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God of the rolling orbs above !

Thy name is written clearly bright,
In the warm day's unvarying bláze,

Or evening's golden shower of light.

fire that fronts the sun,
And every spark that walks alone,
Around the utmost verge of heaven,

Were kindled at thy burning throne.
God of the world! the hour must come,

And Nature's self to dust return;
Her crumbling altars must decay ;

Her incense fires shall cease to burn;
But still her grand and lovely scenes

Have made man's warmest praises flow;
For hearts grow holier as they trace

The beauty of the world below.



LESSON XXVI.--UNIVERSAL DECAY.--GREENWOOD. (Marked for Rhetorical Pauses, Emphasis, and Inflections.*] We receive such repeated intimations of decay || in the world through which we are passing ;-decline | and change | and loss, follow ' declines and change | and loss

ll in such rapid succession, that we can almost catch the 5 sound of universal wasting, and hear the work of desolá

tion' going on busily ' around us. “ The mountain | falling Il cometh to nought, and the rock | is removed out of his plàce. The waters | wear the stones, the things which grow out of the dust of

the earth || are washed away, and 10 the hope of man | is destroyed.Conscious ' of our own

instability, we look about ' for something to rèst on; but we look 'in vàin. The heavens ' and the earth had a beginning, and they will have an end. The face of the

world | is changing, dáily and hourly. All' animated 15 things ll grow old and die. The rocks | crùmble, the trees

| fall, the leaves | fáde, and the grass | withers. The clouds | are flying, and the waters | are flowing awdy

The firmest works of màn, too, are gradually giving 20 way, the ivy | clings to the mouldering tower, the brier |

* The learner having been conducted through the application of the rules for Pauses, Emphasis, and Inflections, separately, will now be prepared to study and apply them in conjunction.

from us.

hangs out from the shattered window, and the wall-flower springs from the disjointed stones. The founders of these perishable works I have shared the same fate long

agò. If we look back to the days of our ancestors, to the 5 mèn as well as the dwellings of former times, they be

come immediately associated in our imaginations, and only make the feeling of instability stronger and deeper than before. In the spacious domes, which once held our

thers, the serpent | hisses, and the wild bird | scrèams. 10 The halls, which once were crowded' with all that tàste

| and science and lábor | could procure,—which resounded with melody, and were lighted up with beauty, are buried

I by their own rùins, mocked by their own desolation.

The voice of merriment, and of wailing, the steps of the 15 bùsy' and the idle || have cèased in the deserted courts, and

the weeds choke the entrances, and the long grass II waves upon the hearth-stone. The works of art, the forming hànd, the tòmbs, the very àshes they contained, are all

gòne. 20 While we thus walk ' among the ruins of the past, a

sad feeling of insecùrity | comes over us; and that feeling' is by no means diminished II when we arrive at home. If we turn to our friends, we can hardly speak to them ||

before they bid us farewell. We see them for a few 25 ments ' and in a few moments more, their countenances 1

chànged, and they are sent away. It matters not ! how néar

I and dear I they are. The ties which bind us togetheill are never too close to be pàrted, or too strong 'to be brò.

ken. Tears | were never known to move the king of 30 tèrrors; neither is it enough that we are compelled to

surrender óne, or twó, or màny of those we love; for though the price is so great, we buy no fàvor with it, and our hold ' on those who remain I is as slight as ever.

The shadows || all I elude our gråsp, and follow one an35 other down the valley. We gain no confidence, then, no

feeling of security, by turning to our contemporaries and kindred. We know that the forms, which are breathing around us, are as shortlived ' and fleeting 'as those were,

which have been dúst | for centuries. The sensation of 40 vànity, uncertainty, and rúin, is equally stròng, whether

we muse on what has long been pròstrate, or gaze on what is falling now, or will fall ' so soon.

If every thing I which comes under our notice || has


All power

endured for so short a time, and I in so short a time I will be no more, we cannot say | that we receive the least assúrance || by thinking on ourselves. When a few more

friends have léft, a few more hopes | deceived, and a few 5 more changes | mócked us, “we shall be brought to the

gràve, and shall remain in the tòmb: the clods of the valley I shall be sweet unto us, and every man I shall fóllow us, as there are innumerable ' befòre us.

will have forsaken the strongest, and the loftiest I will 10 be laid lòw, and every eye' will be clòsed, and every voice'

húshed, and every heart will have ceased its bèaling. And when we have gone ' ourselves, even our memories I will not stay behind us lóng. A few of the near and dear I will

bear our likeness ' in their bosoms, till they' too I have ar15 rived at the end of their journey, and entered the dark

dwelling of unconsciousness. In the thoughts of others | we shall live ! only till the last sound of the bell, which informs them of our departure, has ceased to vibrate in

their ears. A stòne, perhaps, may tell some wanderer 20 where we lie, when we came here, and when we went

away ; but leven thàt | will soon refuse to bear us rècord: "time's effacing fingers" | will be busy on its súrface, and at length will wear it smooth ; and then | the

stone itself | will sink, or crùmble, and the wanderer of 25 another age will pass, without a single càll' upon his

sympathy, over our unheeded graves.


[Marked for Rhetorical Pauses, Emphasis, and Inflections.] There is one Being || to whom we can look | with a perfect conviction of finding that security, which 'nothing about us can give, and which nothing about us

can take awày. To this Being / we can lift up our souls, 5 and on Him | we may rèst them, exclaiming in the lan

guage ' of the monarch of Israel, “Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever Thou hadst formed the earth and the world, even from everlasting to everlast

ing II Thou art GÒD.” “Of old II hast Thou laid the foun10 dations of the éarth, and the heavens | are the work of

Thy hands. Thèy | shall pérish, but Thou | shalt endure; yea, all of them shall wat old I like a gàrment, as a vesture ' shalt Thou change them, and they shall be

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changed; but Thou art the sàme, and Thy years shall have no end.'*

Here | then | is a support, which will never fail ; here ' is a foundation | which can never be mòved—the ever. 5 lasting Creator 1 of countless wòrlds, "the high and

lofty One that inhabiteth eternity.What a SUBLÍMB CONCÈPTION! HE INHABITS ETÈRNITY, occupies this inconceivable duration, PERVADES | and FILLS | THROUGHOUT ||

| BOUNDLESS DWÈLLING. 'Ages on ages || before even 10 the dust of which we are formed || was created, he had

existed | in infinite majesty, and ages on ages | will roll away ll'after we have all returned to the dust | whence we were taken, and ' still | he will exist Il in infinite

jesty, living in the eternity of his own nature, reigning 15 ' in the plenitude of his own omnipotence, for ever send

ing forth the word, which forms, supports, and governs ! all things, commanding new-created light || to shine on new-created worlds, and raising up new-created genera

tions | to inhábit them. 20 The contemplation of this glorious attribute of God,

is fitted to excite ' in our minds the most ànimating | and consóling ! reflèctions. Standing, as we are, amid the ruins of time, and the wrecks of mortality, where

every thing about us | is created' and dependent, proceed25 ing from nothing, and hastening to destruction, we rejoice

I that something is presented to our view | which has stood from everlásting, and will remain for ever. When we have looked on the pleasures of life, and they have

vanished away; when we have looked on the works of 30 nature, and perceived that they were changing ; on the

monuments of árt, and seen that they would not stánd; on our friends, and they have fled ' while we were gázing; on oursèlves, and felt that we were as fleeting as

théy; when we have looked on every object ' to which 35 we could turn our anxious éyes, and they have all told us

that they could give us no hope, nor support, because they were so feeble themsélves ; we can look to the throne of GOD: change ' and decay | have never reached thÀT;

the revolution of ages || has never mòved it; the waves of 40 an eternity | have been rushing pást it, but it has re

* When the falling inflection recurs, in succession, as above, it falls lower at each repetition.

mained unshaken; the waves of another eternity | are rushing toward it, but it is FÌXED, and can never be disTÙRBED.



[Marked for Rhetorical Pauses, Emphasis, and Inflections.) If, on this day, after the lapse of two centuries, one of the fathers of New England, released from the sleep of death, could reappear i on earth, what would be his emo

tions ' of joy | and wonder! In lieu of a wilderness, here 5 and there interspersed with solitary cabins, where life

was scarcely worth the danger of preserving it, he would behold joyful hàrvests, a population ! crowded even to satiety, I villages, tòwns, cities, stàtes, swarming with indus

trious inhàbitants, hills / graced with temples of devó10 tion, and válleys | vocall with the early lessons of virtue.

Casting his eye on the ocean, which he passed in fear and trémbling, he would see it covered with enterprising flèets Il returning with the whale | as their cáptive, and the

wealth of the Indies for their càrgo. He would behold 15 the little colony' which he planted, grown into gigantic

státure, and forming an hònorable párt of a glórious confèderacy, the pride of the earth, and the favorite ' of hòapem.

He would witness, with exultation, the general preva20 lence of correct principles of government and virtuous

habits of action. How gladly would he gaze upon the long stream of light and renown | from Hårvard's classic fount, and the kindred springs l'of Yale, of Providence,

of Dártmouth, and of Brunswick. Would you fill his 25 bosom with honest príde, tell him of FRÀNKLIN, who made

thunder | sweet músic, and the lightning | innocent fireworks,- of À DAMS, the venerable sage reserved by heaven, himself | a blessing, to witness its blessing on our nation,

-of Åmes, whose tongue became, and has become | an 30 angel's, -of PÈRRY,

“Blest by his God 'with one illustrious day,

A BLAZE of GLÒRY, ere he passed away.'
And tell him, Pilgrim of Plymouth, thèse II are THY DE-

SCÈNDANTS. Show him the stately structures, the splendid 35 benèvolence, the masculine intellect, and the sweet hospital

ity of the metròpolis of New England. Show him that

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