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Father! in this holy hour,

As the star of daylight fades, Listen to my heart's low pleadings,

Grant me Thy support and aid. Thou hast borne from earliest reason

With my weak, imperfect will;
Holy Father! guide, sustain me,

Be my shield and succor still.
In Thy power no ill can reach me,

In Thy strength no harm befall;
Send Thy blessing to my pillow,

As I nightly on Thee call.


What have I to do with by-gones,

In my cheerful home to-night, With my children's happy faces,

Gleaming in their rosy light?

Why does memory that has slumbered

Thro’ long years of joy and pain, Bring a presence long since vanished,

To my vision back again?

Why, when I would rest me quiet,

In a home replete with love, llo those scenes so long forgotten,

All my saddest feelings move?

Who will tell me why I wander

In wein land of the past, Turning from the joy and sunshine,

Shadows o'er my way to cast?

I mind me of a noble poet,

Who hath said a word, a tone,
Will recall through scenes dissonant,

Thoughts we deemed forever gone.

But, away! I will not cherish

What I would not now recall; Numberless the many blessings

Which are shed around us all.

I at least shall learn to prize them,

And shall praise my God alway, For the many prayers unanswered,

That were breathed in life's young di

So my dear ones, if I wandered,

For awhile on memory's sea, Back my little bark has drifted,

To the home prepared by thee,

JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDERICH SCHILLER was born November 11th, 1759. Fortune placed him in that condition of life which is generally considered to be most conducive to literary eminence-between wealth and penury, neither enervated by the one, nor depressed by the other,—the representative of a station where genius often finds her most favored sons.

His father, JOHANN CASPAR SCUILLER, was a man of an adventurous character; stern, exacting and fond of military glory. At the time of our hero's birth, he held the situation of ensign and adjutant in the Wurtemburg army; still he was fond of his family, and remarkable for the scrupulous integrity of his character; but his mother, according to biographers, was a woman of mild exterior, with manners peculiarly sweet and gentlesomewhat grave and serious, perhaps. Her favorite occupation was to amuse her children with tales calculated to instruct the understanding or arouse the fancy; as they grew older, she repeated to them verses, which she herself loved and appreciated. In this early school of maternal affection, the imagination was developed, and tastes and feelings awakened in unison with her own. Like the mother of Lamartine, she early inculcated a deep and fervent sense of religion, by stories and passages from the life of the Redeemer; often the tears of her little pupils attested their sympathy and commisseration and to this early training may be traced the

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