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Pleased with the passage, we glide swiftly on, And see the dangers which we cannot shun.

Dryden.

O fatal beauty! why art thou bestow'd
On hapless woman still to make her wretched?
Betray'd by thee, how many are undone !

Patterson.

280. BEAUTY: its power. NOUGHT under heaven so strongly doth allure The sense of man, and all his mind possess, As beauty's lovely bait, that doth procure Great warriors oft their rigour to repress; And mighty hands forget their manliness, Drawn with the power of an heart-robbing eye, And wrapt in fetters of a golden tress, That can with melting pleasaunce mollify Their harden'd hearts, inured to blood and cruelty.

281. BEAUTY. Joy of

A THING of beauty is a joy for ever:

Its loveliness increases; it will never

Pass into nothingness; but still will keep

A bower quiet for us, and a sleep

Spenser.

285. BEAUTY. Realm of

FOR beauty hideth everywhere, that Reason's child may seek her,

And having found the gem of price, may set it in God's crown.

There is beauty in the rolling clouds, and placid shingle beach,

In feathery snows and whistling winds, and dun electric skies;

There is beauty in the rounded woods, dank with heavy foliage,

In laughing fields, and dinted hills, the valley and its lake;

There is beauty in the gullies, beauty on the cliffs, beauty in sun and shade,

In rocks and rivers, seas and plains, -the earth is drown'd in beauty.-Tupper.

286. BEAUTY. Truth and

THUS was Beauty sent from heaven,

The lovely mistress of Truth and Good

In this dark world; for Truth and Good are one And Beauty dwells in them, and they in her,

Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. With like participation. Wherefore, then,

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O sons of earth, would ye dissolve the tie?
O wherefore, with a rash, impetuous aim,
Seek ye those flowery joys with which the hand
Of lavish Fancy paints each flattering scene
Where Beauty seems to dwell, nor once inquire
Where is the sanction of eternal Truth,
Or where the seal of undeceitful good,
To save your search from folly! wanting these,
Lo! Beauty withers in your void embrace,
And with the glittering of an idiot's toy
Did fancy mock your vows.-Akenside.

287. BEAUTY: typical.

BEAUTY was lent to nature as the type
Of heaven's unspeakable and holy joy,
Where all perfection makes the sum of bliss.
Mrs Hale.

288. BEAUTY : unadorned.

A NATIVE grace

Sat fair proportion'd on her polish'd limbs,
Veil'd in a simple robe, their best attire,
Beyond the pomp of dress; for loveliness
Needs not the foreign aid of ornament,
But is, when unadorn'd, adorn'd the most.
Thomson.

289. BEAUTY. Youthful

Lo! when the buds expand, the leaves are green, Then the first opening of the flower is seen;

Then come the honey'd breath and rosy smile,
That with their sweets the willing sense beguile;
But as we look, and love, and taste, and praise,
And the fruit grows, the charming flower decays;
Till all is gather'd, and the wintry blast
Moans o'er the place of love and pleasure past.
So 'tis with Beauty, -such the opening grace
And dawn of glory in the youthful face;
Then there are charms unfolded to the sight,
Then all is loveliness and all delight;

The nuptial tie succeeds, the genial hour,
And, lo! the falling off of Beauty's flower;
So through all Nature is the progress made-
The bud, the bloom, the fruit-and then we fade.
Crabbe.

290. BENEFICENCE. Example of

THE pilgrim and stranger, who, through the day,
Holds over the desert his trackless way,
Where the terrible sands no shade have known,
No sound of life save the camel's moan,
Hears, at last, through the mercy of Allah to all,
From his tent-door, at evening, the Bedouin's call:
'Whoever thou art, whose need is great,
In the name of God, the Compassionate
And Merciful One, for thee I wait!'

For gifts, in His name, of food and rest,
The tents of Islam of God are blest.
Thou, who hast faith in the Christ above,
Shall the Koran teach thee the Law of Love?
O Christian!-open thy heart and door,-
Cry, east and west, to the wandering poor-
'Whoever thou art, whose need is great,
In the name of Christ, the Compassionate
And Merciful One, for thee I wait!'

Whittier.

291. BENEFICENCE. Monument of BUT all our praises why should lords engross ? Rise, honest muse! and sing the Man of Ross; Pleased Vaga echoes through her winding bounds, And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds. Who hung with woods yon mountain's sultry brow? From the dry rock who bade the waters flow? Not to the skies in useless columns tost, Or in proud falls magnificently lost, But clear and artless, pouring through the plain Health to the sick, and solace to the swain. Whose causeway parts the vale with shady rows? Whose seats the weary traveller repose? Who taught that heaven-directed spire to rise? 'The Man of Ross!' each lisping babe replies. Behold the market-place with poor o'erspread! The Man of Ross divides the weekly bread;

He feeds yon almshouse, neat, but void of state,
Where age and want sit smiling at the gate:
Him portion'd maids, apprenticed orphans blest,
The young who labour, and the old who rest.
Is any sick? the Man of Ross relieves,
Prescribes, attends, the medicine makes and gives.
Is there a variance? enter but his door,
Balk'd are the courts, and contest is no more.
Despairing quacks with curses fled the place,
And vile attorneys, now a useless race.

B. Thrice happy man! enabled to pursue
What all so wish, but want the power to do!
O say, what sums that generous hand supply?
What mines to swell that boundless charity?

P. Of debts and taxes, wife and children clear, This man possess'd-five hundred pounds a year. Blush, grandeur, blush; proud courts, withdraw your blaze!

Ye little stars, hide your diminish'd rays!

B. And what! no monument, inscription, stone? His race, his form, his name, almost unknown?

P. Who builds a church to God, and not to fame, Will never mark the marble with his name : Go, search it there, where to be born and die, Of rich and poor makes all the history; Enough that virtue fill'd the space between, Proved by the ends of being to have been. —Pope.

292. BETHESDA.

AROUND Bethesda's healing wave,

Waiting to hear the rustling wing
Which spoke the angel nigh, who gave
Its virtue to that holy spring,
With patience and with hope endued,
Were seen the gather'd multitude.
Among them there was one whose eye
Had often seen the waters stirr'd,—
Whose heart had often heaved the sigh,

The bitter sigh of hope deferr'd;
Until the Saviour's love was shown,
Which heal'd him by a word alone!

Bethesda's pool has lost its power!
No angel, by his glad descent,
Dispenses that diviner dower

Which with its healing waters went :
But He, whose word surpass'd its wave,
Is still omnipotent to save.

Saviour, Thy love is still the same

As when that healing word was spoke ; Still in Thine all-redeeming name

Dwells power to burst the strongest yoke! Oh, be that power, that love, display'd; Help those whom Thou alone canst aid! Bernard Barton

293. BEREAVED. Comfort for the

WHO weeps when love, a cradled babe, is born?
Rather we bring frankincense, myrrh, and gold,
While softest welcomes from our lips are roll'd
To meet the dawning fragrance of a morn
Of checker'd being. Even while the thorn

Keeps pace with rosy graces that unfold,
Do we with rapture cry, 'Behold, behold,
A heaven-dropp'd flower, our garden to adorn !'
And yet, when from our darling fall the years,
As from the rose the shrivell'd petals rain,
And into newer life the soul again
Springs thornless to the air of purer spheres,
So blinded are we by our bitter pain
We greet the sweeter birth with selfish tears.
Catholic World.

294. BEREAVED. Comfort for the

'DEAD!' are the tidings on this side; 'Born!' is the joyful word they speak, Who press around with eager looks, To welcome the dear ones that we seek.

Is the corn dead, that lies awhile

In summer sun and summer storm?

Nay, rather it is gathering life

For larger use and lovelier form.

Oh, watch not with your tearful eyes

The green mounds where your darlings sleep; If you could pierce through death's disguise, Believe me, you would never weep.

Mrs M. F. Butts.

295. BEREAVED. Counsel for the

THE voice which I did more esteem Than music in her sweetest key, Those eyes which unto me did seem More comfortable than the day,Those now by me, as they have been, Shall never more be heard or seen; But what I once enjoy'd in them Shall seem hereafter as a dream.

All earthly comforts vanish thus ;

So little hold of them have we, That we from them, or they from us, May in a moment ravish'd be. Yet we are neither just nor wise If present mercies we despise ;

Or mind not how there may be made

A thankful use of what we had.

George Wither.

296. BEREAVEMENT. Benefit of
OUR dying friends come o'er us like a cloud,
To damp our brainless ardours, and abate
That glare of light which often blinds the wise.
Our dying friends are pioneers, to smooth
Our rugged pass to death; to break those bars
Of terror and abhorrence nature throws
Cross our obstructed way; and thus to make
Welcome, as safe, our port from every storm.
Each friend by fate snatch'd from us is a plume
Pluck'd from the wing of human vanity.-Young.

297. BEREAVEMENT. God's purpose in

AFTER our child's untroubled breath
Up to the Father took its way,
And on our home the shade of death,
Like a long, misty twilight, lay,

And friends came round with us to weep
Her little spirit's swift remove,

This story of the Alpine sheep

Was told to us by one we love :

'They, in the valley's sheltering care,

Soon crop the meadow's tender prime, And, when the sod grows brown and bare, The shepherd strives to make them climb

"To airy shelves of pastures green

That hang along the mountain's side, Where grass and flowers together lean,

And down through mist the sunbeams slide.
'But nought can tempt the timid things
That steep and rugged path to try,
Though sweet the shepherd calls and sings,
And sear❜d below the pastures lie,

'Till in his arms their lambs he takes,
Along the dizzy verge to go;
Then, heedless of the rifts and breaks,
They follow on o'er rocks and snow;
'And in those pastures lifted fair,

More dewy soft than lowland mead,
The shepherd drops his tender care,
And sheep and lambs together feed.'
This parable, by Nature breathed,

Blew on me as the south-wind free
O'er frozen brooks that float unsheathed
From icy thraldom to the sea.

A blissful vision through the night
Would all my happy senses sway,—-
Of the Good Shepherd on the height,
Or climbing up the stony way,

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THE faithful Alpine shepherd tends his flocks, By night as well as day,

Lest from the fold should stray,

The lambs, that only live

By care his loving hand alone can give.

From field to field, where greenest turf is found,
Below the glacial snow
Where coolest waters flow,
He leads them gently on,

To crop the herbage that his zeal has won.

From cliff to cliff they scale the giddy height,-
The watchful shepherd near,-
And know no care or fear,
Content, if they can trace

Safety and plenty in his rugged face.

Should any timorous grow, in heart or limb,

The summit fail to dare,-
The shepherd's tender care
O'ercomes their anxious dread;

He takes the lambs, and thus the sheep are led.

So when the Shepherd saw us weary grow,
And by the wayside faint,

And make our timorous plaint,-
Quick, to His loving breast,

He took our lamb to everlasting rest.

But our great loss may prove eternal gain :
The stairs that heavenward go,
With children's feet aglow,

Are easier of ascent

The Shepherd leads in love: we rest content.

L. S. Upham.

299. BEREAVEMENT. Lessons of

THERE is no flock, however watch'd and tended, But one dead lamb is there!

There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,

But has one vacant chair!

The air is full of farewells to the dying,
And mournings for the dead;

The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,
Will not be comforted!

Let us be patient! These severe afflictions
Not from the ground arise,
But oftentimes celestial benedictions
Assume this dark disguise.

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Then in a moment we discern
By loss, what was possession, and half-wild
With misery, cry out like an angry child :
'Oh, cruel! thus to snatch my posy fine!'
He answers tenderly, 'Not thine, but mine,'
And points to those stain'd fingers which do prove
Our fatal cherishing, our dangerous love;
At which we, chidden, a pale silence keep;
Yet evermore must weep, and weep, and weep.
So on through gloomy ways and thorny brakes,
Quiet and slow, our shrinking feet He takes,
Led by the soiled hand, which, laved in tears,
More and more clean beneath His sight appears.
At length the heavy eyes with patience shine :
'I am content. Thou took'st but what was Thine.'

And when He us His beauteous garden shows,
Where bountiful the Rose of Sharon grows;
Where in the breezes opening spice-buds swell,
And the pomegranate yields a pleasant smell;
While to and fro peace-sandall'd angels move
In the pure air that they--not we-call Love :
An air so rare and fine, our grosser breath
Cannot inhale till purified by death.
And thus we, struck with longing joy, adore,
And satisfied, wait mute without the door,
Until the gracious Gardener maketh sign,
Enter in peace. All this is mine-and thine.'
D. M. Muloch Craik.

301. BEREAVEMENT: should not inspire bitter grief.

SHALL the seasons bring no end to your sorrow, O my friend,

As you journey on your way?

And your bitterness of grief find no comfort, no relief,
But grow deeper day by day?

Shall it thus confuse your mind, till no outlet you
can find

From a labyrinth of woe;

That your daughter sleeps in peace, where earthly trials cease,

And where we all must go?

If, in answer to your prayer, she had gone with snowy hair,

And bent with age, above,

Would the angels come to meet her with welcome any sweeter

Than their present tones of love?

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WHEN some belovèds, 'neath whose eyelids lay
The sweet lights of my childhood, one by one
Did leave me dark before the natural sun,
And I astonied fell, and could not pray;

A thought within me to myself did say,

'Is God less God, that thou art mortal sad?
Rise, worship, bless Him, in this sackcloth clad,
As in that purple!' But I answer, nay!
What child his filial heart in words conveys,
If him for very good his father choose

To smite? What can he, but with sobbing breath
Embrace the unwilling hand which chasteneth?
And my dear Father, thinking fit to bruise,
Discerns in silent tears both prayer and praise.
E. B. Browning.

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305. BEREAVEMENTS; not to be forgotten.
THEY are poor
That have lost nothing; they are poorer far
Who, losing, have forgotten; they most poor
Of all, who lose and wish they MIGHT forget.

It is nature's law, I know, that when our darlings go For life is one, and in its warp and woof
Such tears should blind our eyes;

But because their life has gone, to cast away our own
Is neither well nor wise.

There runs a thread of gold that glitters fair,
And sometimes in the pattern shows most sweet
Where there are sombre colours.-Jean Ingelow.

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