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If energy and strength of resolute will,
To do and suffer, though all earth oppose,
Like faithful Abdiel, — kındness never tired
In toil for others, quiet self-respect

Which awes th' unworthy from too near approach,
With unassuming diffidence of self,

Which scarce dares hear, and never asks for praise,
And deep, confiding trust in Him whose work
And minister it was her joy to be,

If these be traits that mark th' angelic host,
Then was she one of that illustrious choir.

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To one upon the threshold of the world,

Whose opening way to life is thronged with forms
That lie in wait to threaten and seduce,
There is a worth untold in virtuous love.

'Tis as a talisman of power: unhurt

It bears him on, through snares of crafty vice,
And long array of pleasure's subtle host,

Baffling with potent charm their wily arts,

That lose their power to touch him. Thoughts impure,
Low aims, and selfish passions, shrink away.
It keeps him chaste makes all his purposes
Companions of a virtuous hope-beats down
The harmful empire of the present hour,
Pointing his thought to some sweet future home,
Henceforth his central purpose, which imparts
Fresh vigor to his enterprise- to hand

And mind gives nerve, to pleasure turns all toil,
Makes honor doubly dear

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In young ambition purifies, and lifts

High above selfishness the darling plan

Which forms his ruling passion. For he toils

No more alone, nor only for himself.

The honor, peace, yea, life — and, more than all, The good opinion of a purer mind

A second, better conscience,

whose reproof

Stings deeper, whose approval gives more joy
Than his own breast are all at stake in him;
And for her sake, in whom are hoarded up
The dearest treasures of his life on earth,
He keeps an uncontaminated heart,
And scorns the base seductiveness of sin.
O holy power of pure, devoted love!
And O, thou holy, sacred name of home!
Prime bliss of earth! Behind us and before
Our guiding star, our refuge! When we plunge,
Loose from the safeguard of a father's roof,
On life's uncertain flood, exposed and driven,
'Tis the mild memory of thy sacred days
That keeps the young man pure. A father's eye,
A mother's smile, a sister's gentle love,
The table, and the altar, and the hearth,
In reverend image, keep their early hold

Upon his heart, and crowd out guilt and shame.
Then, too, the hope, that in some after day
These consecrated ties shall be renewed

In him, the founder of another house;

And wife and children-earth's so precious names-
Be gathered round the hearth, where he himself
Shall be the father-O, this glowing hope,
With memory co-working, lightens toil,
And renders impotent the plots of earth
To warp him from his innocence and faith.

MANHOOD.

WILD Solitude of precipice and flood,
Romantic Trenton! let me sing thy praise.
The hills were cleft to give thy waters way;
The rocks were riven to form their chasmed bed.
On either hand the steep, dark walls ascend,
Like ruined towers o'erhung with tangled vines,
And plants that love the rock, and tall, thick trees
That twine their boughs above, and fling a hue
Of solemn darkness on the flood below.

Rushing impetuous through this charmed ravine,
Thy roaring torrent pours- now swift and smooth;
Now shattered by intruding crags; now hurled
Headlong down sudden gulfs, where dizzying whirls
Point to the fearful depth that yawns below;
Now crowding fiercely through the straitened pass;
Now in th' outspreading basin finding rest
In cool and sombrous shades- a lucid lake
Of clear, black waters, motionless as glass-
Thence, issuing swift, they leap the precipice,
And, foaming down from ledge to ledge, keep on
Their reckless way; till, from the hills set free,
Through level plains they calmly glide along,
Refresh the quiet meadows as they pass,
And seek their mother sea. Upon thy bank,
Fair creek of Canada, the wanderer's foot
Ne'er wearies. Kindled by the varying scene,
From crag he springs to crag, from pass to pass-
Now, treading on the low, broad marge, his foot
Touches the wave; now, clambering the ascent,
He creeps with cautious step along the shelf

Hewn midway in the dizzy precipice-
Nor stays his course, till in the open heaven,
Freed from its troubled channel, he beholds
The wearied flood roll languid o'er the plain.
O Life! so often likened to a stream,

Thus by thy youth's wild banks and rushing tide
My memory fondly lingers - thus I trace
Its bright, impetuous, fickle, playful course,
Wild, changeful, beautiful. But now the flood
Emerges into manhood's sober day :
With useful wave it irrigates the mead,

And crowds and duties press its fruitful shores.
But "the Nine" haunt it not. Romance forsakes
Its tamer borders. Vulgar toil, with plough
And wagon, treads its busy banks,

And soulless drudges scornfully survey

The beauties of the stream that yields them gain.

AGE.

YOUTH's fires are quenched, and manhood's toils are o'er;
The days of early hope, the older years

Of disappointment, all have run their course,
And hope and disappointment here below
Are mine no more. From morn to noon, my life
Has rolled its brightening and its cloudy way,
And noon begins to wane. The Spring has seen
Her garlands blush and wither on my brow;
The Summer wheeled her burning suns abroad,
And I have toiled beneath their ripening blaze.
Now, welcome to my faint and weary limbs

Autumn's cool breath, and sober bowers of rest.
I long to sit in their refreshing shade,

And bare my whitening tresses to the wind,
And pluck th' o'erhanging fruit, and yield my mind
To pensive musing. Come, advancing age

I bid thee welcome with thy reverend brow,
And mien of bland composure. Come, and lay
Thy hand benignant on my aching head;
Pour thy tranquillity upon my heart;

And let thy soothing calm, thy thoughtful peace,
Thy wise and venerable cheerfulness,
Hush down the stormy elements of strife,
And rock my harassed being to repose.
There are who paint thee hideous eyes of rheum,
And ears that catch no sound bones full of pain

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night one weary watch

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The temper soured the heart's sweet fountains dried
Mind dull and prejudiced this curious frame,

This matchless instrument of sense and soul,
Turned to a rack of torture and this life,

Once of itself enjoyment, made a curse.
O, come not in this fearful guise to me!
This garb of living death nor lengthen out
The useless hours of this poor tortured clay
To pine in stupid dotage—to annoy,
With its encumbering helplessness, the path
Of those who love me, and to be a mark
For gaze and insult to th' unfeeling crowd,
That mock at human weakness. More than all,
Spare, spare the mind! from touch of fell decay
O keep the spirit free! nor let a frost

Fall on the heart's affections, to congeal
Its generous blood. "Tis sad, 'tis horrible,

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