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I am Joseph; doth my father yet live ? And his brethren could not answer him ; for they were troubled at his presence.—4 And Joseph said unto his brethren, Come near to me,


pray you : and they came near. And he said, I am Joseph your brother, whom ye sold into Egypt. 5 Now therefore be not grieved, nor angry with yourselves, that you sold me hither : for God did send me before

you to preserve life. 6 For these two years hath the famine been in the land ; and

there are five


in the which there shall be neither earing nor harvest. 7 And God sent me before you, to preserve you a posterity in the earth, and to save your lives by a great deliverance. 8 So now it was not you that sent me hither, but God : and he hath made me a father to Pharaoh, and lord of all his house, and a ruler throughout all the land of Egypt. 9 Haste ye, and go up to my father, and say unto him, Thus saith thy son Joseph, God hath made me lord of all Egypt; come down unto me, tarry not : 10 And thou shalt dwell in the land of Goshen, and thou shalt be near unto me, thou, and thy children, and thy children's children, and thy flocks, and thy herds, and all that thou hast : 11 And there will I nourish thee, (for yet there are five years of famine,) lest thou, and thy household, and all that thou hast come to poverty.

12 And behold, your eyes see, and the eyes of my brother Benjamin, that it is my mouth that speaketh unto you. ,13 And ye shall tell my father of all my glory in Egypt, and of all that ye have seen; and ye shall haste, and bring down my father hither. 14 And he fell upon his brother Benjamin's neck, and wept; and Benjamin wept upon his neck. 15 Moreover, he kissed all his brethren, and wept upon them : and after that his brethren talked with him.

25 And they went up out of Egypt, and came into the land of Canaan unto Jacob their father, 26 And told him saying, Joseph is yet Alive, and he is governor over all the land of Egypt. And Jacob's heart fainted, for he believed them not. 27 And they told him all the words

of Joseph, which he had said unto them: and when he saw the waggons which Joseph had sent to carry him, the spirit of Jacob their father revived : 28 And Israel said, It is enough ; Joseph my son is yet alive : I will go and see him before I die.

3. The death of a friend.
1 I fain would sing :--but ah! I strive in vain.

Sighs from a breaking heart my voice confound,
With trembling step, to join yon weeping train,

I haste, where gleams funereal glare around, And, mix'd with shrieks of wo, the knells of death resound. 2 Adieu, ye lays, that Fancy's flowers adorn,

The soft amusement of the vacant mind !
He sleeps in dust, and all the Muses mourn,
He, whom each virtue fired, each grace refined,
Friend, teacher, pattern, darling of mankind !
He sleeps in dust. Ah, how shall I pursue
My theme ! To heart-consuming grief resign'd,

Here on his recent grave I fix my view,
And pour my bitter tears. Ye flowery lays, adieu !
3 Art thou, my GREGORY, forever fled !

And am I left to unavailing wo!
When fortune's storms assail this weary head,
Where cares long since have shed untimely snow,
Ah, now for comfort whither shall I go!
No more thy soothing voice my anguish cheers :

Thy placid eyes with smiles no longer glow, My hopes to cherish, and allay my fears. 'Tis meet that I should mourn: flow forth afresh my tears.



The Sabbath.
How still the morning of the hallowed day !
Mute is the voice of rural labor, hush'd

The ploughboy's whistle, and the milkmaid's song.

The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath 5 Of tedded grass, mingled with fading Aowers,

That yester morn bloom'd waving in the breeze:
The faintest sounds attract the ear,—the hum
Of early bee, the trickling of the dew,

The distant bleating, midway up the hill.
10 Calmness seems thron’d on yon unmoving cloud.

To him who wanders o'er the upland leas,
The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale,
And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark

Warbles his heav'n-tun'd song ; the lulling brook 15 Murmurs more gently down the deep-sunk glen ;

While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke
O'ermounts the mist, is heard, at intervals,
The voice of psalms, the simple song of praise.

With dove-like wings Peace o'er yon village broods: 20 The dizzying mill-wheel rests ; the anvil's din

Has ceas’d; all, all around is quietness.
Less fearful on this day, the limping hare
Stops, anu looks back, and stops, and looks on man,

Her deadliest foe;- he toil-worn horse set free, 25 Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large.

And, as his stiff unwieldy bulk he rolls,
His iron-arm'd hoofs gleam in the morning ray.

But, chiefly, Man the day of rest enjoys.
Hail, SABBATH ! thee I bail, the poor man's day.
30 On other days, the man of toil is doom'd

To eat his joyless bread, lonely, the ground
Both seat and board,-screen’d from the winter's cold
And summer's heat, by neighboring hedge or tree;

But on this day, embosom'd in his home,
35 He shares the frugal meal with those he loves;

With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy
Of giving thanks to God,--not thanks of forin,
A word and a grimace, but reverently,
With covered face and upward earnest eye.

40 Hail, SABBATH! thee I hail, the poor man's day.

The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe
The morning air, pure from the city's smoke,
As wandering slowly up the river's bank,

He meditates on him whose power he marks
45 In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough,

And in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom
Around the roots; and while he thus surveys
With elevated joy each rural charm,

He hopes, (yet fears presumption in the hope,) 50 That heaven may be one Sabbath without end.

But now his steps a welcome sound recalls :
Solemn, the knell from yonder ancient pile
Fills all the air, inspiring joyful awe;

The throng moves slowly o'er the tomb-pav'd ground: 55 The aged man, the bowed down, the blind

Led by the thoughtless boy, and he who breathes
With pain, and eyes the new-made grave, well-pleas’d;
These, mingled with the young, the gay, approach

The house of God: these, spite of all their ills, 60 A glow of gladness prove : with silent praise

They enter in : a placid stillness reigns;
Until the man of God, worthy the name,
Opens the book, and, with impressive voice,
The weekly portion reads.



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The Burial of Sir John Moore. 1 (-) Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,

As his corse to the ramparts we hurried ; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot

O'er the grave where our Hero was buried. 2 We buried him darkly; at dead of night,

The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moon-beams' misty light,

And the lantern dimly burning.

3 No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him !
But he lay-like a warrior taking his rest-

With his martial cloak around him !
4 Few and short were the prayers we said,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow ;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,

And we bitterly thought of the morrow--
5 We thought—as we hollowed his narrow bed,

And smoothed down his lonely pillowHow the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,

And we far away on the billow !
6 “ Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
But nothing he'll reck, if they let him sleep on

In the grave where a Briton has laid him.” 7 But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock toll'd the hour for retiring,
And we heard the distant and random gun,

That the foe was suddenly firing8 Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory !
We carved not a line, we raised not a stone,

But left him--alone with his glory!

6. Eve lamenting the loss of Paradise. (-) O unexpected stroke, worse than of Death! Must I thus leave thee, Paradise ? thus leave Thee, native soil, these happy walks and shades,

Fit haunt of Gods ? where I had hope to spend, 5 Quiet though sad, the respite of that day,

That must be mortal to us both. O flowers,
That never will in other climate grow,
My early visitation, and my last
At ev'n, which I bred up with tender hand

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