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Save as our atoms feel tyrannic chance,
All is heredity and circumstance.

Conscience,-Freewill,-absurd! And if you ask
How on these terms fulfil life's daily task?
What motives? And what conduct ?-look at me :
One more respectable you'll scarcely see.
As family-man, friend, citizen, professor,
Be you, or public judgment, my assessor.'

'Good, my dear sir!-but we must wait, I doubt,
To notice how your grandchildren turn out,
Born in the doctrine, rear'd upon the plan,
Of total disbelief in God and Man.
Let this experiment be fairly made,

;

Nor Science mourn, by her high-priests betray'd
Oh, let her teach them, from their tenderest youth,
The Truth, the whole Truth, nothing but the Truth-
Material Atoms, and Mechanic Force;

And send the boys and girls rejoicing on their course!'

633. CREED. The first

UNCURSED by doubt, our earliest creed we take;
We love the precepts for the teacher's sake;
The simple lessons which the nursery taught
Fell soft and stainless on the buds of thought,
And the full blossom owes its fairest hue
To those sweet tear-drops of affection's dew.

Too oft the light that led our earlier hours
Fades with the perfume of our cradle flowers;
The clear, cold question chills to frozen doubt;
Tired of beliefs, we dread to live without :
Oh then, if Reason waver at thy side,
Let humbler Memory be thy gentle guide;
Go to thy birthplace, and if faith was there,
Repeat thy father's creed, thy mother's prayer!

634. CRISIS. A Nation's

Holmes.

ONCE to every man and nation comes the moment to decide,

In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or evil side;

Some great cause, God's new Messiah, offering each the bloom or blight,

Parts the goats upon the left hand, and the sheep upon the right,

And the choice goes by for ever 'twixt that darkness and that light.

Hast thou chosen, O my people, on whose party thou shalt stand,

Ere the Doom from its worn sandals shakes the dust against our land?

Though the cause of Evil prosper, yet 'tis Truth

alone is strong,

And, albeit she wander outcast now, I see around her throng

Troops of beautiful, tall angels, to enshield her from all wrong.

Backward look across the ages and the beaconmoments see,

That, like peaks of some sunk continent, jut through Oblivion's sea;

Not an ear in court or market for the low foreboding cry

Of those Crises, God's stern winnowers, from whose feet earth's chaff must fly;

Never shows the choice momentous till the judgment hath pass'd by.-Lowell.

635. CRISIS. A Soul's

THERE is a time, we know not when,

A point, we know not where, That marks the destiny of men

To glory or despair.

There is a line, by us unseen,
That crosses every path;
The hidden boundary between
God's patience and His wrath.

To pass that limit is to die

To die as if by stealth;
It does not quench the beaming eye,
Nor pale the glow of health.

The conscience may be still at ease,

The spirit light and gay,

That which is pleasing still may please,
And care be thrust away.

Oh, where is this mysterious bourne
By which our path is cross'd?
Beyond which God Himself hath sworn
That he who goes is lost.

How far may we go on in sin?

How long will God forbear?
Where does hope end? and where begin
The confines of despair?

An answer from the skies is sent:
Ye that from God depart,
While it is call'd to-day, repent,
And harden not your heart.

J. A. Alexander.

636. CRISIS. The important

AT every motion of our breath
Life trembles on the brink of death,
A taper's flame that upward turns,
While downward to the dust it burns.

A moment usher'd us to birth,
Heirs to the commonwealth of earth;
Moment by moment years are past,
And one ere long will be our last.

'Twixt that, long fled, which gave us light,
And that which soon shall end in night,
There is a point no eye shall see,
Yet on it hangs eternity.

This is that moment,-who can tell
Whether it leads to heaven or hell?
This is that moment, -as we choose,
The immortal soul we save or lose.
Time past and time to come are not ;
Time present is our only lot:

O God! henceforth our hearts incline
To seek no other love than Thine.

637. CRITICS.

James Montgomery.

MANY knotty points there are, Which all discuss, but few can clear.-Prior.

Let those teach others who themselves excel; And censure freely, who have written well.

Pope. Those heads, as stomachs, are not sure the best, Which nauseate all, and nothing can digest.

Pope.

Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer,
And, without sneering, teach the rest to sneer;
Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike,
Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike:
Alike reserved to blame or to commend;
A tim'rous foe, and a suspicious friend.-Pope.

The gen'rous critic fann'd the poet's fire,
And taught the world with reason to admire.

The critic eye, that microscope of wit, Sees hairs and pores, examines bit by bit.

To observations which ourselves we make, We grow more partial for the observer's sake.

638. CRITICISM. Bitter

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WHOEVER thinks a faultless piece to see,

Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be.

In every work regard the writer's end,

Since none can compass more than they intend :
And, if the means be just, the conduct true,
Applause, in spite of trivial faults, is due.-Pope.

A perfect judge will read each work of wit
With the same spirit that its author writ;
Survey the whole, nor seek slight faults to find,
Where nature moves, and rapture charms the mind.

Pope.

Learn then what morals critics ought to show :
'Tis not enough wit, art, and learning join ;
In all you speak, let truth and candour shine.
Fope.

Shun their fault, who, scandalously nice, Will needs mistake an author into vice.

Pope.

Eye Nature's walks, shoot folly as it flies,
And catch the manners living as they rise;
Laugh where we must, be candid where we can,
But vindicate the ways of God to man.—Pope.

Ah! ne'er so dire a thirst of glory boast,
Nor in the critic let the man be lost!
Good nature and good sense must ever join :
To err is human; to forgive, divine.-Pope.

Prune the luxuriant, the uncouth refine,
But show no mercy to an empty line.-Pope.

Pope.

Pope.

Great wits sometimes may gloriously offend, And rise to faults true critics dare not mend. Pope.

Pope.

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A CRITIC was of old a glorious name,
Whose sanction handed merit up to fame;
Beauties as well as faults he brought to view :
His judgment great, and great his candour too.
No servile rules drew sickly taste aside;
Secure he walk'd, for Nature was his guide.
But now, O strange reverse! our critics brawl
In praise of candour with a heart of gall.

O JESUS! Sweet the tears I shed,
Whilst at Thy cross I kneel,
Gaze on Thy wounded, fainting head,
And all Thy sorrows feel.

My heart dissolves to see Thee bleed,

This heart so hard before;

I hear Thee for the guilty plead,

And grief o'erflows the more.

'Twas for the sinful Thou didst die,

And I a sinner stand:

What love speaks from Thy dying eye,
And from each pierced hand!

I know this cleansing blood of Thine
Was shed, dear Lord, for me;
For me, for all-O Grace Divine !—
Who look by faith on Thee.

O Christ of God! O spotless Lamb!
By love my soul is drawn ;
Henceforth, for ever, Thine I am;
Here life and peace are born.

In patient hope the cross I'll bear,

Thine arm shall be my stay ;

And Thou, enthroned, my soul shalt spare,
On Thy great judgment-day !-Ray Palmer.

641. CROSS. My

It is not heavy, agonizing woe,

Bearing me down with hopeless, crushing weight; No ray of comfort in the gathering gloom,

A heart bereaved-a household desolate.
It is not sickness, with her withering hand,
Keeping me low upon a couch of pain;
Longing each morning for the weary night;
At night, for weary day to come again.
It is not slander, with her evil tongue;
'Tis no presumptuous sin against my God;
Not reputation lost, or friends betray'd:
That such is not my cross I thank my God.

Mine is a daily cross of petty cares,

Of little duties pressing on my heart, Of little troubles hard to reconcile,

Of inward struggles-overcome in part.

My feet are weary in their daily round,
My heart is weary of its daily care,
My sinful nature often doth rebel :
I pray for grace my daily cross to bear.

It is not heavy, Lord, yet oft I pine;

It is not heavy, but 'tis everywhere;
By day and night each hour my cross I bear :
I dare not lay it down-Thou keep'st it there.

I dare not lay it down. I only ask
That, taking up my daily cross, I may
Follow my Master humbly, step by step,
Through clouds and darkness, unto perfect day.
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642. CROSS. The: the source of comfort.

Is it not strange, the darkest hour

That ever dawn'd on sinful earth Should touch the heart with softer power

For comfort, than an angel's mirth? That to the cross the mourner's eye should turn Sooner than where the stars of. Christmas burn?

Sooner than where the Easter sun
Shines glorious on yon open grave,
And to and fro the tidings run,

'Who died to heal, is risen to save'? Sooner than where upon the Saviour's friends The very Comforter in light and love descends? Keble.

643. CROSS: to be borne willingly.

The cross is always ready, and waits for thee in every place. Why hopest then to avoid that from which no human being has been exempt? . . . Thou art deceived, wretchedly deceived, if thou expect anything but tribulation; for this whole mortal life is full of care, and signed on every side with the cross.....

If thou bearest the cross willingly it will soon bear thee beyond the reach of suffering, where God shall take away all sorrow from thy heart.-Thomas à Kompis.

ON every side, dear Lord, on every side,

Waits there an 'always ready' cross for me? May not I find, through all this world so wide,

Some restful place from all cross-bearing free? The way is dark, thorn-lined and sharp with flints, Whose jagged edges bruise and pierce my feet; Thou knowest, Lord, they mark with bloody prints The toilsome path. Ah, rest would seem so sweet!

So sweet to lay aside this heavy cross

So sweet to find some quiet resting-place-
So sweet to cease from care and pain and loss,

And breathe all fulness of life's joy and grace.
O wretched heart, why seekest thou to find
Exemption from the common mortal lot?
Deceitful heart, and discontented mind,
Thy Master's Sad Way hast thou then forgot?

Was there on earth for Him a place of rest?

Was there an hour wherein He might not feel The weight of Calvary's cross upon Him prest? The pang of mocking thorn and piercing steel? With prescient sorrow did He not endure Through all the way the dolour of that hour, When, thy eternal freedom to secure,

He met alone the last foe's cruel power?

And wilt thou basely shun that blessed sign,

His mark and seal, inscribing thee His own? Nay, rather shout, 'Thou blessed cross! be mine; I'll bear thee gladly-by thy sign be known.'

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647. CURIOSITY.

SEE its power expand

When first the coral fills the infant's hand;
Throned in its mother's lap, it dries each tear,
As her sweet legend falls upon the ear;
Next it assails him in his top's strange hum,
Breathes in his whistle, echoes in his drum.
Each gilded toy that doting love bestows
He longs to break, and every spring expose.
Placed by your hearth, with what delight he pores
O'er the bright pages of the pictured stores;
How oft he steals upon your graver task,
Of this to tell you, and of that to ask.
And when the warning hour to bedward bids,
Though gentle sleep sits waiting on his lids,
How winningly he bends to gain you o'er,
That he may read one little story more.

Nor yet alone to toys and tales confined,
It sits dark-brooding o'er his embryo mind.
Take him between your knees, peruse his face,
While all you know, or think you know, you trace;
Tell him who spoke creation into birth,
Arch'd the broad heavens and spread the rolling

earth;

Who form'd a pathway for the obedient sun,

And bade the seasons in their circles run;
Who fill'd the air, the forest, and the flood,
And gave man all for comfort or for food;
Tell him he sprang at God's creating nod—
He stops you short with, 'Father, who made God?'

Turn to the world-its curious dwellers view,
Like Paul's Athenians, seeking Something New.
Be it a bonfire's or a city's blaze,

The gibbet's victim, or the nation's gaze,
A female atheist, or a learned dog,
A monstrous pumpkin, or a mammoth hog,
A murder, or a muster,-'tis the same,
Life's follies, glories, griefs, all feed the flame.
Hark, where the martial trumpet fills the air,
How the roused multitude come round to stare ;
Sport drops his ball, toil throws his hammer by,
Thrift breaks a bargain off, to please his eye;
Up fly the windows, even fair mistress cook,
Though dinner burn, must run to take a look.

Sprague.

Faith we may boast, undarken'd by a doubt, We thirst to find each awful secret out.

Sprague.

The inquiring spirit will not be controll'd, We would make certain all, and all behold.

Sprague.

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651. CUSTOM : its influence on habit.

THAT monster, custom, who all sense doth eat
Of habits evil, is angel yet in this;
That to the use of actions fair and good,
He likewise gives a frock, or livery,
That aptly is put on : refrain to-night;
And that shall lend a kind of easiness

To the next abstinence; the next, more easy;
For use can almost change the stamp of nature,
And master ev'n the devil, or throw him out,
With wondrous potency.-Shakespeare.

All habits gather by unseen degrees;

As brooks make rivers, rivers run to seas.

652. CUSTOM. Power of

Dryden.

MAN yields to custom as he bows to fate,
In all things ruled-mind, body, and estate;
In pain, in sickness, we for cure apply
To them we know not, and we know not why.
Habit with him has all the test of truth,
It must be right: I've done it from my youth.
Crabbe.

Custom, 'tis true, a venerable tyrant,
O'er servile man extends her blind dominion.
Thomson.

As custom arbitrates, whose shifting sway
Our life and manners must alike obey.-Byron.

Custom does often reason overrule,
And only serves for reason to the fool.
Earl of Rochester.
Custom forms us all;

Our thoughts, our morals, our most fix'd belief
Are consequences of our place of birth.-Hill.

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655. DANGER.

THE absent danger greater still appears;
Less fears he, who is near the thing he fears.
Daniel.

Speak, speak, let terror strike slaves mute,
Much danger makes great hearts most resolute.
Marston.

What is danger

More than the weakness of our apprehensions?
A poor cold part o' th' blood; who takes it hold of?
Cowards and wicked livers: valiant minds
Were made the masters of it.

Beaumont and Fletcher.

Our dangers and delights are near allies; From the same stem the rose and prickle rise. Alyen.

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