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ORD of the winds! I feel thee nigh,
And I wait with a thrill in every vein,
They darken fast; and the golden blaze
quenched in the lurid haze,
He is come! he is come! do ye not behold
Darker-still darker! the whirlwinds bear
And hark to the crashing, long and loud,
What roar is that?_'tis the rain that breaks
W. C. BRYANT.
CHEERFUL man is pre-eminently a useful man. He
knows that there is much misery, but that misery is not the rule of life. He sees that in every state people may be cheerful; the lambs skip, birds sing and fly joyously, puppies play, kittens are full of joyance, the whole air is full of careering and rejoicing insects—that everywhere the good outbalances the bad, and that every evil that there is has its compensating balm.
2. Then the brave man, as our German cousins say, possesses the world, whereas the melancholy man does not ezen possess his share of it.
3. Exercise, or continued-ployment of some kind, will make a man cheerful; but ctting at home, brooding and thinking, or doing little, will bring gloom. The reaction of this feeling is wonderful. It arises from a sense of duty done, and it also enables us to do our duty.
4. Cheerful people live long in our memory. We remem her joy more readily than sorrow, and always look back with tenderness on the brave and cheerful.
5. We can all cultivate our tempers, and one of the employments of some poor mortals is to cultivate, cherish, and bring to perfection, a thoroughly bad one; but we may be certain that to do so is a very great error and sin, whick. like all others, brings its own punishment; though, unfortunately, it does not punish itself only.
6. Addison says of cheerfulness, that it lightens sickness, poverty, affliction; converts ignorance into an amiable simplicity, and renders deformity itself agreeable; and he says no more than the truth.
7. “Give us, therefore, oh! give us”—let us cry with Carlyle—“the man who sings at his work! He will do more in the same time,-he will do it better,-he will persevere longer. One is scarcely sensible of fatigue whilst he marches to music. The very stars are said to make harmony as they revolve in their spheres. Wondrous is the strength of cheerfulness, altogether past calculation its powers of endurance. Efforts, to be permanently useful, must be uniformly joyous,-a spirit all sunshine, graceful from very gladness, beautiful because bright.”
. 8. Such a spirit is within everybody's reach. Let us but get out into the light of things. The morbid man cries out that there is always enough wrong in the world to make a man miserable. Conceded; but wrong is ever being righted; there is always enough that is good and right to make us joyful.
9. There is ever sunshine somewhere; and the brave man will go on his way rejoicing, content to look forward if under a cloud, not bating one jot of heart or hope if for a moment cast down; hono: .g his occupation, whatever it may be; rendering even raus respectable by the way he wears them; and not only being happy himself, but causing the happiness of others.
J. H. FRISWELL.
Heavy with rosy gold. Aside are driven
The vassal clouds, which bow as she draws nigh,
And catch her scattered gems of orient dye, The pearlëd ruby which her pathway strews;
Argent and amber, now thrown useless by : The uncolored clouds wear what she doth refuse, For only once does Morn her sun-dyed garments use.
From Nature's old cathedral sweetly ring
The wild-bird choirs—burst of the woodland band, Green-hooded nuns, who 'mid the blossoms sing;
Their leafy temple, gloomy, tall, and grand,
Pillared with oaks, and roofed with Heaven's own hand. Hark! how the anthem rolls through arches dun:
Morning again is come to light the land;
Those dusky foragers, the noisy rooks,
Have from their green high city-gates rushed out, To rummage furrowy fields and flowery nooks;
On yonder branch now stands their glossy scout.
As yet no busy insects buzz about, No fairy thunder o’er the air is rolled :
The drooping buds their crimson lips still pout, Those stars of earth, the daisies white, unfold, And soon the buttercups will give back "gold for gold.”
Hark! hark! the lark sings 'mid the silvery blue;
Behold her flight, proud man! and lowly bow. She seems the first that does for pardon sue,
As though the guilty stain which lurks below
Had touched the flowers that droop about her brow, When she all night slept by the daisies' side;
And now she soars where purity doth flow, Where new-born light is with no sin allied, And pointing with her wings heavenward our thoughts would
On the far sky leans the old ruined mill.
Through its rent sails the broken sunbeams glow, Gilding the trees that belt the lower hill,
And the old thorns which on its summit grow.