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the object of thy emulation. To pain and sickness, be thou again the messenger of ease and health. Virtue is not rest, but action. If thou dost good to man as an evidence of thy love to God, thy virtue will be exalted from mortal to divine; and that happiness which is the pledge of paradise, will be thy reward upon earth.'

"At these words, I was not less astonished than if a mountain had been overturned at my feet. I humbled myself in the dust; I returned to the city; I dug up my treasure; I was liberal, yet I became rich. My skill in restoring health to the body, gave me frequent opportunities of curing the diseases of the soul. I grew eminent beyond my merit; and it was the pleasure of the king that I should stand before him. Now, therefore, be not offended; I boast of no knowledge that I have not received. As the sands of the desert drink up the drops of rain, or the dew of the morning, so do I also, who am but dust, imbibe the instructions of the Prophet.

“Believe, then, that it is he who tells thee, all knowledge is profane, which terminates in thyself; and by a life wasted in speculation, little even of this can be gained. When the gates of paradise are thrown open before thee, thy mind shall be irradiated in a moment. Here, thou canst do little more than pile errour upon errour : there, thou shalt build truth upon truth. Wait, therefore, for the glorious vision; and in the mean-time emulate the eagle. Much is in thy power; and, therefore, much is expected of thee. Though the Almighty only can give virtue, yet, as a prince, thou mayest stimulate those to beneficence, who act from no higher motive than immediate interest thou canst not produce the principle, but mayest enforce the practice. Let thy virtue be thus diffused; and if thou believest with reverence, thou shalt be accepted above. Farewell! May the smile of Him who resides in the heaven of heavens be upon thee; and against thy name, in the volume of His will, may happiness be written!"

The king, whose doubts, like those of Mirza, were now removed, looked up with a smile that communicated the joy of his mind. He dismissed the prince to his government; and commanded these events to be recorded, to the end that posterity may know, "that no life is pleasing to God, but that which is useful to mankind.”


The Planetary System.-MANGNALL.

FAIR star of Eve, thy lucid ray
Directs my thoughts to realms on high;
Great is the theme, though weak the lay,
For my heart whispers God is nigh.
The Sun, vicegerent of his power,
Shall rend the veil of parting night,
Salute the spheres, at early hour,
And pour a flood of life and light.

Seven circling planets I behold,
Their different orbits all describe;
Copernicus these wonders told,
And bade the laws of truth revive.

Mercury and Venus first appear,
Nearest the dazzling source of day;
Three months compose his hasty year,
In seven she treads the heav'nly way.

Next, Earth completes her yearly course;
The Moon as satellite attends;
Attraction is the hidden force,
On which creation's law depends.

Then Mars is seen of fiery hue;
Jupiter's orb we next descry;
His atmospherick belts we view,
And four bright moons attract the eye.

Mars, soon his revolution makes,

In twice twelve months the sun surrounds; Jupiter, greater limit takes,

And twelve long years declare his bounds.

With ring of light, see Saturn slow,
Pursue his path in endless space;
By seven pale moons his course we know,
And thirty years that round shall trace.

The Georgium Sidus next appears,
By his amazing distance known;
The lapse of more than eighty years,
In his account makes one alone.

Six moons are his, by Herschel shown,
Herschel, of modern times the boast;
Discovery here is all his own,
Another planetary host!

And lo! by astronomick scan,

Three stranger planets track the skies,
Part of that high majestick plan,
Whence those successive worlds arise.

Next Mars, Piazzi's orb is seen,
Four years six months, complete his round;
Science shall renovated beam,
And gild Palermo's favoured ground.

Daughters of telescopick ray,
Pallas and Juno, smaller spheres,
Are seen near Jove's imperial way,
Tracing the heavens in destined years.

Comets and fixed stars I see,

With native lustre ever shine;

How great! how good! how dreadful! He,

In whom life, light, and truth combine.

Oh! may I better know his will,
And more implicitly obey;
Be God my friend, my father still,
From finite-to eternal day.


Incentives to devotion.-H. K. WHITE.
Lo! the unlettered hind, who never knew
To raise his mind excursive, to the heights
Of abstract contemplation, as he sits
On the green hillock by the hedge-row side,
What time the insect swarms are murmuring,
And marks, in silent thought, the broken clouds,
That fringe, with loveliest hues, the evening sky,
Feels in his soul the hand of nature rouse
The thrill of gratitude, to him who formed
The goodly prospect; he beholds the God
Thron'd in the west; and his reposing ear


Hears sounds angelick in the fitful breeze,

That floats through neighbouring copse or fairy brake,
Or lingers, playful, on the haunted stream.
Go with the cotter to his winter fire,

When, o'er the moors the loud blast whistles shrill,
And the hoarse ban-dog bays the icy moon;
Mark with what awe he lists the wild uproar,
Silent, and big with thought; and hear him bless
The God that rides on the tempestuous clouds,
For his snug hearth, and all his little joys.
Hear him compare his happier lot, with his
Who bends his way across the wintry wolds,
A poor night-traveller, while the dismal snow
Beats in his face, and dubious of his paths,
He stops, and thinks, in every lengthening blast,
He hears some village mastiff's distant howl,
And sees far streaming, some lone cottage light;
Then, undeceived, upturns his streaming eyes,
And clasps his shivering hands, or overpowered,
Sinks on the frozen ground, weighed down with sleep,
From which the hapless wretch shall never wake.

Thus the poor rustick warms his heart with praise, And glowing gratitude: he turns to bless With honest warmth, his Maker and his God. And shall it e'er be said, that a poor hind, Nursed in the lap of ignorance, and bred In want and labour, glows with noble zeal To laud his Maker's attributes, while he Whom starry science in her cradle rocked, And Castaly enchastened with its dews, Closes his eye upon the holy word; And, blind to all but arrogance and pride, Dares to declare his infidelity,

And openly contemn the Lord of Hosts!
Oh! I would walk
A weary journey to the furthest verge
Of the big world, to kiss that good man's hand,
Who, in the blaze of wisdom and of art,
Preserves a lowly mind; and to his God,
Feeling the sense of his own littleness,
Is as a child in meek simplicity!
What is the pomp of learning? the parade
Of letters and of tongues? Even as the mists
Of the grey morn before the rising sun,

That pass away and perish. Earthly things
Are but the transient pageants of an hour;
And earthly pride is like the passing flower,
That springs to fall, and blossoms but to die.


Ode to Sickness.

The following ode was written by a young lady in the north of England, who, for many years, had been oppressed with a hopeless consumption.

Nor to the rosy maid, whom former hours
Beheld me fondly covet, tune I now
The melancholy lyre: no more I seek
Thy aid Hygeia! sought so long in vain ;
But 'tis to thee, O Sickness! 'tis to thee
I wake the silent strings; accept the lay.

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Thou art no tyrant waving the fierce scourge
O'er unresisting victims-but a nymph
Of mild though mournful mien, upon whose brow
Patience sits smiling, and whose heavy eye,
Though moist with tears, is always fixed on heaven.
Thou wrapp'st the world in clouds, but thou canst tell
Of worlds where all is sunshine, and, at length,
When through this vale of sorrow thou hast led
Thy patient sufferers, cheering them the while
With many a smile of promise, thy pale hand
Unlocks the bowers of everlasting rest;
Where Death's kind angel waits to dry their tears,
And crown them with his amaranthine flowers.

Yet have I known thee long, and I have felt
All that thou hast of sorrow-many a tear
Has fallen on my cold cheek, and many a sigh,
Call'd forth by thee, has swelled my aching breast;
Yet still I bless thee, O thou chastening power!
For all I bless thee: thou hast taught my soul
To rest upon itself, to look beyond
The narrow bounds of time, and fix its hopes
On the sure basis of eternity.

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