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THE seraph Abdiel, faithful found
Among the faithless, faithful only he;
Among innumerable false, unmoved,
Unshaken, unseduced, unterrified,

His loyalty he kept, his love, his zeal;
Nor number, nor example with him wrought
To swerve from truth, or change his constant mind,
Though single. From amidst them forth he passed,
Long way through hostile scorn, which he sus-
tained

Superior, nor of violence feared aught;
And with retorted scorn his back he turned
On those proud towers to swift destruction doomed.

THE REAPER'S DREAM.

MILTON.

THE road was lone; the grass was dank
With night-dews on the briery bank
Whereon a weary reaper sank.
His garb was old; his visage tanned;
The rusty sickle in his hand
Could find no work in all the land.

He saw the evening's chilly star
Above his native vale afar;
A moment on the horizon's bar
It hung, then sank, as with a sigh ;
And there the crescent moon went by,
An empty sickle down the sky.

To soothe his pain, Sleep's tender palm
Laid on his brow its touch of balm ;
His brain received the slumberous calm;
And soon that angel without name,
Her robe a dream, her face the same,
The giver of sweet visions came.

She touched his eyes; no longer sealed,
They saw a troop of reapers wield
Their swift blades in a ripened field.
At each thrust of their snowy sleeves
A thrill ran through the future sheaves
Rustling like rain on forest leaves.

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"A gleaner, I will follow far,
With never look or word to mar,
Behind the Harvest's yellow car;
All day my hand shall constant be,
And every happy eve shall see
The precious burden borne to thee!"
At morn some reapers neared the place,
Strong men, whose feet recoiled apace;
Then gathering round the upturned face,
They saw the lines of pain and care,
Yet read in the expression there
The look as of an answered prayer.

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

THE RELIGION OF HUDIBRAS.
.... HE was of that stubborn crew
Of errant saints, whom all men grant
To be the true church militant;
Such as do build their faith upon
The holy text of pike and gun;
Decide all controversies by
Infallible artillery,

And prove their doctrine orthodox
By apostolic blows and knocks;
Call fire, and sword, and desolation
A godly, thorough Reformation,
Which always must be carried on
And still be doing, never done;
As if religion were intended
For nothing else but to be mended.
A sect whose chief devotion lies
In odd perverse antipathies;
In falling out with that or this,
And finding somewhat still amiss;
More peevish, cross, and splenetic,
Than dog distract, or monkey sick;
That with more care keep holiday
The wrong, than others the right way;
Compound for sins they are inclined to,
By damning those they have no mind to;
Still so perverse and opposite,
As if they worshipped God for spite;
The self-same thing they will abhor
One way, and long another for.

SAMUEL BUTLER,

THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT.

INSCRIBED TO R. AIKEN, ESQ.

"Let not ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys and destiny obscure; Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,

The short but simple annals of the poor."-GRAY.

I.

My loved, my honored, much-respected friend, No mercenary bard his homage pays :

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To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the even

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The soupe their only hawkie does afford,

That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood; The dame brings forth, in complimental mood, To grace the lad, her weel-hained kebbuck fell, An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid;

The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell,

Hope "springs exulting on triumphant wing," That thus they all shall meet in future days; There ever bask in uncreated rays,

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, Together hymning their Creator's praise, In such society, yet still more dear;

flow 't was a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the While circling Time moves round in an eternal bell.

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sphere.

XVII.

Compared with this, how poor Religion's pride,

In all the pomp of method and of art, When men display to congregations wide, Devotion's every grace, except the heart! The Power, incensed, the pageant will desert, The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; But, haply, in some cottage far apart,

May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul;

And in his Book of Life the inmates poor enroll.

XVIII.

Then homeward all take off their several way; The youngling cottagers retire to rest : The parent-pair their secret homage pay, And proffer up to heaven the warm request, That He who stills the raven's clamorous nest, And decks the lily fair in flowery pride, Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best, For them and for their little ones provide; But, chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside.

XIX.

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur

springs,

That makes her loved at home, revered abroad; Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, "An honest man's the noblest work of God!" And certes, in fair Virtue's heavenly road,

The cottage leaves the palace far behind : What is a lordling's pomp? 2-a cumbrous load, Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined!

XX.

O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil!

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent,

Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil

Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet

content!

And, O, may Heaven their simple lives prevent From luxury's contagion, weak and vile! Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent,

A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of fire around their much-loved isle.

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