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In this low vale, the promise of the year,
Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale,

Unnoticed and alone,

Thy tender elegance. So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms Or chill adversity; in some lone walk

Of life she rears her head,

Obscure and unobserved;
While every bleaching breeze that on her blows
Chastens her spotless purity of breast,

And hardens her to bear
Serene the ills of life.

THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM.

When marshall'd on the nightly plain,

The glittering host bestud the sky, One star alone, of all the train,

Can fix the sinner's wandering eye. Hark! hark! to God the chorus breaks

From every host, from every gem; But one alone the Saviour speaks

It is the Star of Bethlehem. Once on the raging seas I rode;

The storm was loud-the night was dark; The ocean yawned and rudely blowed

The wind that tossed my foundering bark.
Deep horror then my vitals sroze-

Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem-
When suddenly a star arose:

It was the Star of Bethlehem.
It was my guide, my light, my all,

It bade my dark forebodings cease;
And through the storm and dangers' thrall,

It led me to the port of peace.
Now safely moored—my perils o'er-

I'll sing, first in night's diadem,
Forever and forevermore,

The Star-the Star of Bethlehem!

A HYMN FOR FAMILY WORSHIP.

O Lord! another day is flown,

And we, a lonely band,

Are met once more before thy throne,

To bless thy fostering hand.
And wilt thou bend a list’ning ear

To praises low as ours?
Thou wilt! for thou dost love to hear

The song which meekness pours.
And, Jesus, thou thy smiles wilt deign,

As we before thee pray ;
For thou didst bless the infant train,

And we are less than they.
O let thy grace perform its part,

And let contention cease!
And shed abroad in every heart

Thine everlasting peace!
Thus chasten'd, cleans'd, entirely thine,

A flock by Jesus led,
The Sun of Holiness shall shine

In glory on our head.
And thou wilt turn our wandering feet,

And thou wilt bless our way,
Till worlds shall fade, and faith shall greet

The dawn of lasting day!

TRUE PHILOSOPHY.

men.

Blest as you are with the good testimony of an approving conscience, and happy in an intimate communion with the all-pure, and all-merciful God, these trifling concerns ought not to molest you; nay, were the tide of adversity to turn strong against you, even were your friends to forsake you, and abject poverty to stare you in the face, you ought to be abundantly thankful to God for his mercies to you; you ought to consider yourself still as rich, yea, to look around you, and say, I am far happier than the sons of

This is a system of philosophy which, for myself, I shall not only preach, but practice. We are here for nobler purposes than to waste the fleeting moments of our lives in lamentations and wailings over troubles which, in their widest extent, do but affect the present state, and which, perhaps, only regard our personal ease and prosperity. Make me an outcast—a beggar; place me a barefooted pilgrim on the top of the Alps or the Pyrenees; and I should have wherewithal to sustain the spirit within me, in the reflection that all this was but as for a moment, and that a period would come when wrong, and injury, and trouble should be no more. Are we to be so utterly enslaved by habit and asso

This is a system of philosophy which, for myself, I shall

than to waste the fleeting moments of our lives in lamentatie

me a barefooted pilgrim on the top of the Alps or the Pyrenees

period would come when wrong, and injury, and trouble should

ciation that we shall spend our lives in anxiety and bitter care, only that we may find a covering for our bodies, or the means of assuaging hunger? For what else is an anxiety after the world?

Letter to Mr. B. Maddock.

ADVICE TO THE YOUNG.

Are met once more before thy throne,

To bless thy fostering hand.
And wilt thou bend a list'ning ear

To praises low as ours ?
Thou wilt! for thou dost love to hear

The song which meekness pours.
And, Jesus, thou thy smiles wilt deign,

As we before thee pray;
For thou didst bless the infant train,

And we are less than they.
O let thy grace perform its part,

And let contention cease!
And shed abroad in every heart

Thine everlasting peace!
Thus chasten'd, cleans'd, entirely thine,

A flock by Jesus led,
The Sun of Holiness shall shine

In glory on our head.
And thou wilt turn our wandering feet,

And thou wilt bless our way,
Till worlds shall fade, and faith shall greet

The dawn of lasting day!

I would therefore exhort you earnestly—you who are yet unskilled in the ways of the world—to beware on what object you concentrate your hopes. Pleasures may allure-pride or ambition may stimulate; but their fruits are hollow and deceitful, and they afford no sure, no solid satisfaction. You are placed on the earth in a state of probation your continuance here will be, at the longest, a very short period; and when you are called from hence you plunge into an eternity, the completion of which will be in correspondence to your past life, unutterably happy or inconceivably miserable. Your fate will probably depend on your early pursuits—it will be these which will give the turn to your character and to your pleasures. I beseech you, therefore, with a meek and lowly spirit

, to read the pages of that book which the wisest and best of men have acknowledged to be the word of God. You will there find a rule of moral conduct such as the world never had any idea of before its divulgation. If you covet earthly happiness, it is only to be found in the path you will find there laid down; and I can confidently promise you, in a life of simplicity and purity, a life passed in accordance with the divine word, such substantial bliss, such unruffled peace, as is nowhere else to be found. All other schemes of earthly pleasure are fleeting and unsatisfactory. They all entail upon them repentance and bitterness of thought. This alone endureth for ever; this alone embraces equally the present and the future; this alone can arm a man against every calamity—can alone shed the balm of peace over that scene of life when pleasures have lost their zest, and the mind can no longer look forward to the dark and mysterious future. Above all, beware of the ignis fatuus of false philosophy: that must be a very defective system of ethics which will not bear a man through the most trying stage of his existence; and I know of none that will do it but the Christian.

TRUE PHILOSOPHY.

Blest as you are with the good testimony of an approving to science, and happy in an intimate communion with the all-pur, and all-merciful God, these trifling concerns ought not to mules you; nay, were the tide of adversity to turn strong against you, eru were your friends to forsake you, and abject poverty to stare pe in the face, you ought to be abundantly thankful to God for ba mercies to you; you ought to consider yourself still as rich, se to look around you, and say, I am far happier than the was not only preach, but practice. We are here for nobler purpose and wailings over troubles which, in their widest extent

, do be affect the present state, and which, perhaps, only regard our sonal ease and prosperity. Make me an outcast—a beggar; pla

? and I should have wherewithal to sustain the spirit within me. the reflection that all this was but as for a moment, and that

men.

be no more.

Are we to be so utterly enslaved by habit and ac**

ANNA SEWARD, 1747–1809.

Anna Seward, daughter of the Rev. Thomas Seward, of Litchfield, was born in the year 1747. In her very early childhood, she showed a great passion for poetry ; but her mother, who had no taste for it, and who had a dread lest her daughter should be a “literary lady,” persuaded her hus. band to forbid Anna from pursuing ihe natural bent of her genius. Poetry, therefore, was prohibited ; and, to her praise, she sacrificed her own strong and decided tastes to the inclination of her parents. At the age of seventeen, she lost her only sister, a bereavement which she felt most keenly, and which she subsequently made the subject of an elegy. The blank in her domestic society was, however, in a degree supplied by the attachment of Miss Honora Sneyd,' then residing in her father's family, whom she often mentions in her poetry.

When of age to select her own studies, she became a professed votary of the Muse, and she was known by the name of the “Swan of Litchfield.” Among her first publications was “ An Elegy to the Memory of Captain Cook,” and “A Monody on the Death of Major Andre.” From the nature of the subjects, they enjoyed great popularity for the time, but are now very little read, though Sir Walter Scotia says that "they convey a high impression of the original powers of their author.” In 1799, she published a "Collection of Original Sonnets,” which contain some beautiful examples of that species of composition. After this she did not publish any large poem; yet she continued to pour forth her poetical effusions upon such occasions as interested her feelings, or excited her imagination. She died on the 23d of March, 1809, having bequeathed, by will, to Sir Walter Scott, with whom for many years she had corresponded, the copyright of her poems and letters, with a request that he would superintend their publication.

Of her character and her poetry, a distinguished critic3 thus speaks : She was endowed with considerable genius, and with an ample portion of that fine enthusiasm which sometimes may be mistaken for it; but her taste was far from good, and her numerous productions (a few excepted) are disfigured by florid ornament and elaborate magnificence."

THE ANNIVERSARY.

Ah, lovely Litchfield! that so long bast shone

In blended charms, peculiarly thine own; · She was the object of Major Andre's attachment, and afterwards became Mrs. Edgeworih.

· Read the Biographical Preface of Sir Walter Scott to his edition of Miss Seward's Poetical Works, 3 vols., Edinburgh, 1810.

; Rev. Alexander Dyce, in his á Specimens of British Poetesses.”

ANNA SEWARD, 1747–1809.

ANNA SEWARD, daughter of the Rev. Thomas Seward, of Litchfield, wu born in the year 1747. In her very early childhood, she showed a grek passion for poetry ; but her mother, who had no taste for it, and who had a dread lest her daughter should be a "literary lady," persuaded her bus band to forbid Anna from pursuing the natural bent of her genius. Poetry, therefore, was prohibited ; and, to her praise, she sacrificed her own strong and decided tastes to the inclination of her parents. At the age of serez teen, she lost her only sister, a bereavement which she felt most keenly

, and which she subsequently made the subject of an elegy. The black e her domestic society was, however, in a degree supplied by the attachment of Miss Honora Sneyd,' then residing in her father's family, whom she often mentions in her poetry.

When of age to select her own studies, she became a professed votar of the Muse, and she was known by the name of the “Swan of Litchfield." Among her first publications was “An Elegy to the Memory of Captus Cook,” and “A Monody on the Death of Major Andre.” From the natur of the subjects, they enjoyed great popularity for the time, but are not very little read, though Sir Walter Scotra says that "they convey a high in pression of the original powers of their author.” In 1799, she publisbed : "Collection of Original Sonnets," which contain some beautiful exampet of that species of composition. After this she did not publish any large poem; yet she continued to pour forth her poetical effusions upon sed occasions as interested her feelings, or excited her imagination. She died? on the 23d of March, 1809, having bequeathed, by will, to Sir Weber Scott, with whom for many years she had corresponded, the copyrighit her poems and letters, with a request that he would superintend their pa lication.

Of her character and her poetry, a distinguished critic thus spets: She was endowed with considerable genius, and with an ample park of that fine enthusiasm which sometimes may be mistaken for it; barbe taste was far from good, and her numerous productions (a few excepted are disfigured by florid ornament and elaborate magnificence."

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Stately, yet rural; thro' thy choral day,
Tho' shady, cheerful, and tho' quiet, gay;
How interesting, how loved, from year to year,
How more than beauteous did thy scenes appear!
Still, as the mild Spring chas'd the wintry gloom,
Devolv'd her leaves, and wak'd her rich perfume,
Thou, when thy fields and groves around thee spread,
Liftist, in unlessen'd grace, thy spiry head;
But many a lov'd inhabitant of thine
Sleeps where no vernal sun will ever shine.

Why fled ye all so fast, ye happy hours,
That saw Honora's eyes adorn these bowers ?
These darling bowers, that much she lov'd to hail-
The spires she called “the Ladies of the Vale!"

Fairest, and best!-Oh! can I e'er forget
To thy dear kindness my eternal debt?
Life's opening paths how tenderly it smooth’d,
The joys it heighten'd, and the pains it sooth'd ?
No, no! my heart its sacred memory bears,
Bright mid the shadows of o'erwhelming years;
When mists of deprivation round me roll,
'Tis the soft sunbeam of my clouded soul.

Ah, dear Honora! that remember'd day,
First on these eyes when shone thy early ray!
Scarce o'er my head twice seven gay springs had gone,
Scarce five o'er thy unconscious childhood flown,
When, fair as their young flowers, thy infant frame
To our glad walls a happy inmate came.
O summer morning of unrivall'd light!
Fate wrapt thy rising in prophetic wbite!
June, the bright month, when nature joys to wear
The livery of the gay, consummate year,
Gave that envermeild day-spring all her powers,
Gemm'd the light leaves, and glow'd upon the flowers;
Bade her plumd nations hail the rosy ray
With warbled orisons from every spray.
Purpureal Tempe, not to thee belong
More poignant fragrance, or more jocund song.

'Twas eve;—the sun, in setting glory drest,
Spread his gold skirts along the crimson west;
A Sunday's eve Honora, bringing thee,
Friendship's soft Sabbath long it rose to me,
When on the wing of circling seasons borne,
Annual I haild its consecrated morn.

In the kind interchange of mutual thought,
Our home myself and gentle sister sought;
Our pleasant home,' round which th' ascending gale
Breathes all the freshness of the sloping vale;
The bishop's palace at Litchfield.

8*

THE ANNIVERSARY.

Ah, lovely Litchfield! that so long hast shone In blended charms, peculiarly thine own;

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She was the object of Major Andre's attachment, and afterwards 2 came Mrs. Edgeworth.

» Read the Biographical Preface of Sir Walter Scott to his edition of Na Seward's Poetical Works, 3 vols., Edinburgh, 1810.

Rev. Alexander Dyce, in his "Specimens of British Poetesses."

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