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Where'er the Lord is, there are they ;

In every heart that gives them room,
They light his altar every day,

Zeal to inflame, and vice consume.
Then, fainting soul, arise and sing;
Mount, but be sober on the wing;
Mount up, for heaven is won by prayer,
Be sober, for thou art not there;
Till death the weary spirit free,
Thy God hath said, 'Tis good for thee
To walk by faith and not by sight:

Take it on trust a little while;
Soon shalt thou read the mystery right

In the full sunshine of his smile.
Or if thou yet more knowledge crave,
Ask thine own heart, that willing slave
To all that works thee wo or harm :
Shouldst thou not need some mighty charm
To win thee to thy Saviour's side,
Though he had deign’d with thee to bide ?
The Spirit must stir the darkling deep,

The Dove must settle on the cross,
Else we should all sin on or sleep

With Christ in sight, turning our gain to loss.


*Make me thereof a little cake first, and bring it unto me, and after make for thee and

for thy son.”
Lo, cast at random on the wild sea sand

A child low wailing lies :
Around with eye forlorn and feeble hand,

Scarce heeding its faint cries,
The widow'd mother in the wilderness

Gathers dry boughs, their last sad meal to dress.
But who is this that comes with mantle rude

And vigil-wasted air ?
Who to the famish'd cries, “Come, give me food,

I with thy child would share ?”
She bounteous gives : but hard he seems of heart,
Who of such scanty store would crave a part.
Haply the child his little hand holds forth,

That all his own may be.
Nay, simple one, thy mother's faith is worth

Healing and life to thee.

And thou, dear child, though hungering, give glad way

To Jesus in his need:
So thy blest mother at the awful day

Thy name in heaven may read;
So by His touch for ever mayst thou live,
Who asks our alms, and lends a heart to give.


No distance breaks the tie of blood;

Brothers are brothers evermore ;
Nor wrong, nor wrath of deadliest mood,

That magic may o'erpower.
Oft ere the common source be known,
The kindred drops will claim their own,
And throbbing pulses silently
Move heart toward heart by sympathy.
So is it with true Christian hearts,

Their mutual share in Jesus' blood
An everlasting bond imparts,

Of holiest brotherhood.
Oh might we all our lineage prove,-
Give and forgive-do good and love ;
By soft endearments in kind strife
Lightening the load of human life.


Tuis distinguished author--distinguished for the fine fancy, deep thought, and elevated moral tone of most of his writings—has recently' made us a visit. He came, not to be lionized, but to see our country, and exchange kindly words with those who had loved and honored, though unseen, the author of the “ Proverbial Philosophy."

He is a son of the eminent surgeon, Martin Tupper, F. R. S. of London, and was born in that city in 1810. He took his degree of B. A. at Christ Church, Oxford, and subsequently entered at Lincoln's Inn. In due time he was called to the bar, but never practised as a barrister.

ages of sacred and profane history, ancient and modern. In 1840 appeared a pleasant volume of odds and ends, called “An Anthor's Mind.” His next work was a moral novel, published in 1844, entitled “The Crock of Gold,"—designed to illustrate the Sixth Commandment, as well as to show the curse and hardening effects of avarice. It is a talo beautifully told, and one of great interest and attraction. The principal characters of the story are honest Roger Acton, the luckless finder of the “ Crock of Gold;" his pure and simple-hearted daughter Grace, her lover Jonathan, Simon Jennings the murderer, his aunt Bridget Quarles the murdered one, and Ben Burke the poacher.

The same year (1844) Mr. Tupper published two other works of fiction, in one volume each, namely: “Heart, a social Novel,” and “The Twins, & domestic Novel,”—both highly subservient to the cause of sound morals, and depicting virtue and vice in their appropriate colors. His next work, published in 1845, is entitled “A Thousand Lines,"-a little tract of but sixty pages, containing poems on various subjects, written in his most captivating manner.

Mr. Tupper is most known by his “ Proverbial Philosophy;" and a book more replete with sound practical wisdom is hardly to be found, though it must be confessed the style of it is in some parts rather inflated. His prose works are also eminently instructive. Of these, “The Crock of Gold” has been most widely read and generally admired; for, as a tale of intense interest and clear moral point, it is scarcely exceeded. The following is the simple account of its origin :

“Some years ago he purchased a house at Brighton. While laying out the garden, he had occasion to have several drains made. One day, observing a workman, Francis Suter, standing in one of the trenches wet and wearied with toil, Mr. Tupper said to him, in a tone of pleasantry, “Would you not like to dig up there a crock full of gold ?' 'If I did,' said the man, 'it would do mne no good; because morely finding it might not make it mine.' 'But, suppose you could not only find such a treasure, but honestly keep it, would you not think yourself lucky?' 'Oh yes, sir, I suppose should—but,' after a considerable pause, “but, I am not so sure, sir, after all, that that is the best thing that could happen to me. I think, on the whole, I would rather have steady work and fair wages all the season, than to find a crock of gold!' Here was wisdom. The remark of the honest trench-digger at once set in motion a train of thought in the mind of the author. He entered his study-wrote in large letters on a sheet of paper these words, “THE CROCK OF Gold, a tale of Covetousness, -and in less than a week this remarkable story was finished.” With such simple threads does genius elaborate the richest and most gorgeous tapestry.'

Equal is the government of heaven in allotting pleasures among men,
And just the everlasting law that hath wedded happiness to virtue:

For verily on all things else broodeth disappointment with care,
That childish man may be taught the shallowness of earthly enjoyment.
Wherefore, ye that have enough, envy ye the rich man his abundance ?
Wherefore, daughters of affluence, covet ye the cottager's content?
Take the good with the evil, for ye all are pensioners of God,
And none may choose or refuse the cup His wisdom mixeth.
The poor man rejoiceth at his toil, and his daily bread is sweet to him:
Content with present good, he looketh not for evil to the future:
The rich man languisheth with sloth, and findeth pleasure in nothing.
He locketh up with care his gold, and feareth the fickleness of fortune.
Can a cup contain within itself the measure of a bucket?
Or the straiten'd appetites of man drink more than their fill of luxury?
There is a limit to enjoyment, though the sources of wealth be boundless:
And the choicest pleasures of life lie within the ring of moderation.




Power is seldom innocent, and envy is the yoke-fellow of eminence;
And the rust of the miser's riches wasteth his soul as a canker.
The poor man counteth not the cost at which such wealth hath been

purchased; He would be on the mountain's top without the toil and travail of the

climbing. But equity demandeth recompense; for high-place, calumny and care; For state, comfortless splendor eating out the heart of home; For warrior-fame, dangers and death; for a name among the learned, a

spirit overstrain'd; For honor of all kinds, the goad of ambition; on every acquirement, the

tax of anxiety. He that would change with another, must take the cup as it is mix’d: Poverty, with largeness of heart: or a full purse, with a sordid spirit; Wisdom, in an ailing body; or a common mind with health ; Godliness, with man's scorn; or the welcome of the mighty, with guilt; Beauty, with a fickle heart; or plainness of face, with affection. For so hath Providence determined, that a man shall not easily discover Unmingled good or evil, to quicken his envy or abhorrence. A bold man or a fool must he be who would change his lot with another; It were a fearful bargain, and mercy hath lovingly refused it; For we know the worst of ourselves, but the secrets of another we see not; And better is certain bad, than the doubt and dread of worse. Just, and strong, and opportune is the moral rule of God. Ripe in its times, firm in its judgments, equal in the measure of its gifts : Yet men, scanning the surface, count the wicked happy,

[tions : Nor heed the compensating peace which gladdeneth the good in his afflicThey see not the frightful dreams that crowd a bad man's pillow, Like wreathed adders crawling round his midnight conscience; They hear not the terrible suggestions that knock at the portal of his will, Provoking to wipe away from life the one weak witness of the deed; They know not the torturing suspicions that sting his panting breast, When the clear eye of penetration quietly readeth off the truth. Likewise of the good what know they? the memories bringing pleasure, Shrined in the heart of the benevolent, and glistening from his eye; The calm self-justifying reason that establisheth the upright in his purpose; The warm and gushing bliss that floodeth all the thoughts of the religious. Many a beggar at the cross-way, or gray-hair'd shepherd on the plain, Hath more of the end of all wealth than hundreds who multiply the means. FORGIVE AND FORGET.

When streams of unkindness, as bitter as gall,

Bubble up from the heart to the tongue,
And Meekness is writhing in torment and thrall,

By the hands of Ingratitude wrung-
In the heat of injustice, unwept and unfair,

While the anguish is festering yet,
None, none but an angel or God can declare,

“I now can forgive and forget.”
But, if the bad spirit is chased from the heart,

And the lips are in penitence steep'd, With the wrong so repented the wrath will depart,

Though scorn on injustice were heap'd; For the best compensation is paid for all ill,

When the cheek with contrition is wet,
And every one feels it is possible still

At once to forgive and forget.
To forget? It is hard for a man with a mind,

However his heart may forgive,
To blot out all insults and evils behind,

And but for the future to live:
Then how shall it be? for at every turn

Recollection the spirit will fret,
And the ashes of injury smoulder and burn,

Though we strive to forgive and forget.
Oh, hearken! my tongue shall the riddle unseal,

And mind shall be partner with heart, While thce to thyself I bid conscience reveal,

And show thee how evil thou art:
Remember thy follies, thy sins, and—thy crimes,

How vast is that infinite debt!
Yet Mercy hatli seven by seventy times

Been swift to forgive and forget!
Brood not on insults or injuries old,

For thou art injurious too-
Count not their sum till the total is told,

For thou art unkind and untrue:
And if all thy harms are forgotten, forgiven,

Now mercy with justice is met;
Oh, who would not gladly take lessons of heaven,

Nor learn to forgive and forget ?
Yes, yes; let a man, when his enemy weeps,

Be quick to receive him a friend;
For thus on his head in kindness he heaps

Hot coals-to refine and amend;
And hearts that are Christian more eagerly yearn,

As a nurse on her innocent pet,
Over lips that, once bitter, to penitence turn,

And whisper, Forgive and forget.

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