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BY I*, c* PENDLETON.
VOL. I.
THE
S0 HT *ff IS 5? IP ®S 2?
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POETRY.
The following lines are given as a specimen
of one of Thomas Pringle’s poems entitled
“ Afar in the desert.” The reviewer of these
poems in the London Monthly Review says,
that “Coleridge so intently admired this piece
as to do little else for some days but to read
and recite it.” It is from a volume of Prin
gle’s Poems recently published in London.
“ Afar in the desert I love to ride,
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side:
When the sorrows of life the soul o’ercast,
And, sick of the Present, I cling to the Past;
When the eye is suffused with regretful tears,
From th« fond recollections of former years,
And shadows of things that have long since fled.
Flit over the brain, like the ghosts of the dead;
Bright visions of glory—that vanished too soon ;
Da; - Ireams —that departed ere manhood’s noon;
Attachments—by fate or by falsehood rest!
Companions of early days—lost or left;
And my Native Land—whose magical name
Thrills to the heart like electric flame;
The home of my childhood, the haunts of my prime,
All the passions and scenes of that rapturous time
j When the feelings were young and the world was new
4 Like the fresh bowers of Eden unfolding to view ;
All—all now forsaken—forgotten—foregone !
And 1 a lone exile remembered of none—
I My high aims abandoned—my good acts undone —
A weary of all that is under the sun—
! With that sadness of heart which no stranger may scan,
I fly to the Desert afar from man !
Afar in the Desert I love to ride,
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side;
W hen the wild turmoil of wearisome life,
With its scenes of oppression, corruption and strife —
The proud man’s frown, and the base man’s sea
The scorner’s laugh, and the sufferer’s tear —
And malice, and meanness, and falsehood and folly,
Dispose me to musing, and dark melancholly;
' v '‘ lcn my bosom is full and my thoughts are high,
And my soul is sick with the bondman’s sigh—
Da! then there is freedom, and joy, and pride,
Afar in the Desert alone to ride!
1 here is rapture to vault on the champing steed,
And to hound away with eagle’s speed,
With the death-fraught firelock in my hand —
Hie only law of the Desert Land !
Afar in the Desert I love to ride,
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side:
Anav away in the Wilderness vas f ,
W here the White Man’s foot hath never passed,
And the quivered Coranda or Bechuan
Hath rarely crossed with his roving clan;
A region of emptiness, howling and drear,
hirl l Man hath abandoned from famine and fear,
irh the snake and the lizard inhabit alone,
lf h tlie twilight hat from the yawning stone;
ere grass, nor herb, nor shrub takes root,
Save poisonous thorns that peirce the foot;
And the bitter melon, for food and drink,
’’thepilgrim’s fare by the salt-lake’s brink;
region of drought, where no river glides,
or rippling brook with osicred si 'es;
Where sedgy pool, nor bubbling fount,
or tree, nor cloud, nor misty mount,
Appears, to refresh the aching eye;
ut the barren earh, and the burning skv,
Aid the blank horizon, round and round,
spread—void of living sight or sound.
MACON, (Ga.) SATURDAY MORNING, JUNE 23, 1838.
Ynd here, while the night-winds round me sigh,
Ynd the stars burn bright in the midnight sky.
As I sit apart by die desert stone,
Like Elijah atlloreb’s cave alone,
A still small voice” comes through the wild,
Like a father consoling his freiful child,)
Which banishes bitterness, wrath and fear,
Saying— Man is distant, but God is near 1”
The following is extracted from a beautiful
Poem, recently published in the United States
Magazine:
“ Flag of my count? y ! in thy folds
Are wrapped the treasures of the heart;
Where’er that waving sheet is fanned,
By breezes of the sea or land,
It bids the life-blood start.
It is not that among those stars
The fiery crest of Mars shines out t
It is not that on battle-plain,
’Midst hopes of harnessed warriors slain,
It flaps triumphant o'er the rout.
Short-lived the joy that conquest yields ;
Flushed victory is bathed in tears ;
The burden of that bloody fame,
Which shouting thousands loud proclaim,
Sounds sad to widow’d ears.
Thou hast a deeper, stronger hold,
Flag of my country ! on the heart.
Than when o’er mustered hosts unfurled,
Thou art a signal to the world,
At which the nations start.
Thou art a symbol of the power,
Whose sheltering wings our homes surround;
Guarded by thee was childhood’s morn,
And where thy cheering folds are borne,
Order and peace are found.
Flag of my favored country, hail!
Blessings abound where thou dost float:
Best robe for living freedom’s form, '
Fit pall to spread upon the tomb,
Should Heaven to death devote.
Wave o’er us in glory still,
And be our guardian as now,
Each wind of Heaven shall kiss thy cheeks:
And withered be the arm that seeks,
To bring that banner low!”
SUNDAY READING.
BEAUTIES OF CREATION.
It is a bountiful creation-—and bounty de
mands acknowledgement; but its veiy si
lence, as to all demands upon our gratitude,
seems to me more affecting than any articu
late voice of exhonoration. If “ cloven tongues
of fire” sat upon busli and forest bough ; if
audible voices were borne on every breeze,
saying, “G ve thanks! give thanks!” how
ever startling at first, it would not be so power
ful, it would not lx) so eloquent, as the deep and
unobtrusive silence of nature. The revolv
ing seasons encircle us with their blessings;
the fruits of the earth successively and silently
spring from its bosom, and as silently moulder
back again to prepare for new supplies ; day
and night return ; the “soft and stealing hours
rollon ;” mighty changes and revolutions are
passing in the abjsses of the earth and the
throned heights of the firmament; mighty
worlds and systems are borne with speed, al
most like that of light, through the infinitude
of space ; but all is order, harmony, and si
lence. What histories could they relate of in
finite goodness, but they proclaim it not!
What calls to grateful devotion are there in
earth and heaven, but they speak it not!—No
messenger stands upon the watch towers of
creation, on hill or mountain, saying, like the
Moslem priest from the minarets of their tem
ples, “To prayer! to prayer!” lam some
times tempted to wish there were, or to wonder
there are not. But so it is ; there is no audi
ble voice nor speech. And for this cause, and
for other causes, how many of heaven’s bles
sings escape your notice. In how many ways
; s the band of hoaven stretched out to us, and
vet unseen : in how man places does it secretly
leposite its benefactions! It is as if a friend
lad come with soft and gentle step to the dwel
ing of our want, or to the abode of our sick
ness, and laid down his gift, and silently turn
ed away. And during half of our lives the
night draws her veil of darkness over the mys
tcrious path of Heaven’s care; and yet those
paths are filled with ministering angels that
wait about our defenceless pillow, and keep
:heir watch by the couch of our repose. Yes.
in night and darkness, and untrodden soli
udes, what histories of God’s mercy are read !
But they are not written in human language ;
they are not proclaimed by mortal tongue.
Fhe dews of heavenly beneticience silently de
scend ; the ocean rolls in its dark caverns ; the
recesses of the wilderness are thronged with
insects, and beasts, and birds, that utter no
sound in the ear of man. Dewey.
THE SABBATH.
Accustomed as we are to view the Sabbath
as a religious institution, we forget to reflect on
ts importance in a mo al and civil point of
view. True, in this respect it is not of that
great interest to man which the welfare of his
immortal spirit requires, but independent of its
religious influence, there is perhaps no one
thing which contributes more to elevate the
character of man, to eradicate the ruthlessness
of his savage nature, to make him a moral, so
cial and upright being, and to establish the
great principles of civil liberty, than the institu
tion of the Sabbath. At one and the same
time, all nature as it were, is hushed to repose ;
man ceases from his accustomed avocations
and retires to scenes more congenial to thought
and reflection—and the beasts of the field re
leased from their labors enjoy the like repose.
After six days labor, “tired nature” seeks for
a “ restorerand after a day of rest, men
seek their several employments, with renova
ted vigor of both body and mind. Suppose
there was no Sabbath, no weekly assemblings
of the people, man would plod on his course of
time in one dull round of forgetfulness, as na
ture left him at his birth so at his death she
would find him, the child of ignorance ; unu
sed to the social pleasures of life and unaccus
tomed to the duties which civilization impose,
his life would be but the Anchorite’s dream—
his mind but
" One dark waste
Where fiends and tempest’s howl.”
Science would lose her votaries, and the ac
ademic groves would be forsaken, and man in
every station in society would feel its baneful
effects. Covington Free Press.
SUNSET.
How beautiful is sunset! and wfyo does not
love this hour, when the orb of day is sinking
in the west beneath a cloudless sky ; when na
ture and all animated creation sleep in silence,
and free from the constraints of man and the
pursuits of life, we can retire to some jilace of
quietness and solitude, and enjoy a scene that
elevates our thoughts, and inspires us with
feelings of love and gratitude to the God of
Heaven for the bounties of his hands and the
blessings of his providence to us his degener
ate children!
It is an hour solemn and impressive, taken
from the rapid whirl of time, and devoted to
the immortal interests of the soul—an hour
distinct and alone from the turmoil and strife
of life, in which we can in silent aspirations
worship our Maker and dwell with rupture on
the works of his fingers.
Man is a being who, generally speaking, is
obliged to pursue some calling or avocation in
life, for the purpose of maintaining not only
himself, but frcpuently to support those who
have a claim upon him from the natural ties
and relationships of life: those pursuits du
ring the day naturally fill his mind, to the ex
clusion of matters of more serious and holy
import; but when evening casts its shadows
around, and the dews of Heaven are falling
upon the grateful earth, and all nature seems
hushed to repose, the scene operates on his
mind in a different manner; he then feels lift
ed above the cares of life, and voluntarily
pours out his soul in silent prayer to the God
af Abraham, Isaac, und Jacob, for the inesti
mable privileges he then enjoys. Moreover,
sunset is an emblem of the close of our pil
grimage on earth, when life’s sun itself shall
■;et in the grave, and we be gathered to our fa
thers ; when the world and all its parade and
!folly shall fade before our dosing eyes, and]
when death shall for ever seal us happy or mis- 1
'erab'.c.
C. R. lIANLEITER, PRINTER.
Such are the startling truths suggested to tlui
mind at the going down of the great luminary
of day, and as such we should give them wel
come, not only for the important lessons they
teach, hut for the glory of God and the im
provement and advancement of religion in our
souls. Life is, at 1 est, but delusive and uncer
tain : we daily see our friends and relatives
hurried from the bustling scenes of life to tho
cold and icy tomb ; those, perhaps, who wero
as vigorous and as flourishing as ourselves, and
who look forward like ourselves with flatter
ing hopes and anticipations of years of easo
and happiness, are cut off in the prime of their
days ; and where are they ? They have left
this wilderness of sorrow, and entered the un
explored sea of eternity, and soon we must fol
low them ; and as we may be snatched away
in the bloom of youth, or as life’s sun may
go down at noon, and we be called to meet an
angry God, how necessary for us to improvo
the time wisely, that our sun may go down in
all the splendor and brightness of the perfect
Christian, and rise again in all the beauty and
triumph of the saints of God.
N. Y. Christian Advocate &. Journal.
MISCELLANEOUS.
THAT HOLE IN THE POCKET.
In this lies the true secret of economy —tho
care of six-penees. Many people throw them
awav without remorse or consideration —not
reflecting that a penny a day is more than three
dollars a year. \/e would complain loudly if
a tax of that amount were laid upon us; but
when we come to add all that we uselessly tax
ourselves for our penny expenses, we shall
find that we waste in this way annually quite
enough to supply a family with winter fuel.
It is now about a year since my wife said to
me one day, “ Pray, Mr. Slack water, have you
that half dollar about you that I gave you this
morning?” I felt in my waistcoat pocket, anil
I turned my purse inside out, hut it was uli
empty space —which is very different from
specie; sol said to Mrs. Stack water, “ I’vo
lost it my dear; positively, there must be a
hole in my pocket!” “I’ll sew it up,” said
she.
An hour or two after, I met Tom Stcbbins.
“ llovv did that ice-cream set ?” said Tom.
“It set,” said I “like the sun, gloriously.”
And, as I spoke it flashed upon me that my
missing half dollar had paid for those ice
creams ; however, I held my jieace, for Mrs.
Slack water sometimes makes remarks; and,
even when she assured me at breakfast next
morning that there was no hole in my pocket,
what could I do but lift my brow and say, “Ah!
isn’t there? really!”
Before a week had gone by, my wife, who,
like a dutiful helpmate as she is, always give
me her loose change to keep, called for a 25
cent piece that had been deposited in my sub
treasury for safe keeping; “there was a poor
woman at the door,” she said, “that she’d
promised it to for certain.” “Well, wait a
moment,” I cried ; so I pushed inquiries first
in this direction, then in that, then in the other;
but vacancy returned a horrid groan.” “On
mv soul,” said I, thinking it best to show a
bold front “you must keep my pockets in bet
ter repair, Mrs. Slackwater; this piece, with
I know not how many more, is lost, because
some corner or seam in my plaguey pockets is
left open.”
“Areyou sure?” said Mrs. Slackwater.
“Sure"! ay, that I am, it’s gone! totally
gone !” My «. l ife dismissed her promise, and
then, in her quiet way, asked me to chango
my pantaloons before I went out, and to bar
all argument, laid another pair on my knees.
That evening, allow me to remark, gentle
men of the species “husband,” I was very
loth to go home to tea ; I had half a mind to
bore some bachelor friend; and when hun
ger and habit, in their unassuming manner,
one on each side walked me up to my door,
the touch of the brass knob made my blood
run cold. But do not think that Mrs. Slack
, water is a Tartar, my good friends, because I
thus shrunk from home, the fact was that I
had, while abroad, called to mind the fate of
her 25 cent piece, which I had invested in
smoke, —that is to sav cigars ; and I feared to
NO. 35.