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Beginning.

The first step towards accomplishment, which perseverance only can ensure.

Behaviour.

Pitch thy behaviour low, thy projects high:
So shalt thou humble and magnanimous be:
Sink not in spirit: who aimeth at the sky
Shoots higher much than he that means a tree.
A grain of glory mixt with humbleness

Cures both a fever and lethargicness.—Herbert.

Belief.

Were we to believe nothing but what we could perfectly comprehend, not only our stock of knowledge in all the branches of learning would be shrunk to nothing, but even the affairs of common life could not be carried on.-Tucker.

--

Yon cottager, who weaves at her own door,
Pillow and bobbins all her little store;
Content though mean, and cheerful if not gay,
Shuffling her threads about the livelong day,
Just earns a scanty pittance, and at night
Lies down secure, her heart and pocket light.
She, for her humble sphere by nature fit,
Has little understanding, and no wit;
Receives no praise; but though her lot be such
(Toilsome and indigent), she renders much;
Just knows, and knows no more, her Bible true-
A truth the brilliant Frenchman* never knew;
And in that charter reads, with sparkling eyes,
Her title to a treasure in the skies.
Oh happy peasant! Oh unhappy bard!
His the mere tinsel, hers the rich reward:
He praised, perhaps, for ages yet to come;
She never heard of half a mile from home:
He lost in errors his vain heart prefers,
She safe in the simplicity of hers.—Cowper.
* Voltaire.

Bending.

The "first position" in the march of promotion.

Benevolence.

There cannot be a more glorious object in creation than a human being, replete with benevolence, meditating in what manner he might render himself most acceptable to his Creator, by doing most good to his creatures.-Fielding.

Bereavement.

Around my steps

Floated his fame, like music, and I lived
But in the lofty sound. But when my heart
In one frail ark had ventured all, when most
He seem'd to stand between my soul and heaven-
Then came the thunderbolt! 'Tis ever thus !
And the unquiet and foreboding sense
That thus 'twill ever be, doth link itself—
Darkly-with all deep love!-He died !-Hemans.

- Voice after voice hath died away,
Once in my dwelling heard ;

Sweet household name by name hath changed
To grief's forbidden word.

In dreams of night on each I call--

Each of the far removed

And waken to my own wild cry,

"Where are ye, my beloved ?"-Ibid.

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Sipping from the blossoms
Sweetest morning dew;
Every day I see them,
Birds of every hue.
Resting on the summits
Of the leafy trees,
Drinking in the fragrance

Of the perfumed breeze.

Singing songs of gladness,
Telling tales of love,
Building little houses
In the shady grove,

Talking to each other

In their mystic words;

Tell me, don't you love them,

Merry little birds?

A. D. in Family Herald.

The birds, great Nature's happy commoners,

That haunt in woods, and meads, and flowery gardens,
Rifle the sweets, and taste the choicest fruits;
Yet scorn to ask the lordly owner's leave.-Rowe.

Birds-birds! ye are beautiful things,

With your earth-treading feet and your cloud-cleaving wings;
Where shall man wander, and where shall he dwell,
Beautiful birds, that ye come not as well?

Ye have nests on the mountain, all rugged and stark,
Ye have nests in the forest, all tangled and dark;

Ye build and ye brood 'neath the cottagers' eaves,

And ye sleep on the sod 'mid the bonnie green leaves;
Ye hide in the heather, ye lurk in the brake,

Ye dive in the sweet flags that shadow the lake:

Ye skim where the stream parts the orchard-decked land, Ye dance where the foam sweeps the desolate strand.

Beautiful birds! ye come thickly around,

When the bud's on the branch, and the snow's on the ground;

Ye come when the richest of roses flush out,

And ye come when the yellow leaf eddies about.

Beautiful birds! how the schoolboy remembers
The warblers that chorused his holiday tune;
The robin that chirped in the frosty Decembers,

The blackbird that whistled through flower-crowned June. That schoolboy remembers his holiday ramble,

When he pulled every blossom of palm he could see, When his finger was raised as he stopped in the bramble With "Hark! there's the cuckoo; how close he must be !" Beautiful birds! we've encircled thy names

With the fairest of fruits and the fiercest of flames.
We paint War with his eagle, and Peace with her dove;
With the red bolt of Death, and the olive of Love;
The fountain of Friendship is never complete,

Till ye coo o'er its waters so sparkling and sweet; And where is the hand that would dare to divide Even Wisdom's grave self from the owl by her side? Beautiful creatures of freedom and light!

Oh! where is the eye that groweth not bright
As it watches you trimming your soft glossy coats,
Swelling your bosoms, and ruffling your throats?
Oh! I would not ask, as the old ditties sing,
To be "happy as sand-boy" or "happy as king ;”
For the joy is more blissful that bids me declare,
"I'm as happy as all the wild birds in the air."
I will tell them to find me a grave when I die,
Where no marble will shut out the glorious sky;
Let them give me a tomb where the daisy will bloom,
Where the moon will shine down, and the leveret pass by;
But be sure there's a tree, stretching out high and wide,
Where the linnet, the thrush, and the woodlark may hide;
For the truest and purest of requiems heard,

Is the eloquent hymn of the beautiful bird !—Eliza Cook.

Bird's-Nest.

A natural egg-cup.-A cradle rocked by the wind.-A proof that luxury and expense are not required to form a comfortable home.-Small twigs turned to good account.

Birth.

I tell thee, then, whoe'er amidst the sons
Of reason, valour, liberty, and virtue,
Displays distinguish'd merit, is a noble

Of nature's own creating. Such have risen,
Sprung from the dust, or where had been our honours

- My boast is not that I deduce my birth

Thomson.

From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth;
But higher far my proud pretensions rise,

The son of parents passed into the skies.-Cowper.

Birth-Day.

"My birth-day!"-what a different sound
That word had in my youthful years!
And how, each time the day comes round,
Less and less white its mark appears.

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When first our scanty years are told,
It seems like pastime to grow old;
And, as youth counts the shining links
Which time around him binds so fast,
Pleased with the task, he little thinks
How hard the chain will press at last.-Moore.

Blest (The).

Who are the blest?

They who have kept their sympathies awake,

And scattered joy for more than custom's sake;
Stedfast and tender in the hour of need,

Gentle in thought, benevolent in deed,

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Whose looks have power to make dissension cease,
Whose smiles are pleasant, and whose words are peace.
They who have lived as harmless as the dove,
Teachers of truth and ministers of love;
Love for all moral power-all mental grace-
Love for the humblest of the human race-
Love for that tranquil joy that virtue brings-
Love for the Giver of all goodly things:

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