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Thou kingly Spirit, throned among the hills,
Thou dread Ambassador from earth to heaven,
Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent sky,
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun,
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God.

ON THE VICE OF LYING.

REV. W. GILPIN.

To warn us from lying, we should do well to consider the folly, the meanness, and the wickedness of it.

The folly of lying consists in its defeating its own purpose. A habit of lying is generally detected in the end; and after detection, the liar, instead of deceiving, will not even be believed when he happens to speak the truth. Nay, every single lie is attended with such a variety of circumstances which lead to a detection, that it is often discovered. The use generally made of a lie is to cover a fault; but as this end is seldom answered, we only aggravate what we wish to conceal. In point even of prudence, an honest confession would serve us better.

The meanness of lying arises from the cowardice which it implies. We dare not boldly and nobly speak the truth, but have recourse to low subterfuges; which always show a sordid and disingenuous mind. Hence it is, that in the fashionable world the word liar is always considered as a term of peculiar reproach.

The wickedness of lying consists in its perverting one of the greatest blessings of God, the use of speech, in making that a mischief to mankind which was intended for a benefit. Truth is the greatest bond of society. If one man lies, why may not another? And if there is no mutual trust, there is an end of all intercourse.

An equivocation is nearly related to a lie. It is an intention to deceive under words of a double meaning, or words which, literally speaking, are true; and is equally criminal with the most downright breach of truth. A nod, or sign, may convey a lie as effectually as the most deceitful language.

Under the head of lying may be mentioned a breach of promise. Every engagement, though only of the lightest kind, should be punctually observed: and he who does not think himself bound by such an obligation, has little pretension to the character of an honest

man.

MY OWN FIRE-SIDE.

ALARIC A. WATTS.

A living poet, whose fame needs no panegyric.

LET others seek for empty joys,

At ball or concert, rout or play;

Whilst far from Fashion's idle noise,
Her gilded domes and trappings gay,
I wile the wintry eve away,

"Twixt book and lute the hours divide,
And marvel how I e'er could stray
From thee-my own fire-side!

My own fire-side! Those simple words
Can bid the sweetest dreams arise;
Awaken feeling's tenderest chords,

And fill with tears of joy mine eyes.
What is there my wild heart can prize,
That doth not in thy sphere abide;
Haunt of my home-bred sympathies,
My own-my own fire-side!

A gentle form is near me now;

A small white hand is clasped in mine I gaze upon her placid brow,

And ask, what joys can equal thine: A babe, whose beauty's half divine,

In sleep his mother's eyes doth hide; Where may love seek a fitter shrine Than thou-my own fire-side!

What care I for the sullen war

Of winds without, that ravage earth;
It doth but bid me prize the more
The shelter of thy hallowed hearth;
To thoughts of quiet bliss give birth;
Then let the churlish tempest chide,
It cannot check the blameless mirth
That glads my own fire-side!

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There all is cheerful, calm, and fair;
Wrath, envy, malice, strife, or pride,
Hath never made its hateful lair
By thee-my own fire-side!

Thy precincts are a charmed ring,
Where no harsh feeling dare intrude;
Where life's vexations lose their sting;
Where even grief is half subdued;
And Peace, the halcyon, loves to brood.
Then let the world's proud fool deride;
I'll pay my debt of gratitude

To thee-my own fire-side!

Shrine of my household duties;

Bright scene of home's unsullied joys;
To thee my burthened spirit flies,

When Fortune frowns, or Care annoys!
Thine is the bliss that never cloys;

The smile whose truth hath oft been tried ;-
What, then, are this world's tinsel toys,
To thee-my own fire-side!

Oh, may the yearnings, fond and sweet,
That bid my thoughts be all of thee,
Thus ever guide my wandering feet
To thy heart-soothing sanctuary!
Whate'er my future years may be,
Let joy or grief my fate betide,
Be still an Eden unto me,
My own-my own fire-side!

AULD ROBIN GRAY.

LADY ANNE BARNARD.

WHEN the sheep are in the fold, when the cows come home,
When a' the weary world to rest are gone,

The woes of my heart fa' in showers fra my ee,
Unnoticed by my gudeman, who soundly sleeps by me.

Young Jamie loo'd me weel, and sought me for his bride;
But saving ae crown piece, he'd naething else beside.

To make the crown a pound, my Jamie gaed to sea:
And the crown and the pound, O they were baith for me!
Before he had been gane a twelvemonth and a day,
My father brak his arm, our cow was stolen away;
My mother she fell sick-my Jamie was at sea-
And Auld Robin Gray, oh! he came a-courting me.

My father cou'dna work, my mother cou❜dna spin;
I toil'd day and night, but their bread I cou❜dna win;
Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and, wi' tears in his ee,
Said, "Jenny, oh! for their sakes, will you marry me?”
My heart it said Na, and I look'd for Jamie back;
But hard blew the winds, and his ship was a wreck;
His ship it was a wreck! Why didna Jamie dee?
Or, wherefore am I spar'd to cry out, Woe is me!

My father argued sair-my mother didna speak,
But she looked in my face till my heart was like to break;
They gied him my hand, but my heart was in the sea;
And so Auld Robin Gray, he was a gudeman to me.

I hadna been his wife, a week but only four,
When mournfu' as I sat on the stane at my door,
I saw my Jamie's ghaist-I cou'dna think it he,
Till he said, "I'm come hame, my love, to marry thee!"

O sair, sair did we greet, and mickle say of a';
Ae kiss we took, nae mair-I bad him go away.
I wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to dee:
For O, I am but young to cry out, Woe is me!

I gang like a ghaist, and I carena much to spin !
I darena think o' Jamie, for that would be a sin.
But I will do my best a gude wife aye to be,
For Auld Robin Gray, oh! he is sae kind to me.

NIGHT.

MRS. BARBAULD.

THE glorious sun is set in the west; the night dews fall; and the air, which was sultry and oppressive, becomes cool. The flowers of the garden, closing their coloured leaves, fold themselves up and hang their heads on the slender stalk, waiting the return of day.

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