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The Stars.

EE! the fair sparkling Stars, like diamonds bright,
Gem the glorious robe of silent Night;
Dazzling worlds, that in undimmed lustre shine,
As if fresh from their Maker's hand divine;
Glowing realms, that mock the Atheist's name,
Who for Chance their celestial birth would claim;
Brilliant gems of Creation's changeless crown,
To which the Pagan world knelt blindly down.
O ye jewels bright of Jehovah's throne,
That in matchless, glittering glory shone,
That were mirrored far in the depths below,
Where the tides ever restless ebb and flow,
Before Sin and Death in their wild career
Blasted all that was fair and lovely here,
And ere Science young, with inquiring eye,
Scanned the rolling spheres of yonder sky,

Ye were whirling round in your orbits grand,
Which by nature's God were framed and planned.

Ye glorious orbs! we may note the time
That ye take to travel your rounds sublime;
May compute your distance from the sun,
And boast of celestial triumphs won.

Science yet may scale your starry height,.
And on Learning pour a flood of light;
But there are things above she may not scan,
There are limits set to the powers of man;
There's a veil that hides from all searching ken
Worlds yet unrevealed to the sons of men.
Yet in Fancy's flight may the human mind
In Creation's space new splendors find,
And through powerful convex lenses gaze
On the regions where far systems blaze;
Where the suns and revolving planets glow
Yet unseen from this mundane sphere below;
Where millions of worlds that we cannot sum
Strike wildered Reason amazed and dumb;
And where Science, with all her boasted lore,
Kneels at the threshold of Wisdom's door.

What know we of Comets, that volant race
That sweep through the desert fields of space?
They fearfully come, and they flaming go,
And the paths of some we may never know.
We see them anon in our starry sky,

With their flashing trains, like lightning fly:
By the mystic power of the Great First Cause,
They are subject all to unerring laws.

Can it be that those golden lamps on high,
That radiant spangle the azure sky,

Were but hung to impart a feeble light

That mere clouds may blot from human sight?
Or that Man might in wondrous rapture stare
On the bright nocturnal glories there,
Till Mind, like the mariner tempest-tossed,
Is on a rolling sea of wonders lost?
Forever away with such thoughts profane!
The Creator ne'er made worlds in vain.
Though Philosophy may not understand,
Yet in all we see there's a purpose grand;
And throughout His countless, vast domains
A pervading God-like order reigns.

And oh! who can prove, or who gainsay,
Whether mortals there hold social sway?

Stars may peopled be, and, for aught we know,
As with us, the Seasons come and go;

And fair flowers may bloom, and verdure spring,.
And birds celestial strains may sing;

Mountains may be capped with eternal snow,
And volcanoes through all ages glow;

Mighty rivers on to oceans roll,

That Nature's glorious laws control.

As e'en a drop of water teems with life,
So, with nameless forms of existence rife,
There may dwell sweet Peace and busy Strife.

Oh! ye just and good, when ye leave this sphere

With an upright heart, and a faith sincere,

Yon richly jewelled sapphire dome

Is the path to your eternal home.

The World of Fashion.

E flaunting dames who proudly follow

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Gay Fashion's life, so false and hollow, Lay sex aside, on the breeches draw, And to hen-pecked man lay down the law.

What are morals in this wondrous age,
That would dare with Fashion war to wage?
Teach your daughters fair to fancy men
Who are classed among the upper ten.

Nature's laws are wrong, as ye may see, And by Fashion they should righted be; Wives of pride and sense can clearly prove None but silly fools in blindness love.

As your precepts and example show,

'Tis a vulgar thing to spin and sew;

None but low-bred "trash and common dirt"

Ever mend auld breeks or make a shirt.

Though your mothers at the wash-tub stood,
Fortune's favors soon ennoble blood,

And beggars sans a decent shift

From a shanty to a palace lift.

Fashion builds her churches, has her priests,

Who will dance attendance at her feasts;

While the poor from cushioned pews are driven, To seek elsewhere a road to Heaven.

If

ye wish esteem, still hold in scorn

That aspiring class ignobly born;

While they meanly ape, and fume, and rail,
Oh, ye heads of Fashion, cut the tail!

And to make your daughters empty fools, Send them off to Fashion's boarding-schools: They will soon forget their mother tongue, And the mother too from whom they sprung.

With dresses made in Parisian ton,

Ye may find them at the Springs anon,
With their painted cheeks couleur de rose,
Coquetting round with their brainless beaux.

To be noted, they must cut a dash

With some Count who wears a big mustache; Who sees, each time he looks in the glass, The counterpart of a perfect ass.

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