ulk
Should sink beneath the wave;
Her thunders shook the mighty deep,
And there should be her grave;
Nail to the mast her holy flag,
Set every threadbare sail,
And give her to the god of storms,
The lightning and the gale.--HOLMES.

Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have
not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling
cymbal. And though I have the gift of prophecy, and
understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have
all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not
charity, I am nothing. And though I bestow all my goods to
feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and
have not charity, it profiteth me nothing.--PAUL.

Forth goes the woodman, leaving unconcerned
The cheerful haunts of man, to wield the axe
And drive the wedge in yonder forest drear,
From morn to eve his solitary task.
Shaggy, and lean, and shrewd, with pointed ears
And tail cropped short, half lurcher and half cur,
His dog attends him! Close behind his heel
Now creeps he slow; and now, with many a frisk
Wide-scampering, snatches up the drifted snow
With ivory teeth, or ploughs it with his snout;
Then shakes his powdered coat, and barks for joy.
Heedless of all his pranks, the sturdy churl
Moves right toward the mark; nor stops for aught,
But now and then with pressure of his thumb,
To adjust the fragrant charge of a short tube,
That fumes beneath his nose; the trailing cloud
Streams far behind him, scenting all the air.--COWPER.

Oh, the grave! the grave! It buries every error, covers every
defect, extinguishes every resentment. From its peaceful bosom
spring none but fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can
look down upon the grave even of an enemy, and not feel a
compunctious throb that he should ever have warred with the
poor handful of earth that lies moldering before him? But the
grave of those we loved,--what a place for meditation! There
it is we call up, in long review, the whole history of virtue
and gentleness, and the thousand endearments lavished upon us,
almost unheeded, in the daily intercourse of intimacy; there
it is that we dwell upon the tenderness, the solemn, awful
tenderness of the parting scene.--IRVING.

JOAN OF A