, "What a pity that such a masterpiece should be but a walking statue!" her empire is at an end. On the other hand, when a woman, the plainness of whose features prevented our noticing her at first, is found, upon nearer acquaintance, to be possessed of the more solid and valuable perfections of the mind, the pleasure we feel in being so agreeably undeceived, makes her appear to still greater advantage:

and as the mind of man, when left to itself, is naturally an enemy to all injustice, we, even unknown to ourselves, strive to repair the wrong we have involuntarily done her, by a double portion of attention and regard.

If these observations be founded in truth, it will appear, that though a woman with a cultivated mind may justly hope to please, without even any superior advantages of person, the loveliest creature that ever came from the hand of her Creator can hope only for a transitory empire, unless she unite with her beauty the more durable charm of intellectual excellence.

The favored child of nature, who combines in herself these united perfections, may be justly considered as the masterpiece of creation; as the most perfect image of the Divinity here below. Man, the proud lord of creation, bows willingly his haughty neck beneath her gentle rule. Exalted, tender, beneficent, is the love that she inspires. Even time himself shall respect the all-powerful magic of her beauty. Her charms may fade, but they shall never wither; and memory still, in the evening of life, hanging with fond affection over the blanched rose, shall view through the vale of lapsed years, the tender bud, the dawning promise, whose beauties once blushed before the beams of the morning sun.


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CONTENTMENT produces, in some measure, all those effects which are usually ascribed to what is called the philosopher's stone; and if it does not bring riches, it does the same thing, by banishing the desire of them. If it cannot remove the disquietudes arising from a man's mind, body, or fortune, it makes him easy under them. It has indeed a kindly influence on the soul of man, in respect of every being to whom he stands related. It extinguishes all murmuring, repining, and ingratitude towards that Being who has allotted him his part to act in this world. It destroys all inordinate ambition, and every tendency to corruption, with regard to the community wherein he is placed.

It gives sweetness to his conversation, and a perpetual serenity to all his thoughts. Among the many methods which might be made use of for acquiring this virtue, I shall mention only the two following. First of all, a man should always consider how much he has, more than he wants; and secondly, how much more unhappy he might be than he really is.

First, a man should always consider how much he has, more than he wants. I am wonderfully pleased with the reply which Aristippus made to one, who condoled with him upon the loss of a farm: "Why," said he, "I have three farms still, and you have but one; so that I ought rather to be afflicted for you, than you for me." On the contrary, foolish men are more apt to consider what they have lost, than what they possess; and to fix their eyes upon those who are richer than themselves, rather than on those who are under greater difficulties. All the real pleasures and conveniences of life lie in a narrow compass; but it is the humor of mankind to be always looking forward, and straining after one who has got the start of them in wealth and honor.

For this reason, as none can be properly called rich, who have not more than they want, there are few rich men in any of the politer nations, but among the middle sort of people, who keep their wishes within their fortunes, and have more wealth than they know how to enjoy. Persons of a higher rank, live in a kind of splendid poverty; and are perpetually wanting, because, instead of acquiescing in the solid pleasures of life, they endeavor to outvie one another in shadows and appearances. Men of sense have at all times beheld, with a great deal of mirth, this silly game that is playing over their heads; and, by contracting their desires, they enjoy all that secret satisfaction which others are always in quest of. The truth is, this ridiculous chase after imaginary pleasures cannot be sufficiently exposed, as it is the great source of those evils which generally undo a nation. Let a man's estate be what it may, he is a poor man if he does not live within it; and naturally sets himself to sale to any one that can give him his price.

When Pittacus, after the death of his brother, who left him a good estate, was offered a great sum of money by the king of Lydia, he thanked him for his kindness; but told him, he

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