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SLEEP

ROBERT COLLYER

ROBERT COLLYER (1823- ) was born in England. His father and mother were very poor, and the only schooling he had was between his fourth and his eighth year. He learned the blacksmith's trade, but began to preach when he was a young man. He came to America, where he is well 5 known and greatly beloved as the pastor of a church in New York City.

There seems to be some such blessing for the spirit in sleep, then, as there is for the body; not alone fresh fuel, but a purer flame. And we may presume such boons as these are hidden away in every life as it steals silently 10 through the night; and when deep sleep falleth on men, God openeth their ears and sealeth their instruction.

In our waking hours we think and feel; in our sleep we become. The poet finds in the morning sweeter imaginations, the thinker profounder principles, the preacher 15 more pregnant arguments, and the very worker at the anvil a more subtle turn of the wrist and the stroke that goes right home.

None of us who sleep well begin the new day where we left the old. Each man in his rest has silently advanced 20 to a new position. He can watch the world from a higher summit, and be aware of a wider sky than that on which the sun set yesterday. His flesh is fresh as that of a little child; he returns toward the days of his youth.

Your sleep is the hidden treasure of your youth to-day, and to-morrow it will be the margin you will have to draw on for your age. Do you think you can racket round into the small hours, snatch a brief repose, and then be just as good as ever to hold and bind? It is not true.

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Many a young man sells his birthright in this way and cannot have it back again, though he seek it with many tears. Take your honest eight hours' sleep, if you may: there is life in it and grace. It is one of the good angels which will save you from temptation, give you an even 10 mind, brighten all your powers, and do many things for you which no other power can do.

Good fortune turns greatly on good habits, and this is one of the best. We can go just so far, and then we have to fall back on Nature and on God for new power.

Your true business or professional man is the man who rises well rested, with a cool, clear brain and steady nerve, -the man who can shake off business after business hours, go to sleep like a yearling child, and rise like the sun, rejoicing as a strong man to run a race.

Abridged.

deep sleep, etc. See Job xxxiii. 15. pregnant: full of meaning, weighty. subtle (sut'l): delicately skillful. - margin: extra amount. birthright this refers to the Bible story in which Esau sold his birthright for a mess of pottage. See Genesis xxv. 27-34.

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HELVELLYN

WALTER SCOTT

SIR WALTER SCOTT was born in Edinburgh, Scotland, in 1771. When he was less than two years old he had an illness that left him lame. He was taken to his grandfather's home, in the hope that the country life would do him good, and it was there that he first learned to love the old 5 Scotch ballads and traditions which he afterwards wove into his novels and poems. Scott has often been called "the Great Enchanter," so wonderful was his power of description. He wrote many novels which are known as the Waverley Novels, from the name of the first one of the series. Scott's poems are almost perfect in their style and finish. He died in 1832.

NOTE. In the year 1805 a young man lost his way on Mt. Helvellyn, one of the highest mountains in England. Three months afterward his dead body was found, guarded by his dog.

I climbed the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn,

Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and

wide;

15 All was still, save by fits, when the eagle was yelling, And starting around me the echoes replied.

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On the right, Striden-edge round the Red Tarn was bending, And Catchedicam its left verge was defending,

One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending,

When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer had died.

Dark green was that spot 'mid the brown mountain

heather,

Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay stretched in decay,

Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather
Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantless clay.
Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended,
For, faithful in death, his mute favorite attended,
The much-loved remains of her master defended,
And chased the hill-fox and the raven away.

How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber? When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start?

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How many long days and long weeks didst thou number, Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart? And oh was it meet that-no requiem read o'er him, No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him, 5 And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before him Unhonored the Pilgrim from life should depart?

When a Prince to the fate of the Peasant has yielded, The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall; With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded, 10 And pages stand mute by the canopied pall: Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming;

In the proudly arched chapel the banners are beaming; Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming, Lamenting a Chief of the people should fall.

15 But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature,

To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb, When wildered he drops from some cliff huge in stature, And draws his last sob by the side of his dam.

And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying,

20 Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying, With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying, In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedicam.

Striden-edge and Catchedicam': the two spurs of Mt. Helvellyn. wil'dered: bewildered.

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