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to find a grave, even beneath the waters he had loved; that all the gentleness and charity of his nature should be changed by death to the fury of a madman; and that the king of terrors, who brings repose to the despot and the man of blood, should teach warfare to him who had ever worn the meekness of the lamb. For days and nights this terrible purgatory was prolonged. It was on the 21st of June that, after many efforts, they were enabled to bear the weary dead back to his desolate cottage.

There they found his faithful dog guarding the door. Heavily must the long period have worn away, while he watched for his only friend, and wondered why he delayed his coming. He scrutinized the approaching group suspiciously, and would not willingly have given them admittance, save that a low, stifled wail at length announced his intuitive knowledge of the master, whom the work of death had effectually disguised from the eyes of men.

In his chair lay the guitar, whose melody was probably the last that his ear heard on earth. There were, also, his flute and violin, his portfolio and books, scattered and open, as if recently used. On the spread table was the untasted meal for noon, which he had prepared against his return from that bath which had proved so fatal. It was a touching sight, -the dead hermit mourned by his humble retainers, the poor animals who loved him, and ready to be laid by stranger hands in a foreign grave.

So fell this singular and accomplished being, at the early age of twenty-eight. Learned in the languages, in the arts and sciences, improved by extensive travel, gifted with personal beauty, and a feeling heart, the motives for this estrangement from his kind are still enveloped in mystery. It was, however, known that he was a native of England, where his father was a clergyman; that he received from thence ample remittances for his comfort; and that his name was Francis Abbot. These facts had been previously ascertained; but no written papers were found in his cell, to throw additional light upon the obscurity in which he had so effectually wrapped the history of his pilgrimage.


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FLOW on forever, in thy glorious robe
Of terror and of beauty! God hath set
His rainbow on thy forehead, and the cloud
Mantled around thy feet. And he doth give
Thy voice of thunder power to speak of him
Eternally bidding the lip of man
Keep silence, and upon thy rocky altar, pour
Incense of awe-struck praise.

And who can dare To lift the insect trump of earthly hope, Or love, or sorrow, 'mid the peal sublime Of thy tremendous hymn? Even ocean shrinks Back from thy brotherhood, and his wild waves Retire abashed. For he doth sometimes seem To sleep like a spent laborer, and recall His wearied billows from their vexing play, And lull them to a cradle calm: but thou, With everlasting, undecaying tide, Dost rest not night or day.

The morning stars, When first they sang o'er young creation's birth, Heard thy deep anthem, and those wrecking fires That wait the Archangel's signal to dissolve The solid earth, shall find Jehovah's name Graven, as with a thousand diamond spears, On thine unfathomed page. Each leafy bough That lifts itself within thy proud domain, Doth gather greenness from thy living spray, And tremble at the baptism.

Lo! yon birds
Do venture boldly near, bathing their wing
Amid thy foam and mist. 'Tis meet for them
To touch thy garment's hem, or lightly stir
The snowy leaflets of thy vapor wreath,
Who sport unharmed upon the fleecy cloud,
And listen at the echoing gate of heaven,
Without reproof. But as for us, it seems
Scarce lawful with our broken tones to speak
Familiarly of thee. Methinks, to tint

Thy glorious features with our pencil's point,
Or woo thee to the tablet of a song,
Were profanation.

Thou dost make the soul

A wondering witness of thy majesty ;
And while it rushes with delirious joy
To tread the vestibule, dost chain its step,
And check its rapture with the humbling view
Of its own nothingness, bidding it stand
In the dread presence of the Invisible,
As if to answer to its God through thee.




"TELL me a story, please," my little girl
Lisped from her cradle. So I bent me down,
And told her how it rained, and rained, and rained,
Till all the flowers were covered, and the trees
Hid their tall heads, and where the houses stood.
And people dwelt, a fearful deluge rolled;
Because the world was wicked, and refused
To heed the words of God. But one good man,
Who long had warned the wicked to repent,
Obey, and live, taught by the voice of Heaven
Had built an Ark: and thither, with his wife,
And children, turned for safety. Two and two,
Of beasts and birds, and creeping things he took,
With food for all; and when the tempest roared,
And the great fountains of the sky poured out
A ceaseless flood, till all beside were drowned,
They in their quiet vessel dwelt secure.

And so the mighty waters bare them up,
And o'er the bosom of the deep they sailed
For many days. But then a gentle dove
'Scaped from the casement of the ark, and spread
Her lonely pinion o'er that boundless wave.

All, all was desolation. Chirping nest,
Nor face of man, nor living thing she saw,
For all the people of the earth were drowned,
Because of disobedience. Naught she spied
Save wide, dark waters, and a frowning sky,
Nor found her weary foot a place of rest.
So with a leaf of olive in her mouth,
Sole fruit of her drear voyage, which, perchance,
Upon some wrecking billow floated by,
With drooping wing the peaceful ark she sought.
The righteous man that wandering dove received
And to her mate restored.

Then I looked

Upon the child, to see if her young thought
Wearied with following mine. But her blue eye
Was a glad listener, and the eager breath
Of pleased attention curled her parted lip.
And so I told her how the waters dried,

And the green branches waved, and the sweet buds
Came up in loveliness, and that meek dove
Went forth to build her nest, while thousand birds
Awoke their songs of praise, and the tired ark
Upon the breezy breast of Ararat
Reposed, and Noah, with glad spirit, reared
An altar to his God.

Since, many a time, When to her rest, ere evening's earliest star, That little one is laid, with earnest tone,

And pure cheek pressed to mine, she fondly asks "The Ark and Dove."

Mothers can tell how oft,

In the heart's eloquence, the prayer goes up
From a sealed lip; and tenderly hath blent
With the warm teaching of the sacred tale
A voiceless wish, that when the timid soul,
Now in the rosy mesh of infancy
Fast bound, shall dare the billows of the world,
Like that exploring dove, and find no rest,
A pierced, a pitying, a redeeming hand
May gently guide it to the ark of peace.




THE principal virtues or vices of a woman, must be of a private and domestic kind. Within the circle of her own family and dependents lies her sphere of action, the scene of almost all those tasks and trials, which must determine her character and her fate, here and hereafter. Reflect, for a moment, how much the happiness of her husband, children, and servants, must depend on her temper, and you will see that the greatest good or evil, which she ever may have in her power to do, may arise from her correcting or indulging its infirmities.

It is true, we are not all equally happy in our dispositions; but human virtue consists in cherishing and cultivating every good inclination, and in checking and subduing every propensity to evil. If you had been born with a bad temper, it might have been made a good one, at least with regard to its outward effects, by education, reason, and principle; and, though you are so happy as to have a good one while young, do not suppose it will always continue so, if you neglect to maintain a proper command over it. Power, sickness, disappointments, or worldly cares, may corrupt and imbitter the finest disposition, if they are not counteracted by reason and religion.

It is observed that every temper is inclined, in some degree, either to passion, peevishness, or obstinacy. Many are so unfortunate as to be inclined to each of the three in turn: it is necessary, therefore, to watch the bent of our nature, and to apply the remedies proper for the infirmity to which we are most liable. With regard to the first, it is so injurious to society, and so odious in itself, especially in the female character, that one would think shame alone would be sufficient to preserve a young woman from giving way to it; for it is as unbecoming her character to be betrayed into ill-behavior by passion as by intoxication; and she ought to be ashamed of the one as much as of the other. Gentleness, meekness, and patience are peculiar distinctions; and an enraged woman is one of the most disgusting sights in nature.

It is plain, from experience, that the most passionate people can command themselves, when they have a motive sufficiently

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