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be those amongst us' whose whole thoughts are absorbed in the business of the w6rld, and to whom the reflection never occurs' that soon they must go out into eternity, without a friend—without a home I



She is my only girl,—
I asked for her as some most precious thing;
For all unfinished was love's jewelled ring

Till set with this soft pearl.
The shade that time brought forth I could not see,
So pure, so perfect, seemed the gift to be.

Oh! many a soft old tune
I used to sing into that deadened ear.
And suffered not the slightest footstep near,

Lest she might wake too soon;
And hushel her brother's laughter while she lay—
Oh, needless care—I might have let them play!

'Twas long ere I believed
That this one daughter might not speak to me;
Waited and watched, God knows how patiently,

How willingly deceived;
Vain love was long the untiring nurse of faith,
And tended hope until it starved to death I

Oh, if she could but hear
For one short hour, that I her tongue might teach
To call me mother, in the broken speech

That thrills the mother's ear I

Alas! those sealed lips never may be stirred,
To the deep music of that lovely word.

My heart it sorely tries,
To see her kneel with such a reverent air
Beside her brothers, at their evening prayer;

Or lift those earnest eyes
To watch our lips, as though our words she knew,
Then move her own as she were speaking too.

I've watched her looking up
To the bright wonder of an evening sky,
With such a depth of meaning in her eye,

That I could almost hope
The struggling soul would burst its binding cords,
And the long pent-up thought flow forth in words.

The song of bird and bee,
The chorus of the breezes, streams, and groves,
All the great music to which nature moves,

Are wasted melody
To her—the world of sound a tuneless void;
While even silence hath its charm destroyed.

Her face is very fair,
Her blue eye beautiful, of finest mould
Her soft white brow, o'er which, in waves of gold,

Ripples her shining hair;
Alas! this lovely temple closed must be,
For He who made it keeps the master-key.

While He the mind within
Should from earth's Babel-clamour be kept free,
E'en that his still small voice and step might be

Heard at its inner shrine,
Through that deep hush of soul, with clearer thrill?
Then should I grieve?—Oh, murmuring heart be still.

She seems to have a sense
Of quiet gladness in her noiseless play;
She hath a pleasant smile, a gentle way,

Whose voiceless eloquence
Touches all hearts, though I had once the fear
That even her father would not care for her.

Thank God! it is not so;
And when his sons are playing merrily,
She comes and leans her head upon his knee,—

Oh! at such times I know,
By the full eye, and tone subdued and mild,
How his heart yearns o'er his silent child.

Not of all gifts bereft
E'en now—how could I say she did not speak?
What real language lights her eye and cheek,

In thanks to him who left
Unto her soul yet open avenues
For joy to enter, and for love to use!

And God, in love, doth give
To her defect a beauty of its own:
And we a deeper tenderness have shown,

Through that for which we grieve; Yet shall the seal be melted from her ear— Yea, and my voice shall fill it—but not here.

When that new sense is given, What rapture will its first experience be, That never woke to meaner melody

Than the rich songs of heaven, To hear the full-toned anthem swelling round, While angels teach the ecstases of sound.


[The Rev. Sydney Smith was bom at Woodford in Essex. He was educated at Winchester College, and afterwards at Oxford. Tor half a century, he rendered liimself conspicuous as a political writer, a lecturer on " Belles Lettres," a critic, and a popular preacher. During his accidental residence in Edinburgh, the "Edinburgh Review" was commenced under his auspices, but he had edited the first number only of that periodical when he removed to London. He, however, continued for many ;years one of the most active contributors to that celebrated organ of Whig principles. He died in 1843.]

Latin and Greek are useful, as they inure children to intellectual difficulties, and make the life of a young student what it ought to be, a life of considerable labour. We d6 not, of course, mean to confine this praise exclusively to the study of Latin and Greek, or suppose' that other difficulties might not be found' which it would be useful to overcome; but though Latin and Greek' have this merit in common with many arts and sciences, still they have it; and, if they do nothing else, they at least secure a solid and vigorous application' at a period of life' which materially influences all other periods. To go through the grammar of one language thoroughly, is of great use' for the mastery of every other grammar; because there obtains, through all languages, a certain analogy to each other' in their grammatical construction. Latin and Greek' have now mixed themselves etymologically' with all the languages of modern Europe, and with none more than our own; so that it is necessary to read these two tongues' for other objects than themselves.

The ancient languages' are, as mere inventions—as pieces of mechanism—incomparably more beautiful' than any of the modern languages of Europe; their mode of signifying time and case by terminations, instead of auxiliary verbs and particles, would of itself stamp their superiority. Add to thisl the copiousness of the Greek language, with the fancy, harmony, and majesty of its compounds, and there are quite sufficient reasons' why the classics should be studied' for the beauties of language. Compared to them' merely as vehicles of thought and passion, all modern languages are dull, ill-contrived, and barbarous.

That a great part of the Scriptures' have come down to us in the Greek language' is of itself a reason, if all others were wanting, why education should be planned' so as to produce a supply of Greek scholars.

The cultivation of style' is very justly made a part of education. Everything which is written' is meant either to please! or to instruct. The second objectl it is difficult to effect' without attending to the first; and the cultivation of style' is the acquisition of those rules and literary habits' which sagacity anticipates, or experience shows' to be the most effectual means of pleasing. Those works are the best' which have longest stood the test of time^ and pleased the greatest number of exercised minds. Whatever, therefore, our conjectures may be, we cannot be so surel that the best modern writers' can afford us as good models as the ancients; we cannot be certain' that they will live through the revolutions of the world, and continue to please in every climate, under every species of government, through every stage of civilization. The moderns' have been well taught by their masters; but the time is hardly yet come' when the necessity for such instruction' no longer exists. We may still borrow descriptive power' from Tacitus; dignified perspicuity' from Livy; simplicity' from Cesar; and from Homer, some portion of that light and heat' which, dispersed into ten thousand channels, has filled the world' with bright images and illustrious thoughts. Let the cultivator of modern literature' addict himself to the purest models of taste' which France,'Itaiy,and E'ngland could supply, he might still learn from Virgil to be majestic, and from Tibullus to be tender; he might not yet look upon the face of nature' as Theocritus saw it, nor might ho reach those springs of pathos' with which Euripides softened the hearts of his audience. In short, it appears to us' that there are so many excellent reasons' why a certain number of scholars should be kept up in this, and in every civilized country, that we should consider every system of education' from which classical education was excluded, as radically erroneous, and completely absurd. Sydney Smith.

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