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The work of to-day, then, I must not postpone,
Lest if I delay, it should never be done,

For I only am sure of to-day:
Of each single hour, I must give a report,
And to-day is too long, and to-morrow too short
To allow of neglect or delay.

Important Truths,

PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE. Those ages have no memory ; but they left A record in the desert-columns strewn On the waste sands, and statues fall'n and cleft, Heaped, like a host in battle overthrown; Vast ruins, where the mountain's ribs of stone, Were hewn into a City-streets that spread In the dark earth, where never breath has blown, Of heaven's sweet air, nor foot of man dares tread, The long and perilous ways—the Cities of the dead. The tombs of monarchs, to the clouds up-piled, They perished—but th' eternal tombs remain; And the black precipice abrupt and wild, Pierced by long toil, and hollowed to a fane. Huge piers, and frowning forms of gods sustain The everlasting arches, dark and wide, Like the night-heaven when clouds are black with rain. But idly skill was tasked, and strength was plied, All was the work of slaves to swell a despot's pride, But now a better spirit is awake, And spreads himself, and shall not sleep again; But thro’ the idle mesh of power shall break, Like billows o'er the Asian monarch's chain, Till men are filled with him, and feel how vain, Instead of the pure heart and innocent hands, Are all the proud and pompous modes to gain, The smile of heaven-till a new age expands Its white and holy wings above the peaceful lands, Thus error's monstrous shapes from earth are driven,

They fade! they fly!—but TRUTH survives their flight;
Earth has no shades to quench that beam of heaven;
Each ray that shone, in early time, to light
The faltering footsteps in the path of right,
Each gleam of clearer brightness, shed to aid
In man's maturer day, his bolder sight,
All blended, like the rainbow's radiant braid,
Pour yet, and still shall pour, the blaze that cannot fade.

BRYANT.

MORNING HYMN.

Oh when wilt Thou come unto me? I will walk within my house with a perfect heart.-Ps. c. i. 2.

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FORTUNE TELLING.
THE gipsies tell us they can read

The dark uncertain morrow,
Though well we know God hides from man

Its happiness or sorrow.
But some things we may all foretell,

They come to pass so certain :-
I'll tell your fortune if you will,

And lift to-morrow's curtain.
Say, are you peevish, fretful, cross :

Nursing a vile ill-temper?-
Your friends will fly you as a curse,

Or horrible distemper.
Are you a vain and flaunting thing,

Proud of your dress or station ?-
Here or hereafter pride must bow,

And suffer degradation.
Is Self the ruler of your heart,

The idol of your bosom ?-
If youth so base a bud produce,

How vile will be the blossom!
Are you an idle sluggish drone,

In youth's fresh seed-time sleeping P-
Then yours will be a barren age,

An autumn with no reaping.
Our fortune thus we make or mar,-

Our blessing or undoing:
Our habits are our fortune still,

Our happiness or ruin.
Heaven means to us the highest good

That we can be possessing,
And 'tis our fault if we should lose

Its everlasting blessing.
Such things are all we need to know

Of future joy or sorrow;
Do you your duty well to-day,
And fear no ill to-morrow.

Important Thruths.

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