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Morn is the time to pray;
How lovely and how sweet,
Up to the mercy-seat!
Morn is the time to sing;
How charming 'tis to hear
In the delighted ear;
Morn is the time to sow
While balmy breezes softly blow
And look to thee, nor look in vain,
Our God, for sunshine and for rain I
Morn is the time to love;
As tendrils of the vine,
And seek them where to twine; Around thyself, in thine embrace, Lord, let them find their resting-place!
Morn is the time to shine,
When skies are clear and blue,
Reflect the rays of light divine,
Like early stars be early bright,
And melt away like them in light.
Morn is the time to weep
Alas! how oft from peaceful sleep,
We've left the straight and narrow road,
And wandered from our guardian God!
Morn is the time to think,
While thoughts are fresh and free,
Of dark eternity,
Morn is the time to die,
Just at the dawn of day,
To iade like them away;
But lost in light more brilliant far,
Morn is the time to rise,
The resurrection morn,
On new-found pimons borne,
Night is the time for rest;
How sweet when labors close, To gather round an aching breast
The curtain of repose; Stretch the tired limbs and lay the head Upon our own delightful bed!
Night is the time for dreams;
The gay romance of life,
Blend in fantastic strife;
Night is the time for toil;
To plough the classic field,
Its wealthy furrows yield;
Night is the time to weep;
To wet with unseen tears
The joys of other years;
Night is the time to watch;
On ocean's dark expanse, To hail the Pleiades, or catch
The full moon's earliest glance,
Night is the time for care;
To see the spectre of despair
Come to our lonely tent:
Night is the time to muse;
Then from the eye the soul
Beyond the starry pole,
Night is the time to pray;
Our Saviour oft withdrew
So will his followers do;
Night is the time for death;
When all around is peace,
From sin and suffering cease;— ,
THE MARCH OF MIND— Milford Bard*
'' Look itown, immortal Homer, from the ukies.
Wrapped in the mantle of imagination the traveler stands, In gloomy meditation, amid the ruins of ancient Greece. He looks down the tempestuous tide of time and views the wrecks of ages and of empires. He stands, with indescribable emotions, upon the crumbling fragments of grandeur where the hall of wisdom once stood, and the thunders of eloquence were heard. There, arose the sun of science on Athens' lofty towers; and there, the sidereal orbs of learning illuminated the world.
It was in Greece that the human mind emerged from the night of mental darkness, and severed the galling chain of tyrannical ignorance. Liberty is the daughter of light; she came forth in nil her glory in the gardens of Greece. She
*Dr. John Loniunu, who died in the year 164V.
flourished, and mankind stood astonished at the sublimity of her career. But where now is the glory of Greece? Where now is the land of science and of song? Where now are her brave warriors; her illustrious statesmen; her immortal poets? They have gone down the rapid tide of time, and have ceased to exist but on the scroll of fame. The lamp of learning has been extinguished, and mental darkness rests upon the bosom of her land. Gothic ignorance now dwells upon the ruins of Oriental greatness.
In the march of mind, Rome rose on the ruins of Greece, to wave her sceptre over the subjugated world. There Virgil strung his lyre to sing vEneas' fame; and there, Cicero shook the forum with the thunders of his eloquence, and struck terror to the hearts of tyrants. Rome, then, was the mistress of the world, and on her walls waved the flags of all nations. The mighty Hannibal lifted his arm against her, but she crushed it; and Carthage, so long victorious, fell before her.
Cawar then lived; his path was conquest, and dreadful was the fate of that warrior who dnred the vengeance of his arm. But where now is Caesar?—and where is Cicero? Alas, they have been murdered! And where now is mighty Rome? She has been thrown over the precipice of faction and lost in the whirlpool of anarchy. A barbarian torrent has overrun the blooming gardens of Italy ; the Goth and the Vandal have prostrated her glory forever. The brilliant sun of science, that rose on the gardens of Greece, was destined to shine on the ruins of Rome, and then to go down in the night of time to arise in another hemisphere.
In the march of mind, France, plunging into the vortex of a bloody revolution, arrests the attention. Napoleon rose, like a giant from his slumber, and seated himself on the throne of the Bourbons. He pointed the thunder of his artillery at Italy, and she fell before him. He leveled his lightning at Spain and she trembled. He sounded the knell of vengeance on the plains of Austerlitz, and all Europe was at his feet. He was greater than Ctesar; he was greater than Alexander. But where now is the French Emperor? Where now is Napoleon Bonaparte? He has fallen from the throne of the Czars, on which he seated himself in Moscow. The
tremendous military drama has closed, and the great tragedian has left the stage forever. His race was short, but it was brilliant—like the bright meteor that flames along the horizon for a moment, and then disappears. The Lion of England triumphed over the fallen Tiger of Corsica, but his fame is immortal.
The march of mind is now advancing on the shores of America. On the ruins of an Indian empire a great republic has arisen to illuminate the world. But where are the aborigines of the western world? A pilgrim bark, deeply freighted from the East, came darkening on their shores. They yielded not their empire tamely, but they could not stand against the sons of light. With slow and solitary steps they took up their mournful march to the West, and yielded, with a broken heart, their native hills to another race. • Before the victorious march of mind, they have been driven from their native haunts, to the margin of the great Pacific.
The great flood of time will roll on until the Aborigines are swept from the face of the earth forever. Ere long, not one lone trace of them will remain, save the mausoleum of the warrior, and the page on which his exploits are recorded. The last child of the forest will soon climb his native mountain to view the setting sun of Indian glory. And there shall he bow his knee, the last time, to the sun as he sinks behind his lonely cottage, and worship the Great Spirit of the waters, and the genius of storm and darkness.
Where the council-fires blazed, the tall temple, dedicated to God, now glitters in the setting sun ; and the river, once unrippled but by the Indian canoe, is now white with the sails of commerce. The plowshare hath passed over the bones of the Red Man's ancestors, and the golden harvest waves over their tombs. The march of mind hath been to them the march to the grave. When ages shall have rolled away, and some youth shall ask his aged sire where the wigwam stood, he shall point to some flourishing city on the banks of the stream where once the Indian hunter bathed and viewed his manly limbs.
By wisdom, industry, and valor, the Republic of the United States has arisen to stand against the world. The