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Article THE SABBATH AS AN INSTITUTION. ← Page 3 of 3 Article THE MOTHER. Page 1 of 1
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The Sabbath As An Institution.
the Irish , St . Patrick's Day ; the Scotch , St . Andrew ' s ; and the Americans Christmas , New Year's , first of April , and fourth of July . Now , all of them , as giving rest to the labouring poor , are good . I wish there were more of them , if some intellectual and moral could be combined with the physical improvement . But all of them are calculated to recruit the physical energies , leaving thc mind and morals wholly unattended to .
Each of them has a feature peculiar to itself , but a feature peculiar to all is , they do not recognize man as a moral intelligence . On Christmas wc wish our friends a merry clay ; on New Year ' s ive wish them a happy new year , and generally express our happiness on the arrival of thc new year by eating , drinking , and dancing . On April Fools' Day ive enjoy the fun of cracking innocent jokes at the expense of our friends , and on the fourth of July by speeches , bonfires , & c , but in none of them is provision made for mental and moral improvement—this is reserved for the Sabbath . —Bob Morris ' s Voice of Masonry .
The Mother.
THE MOTHER .
13 v a lone and cheerless hearth , "Waits a widow for her child—AVaits her only son ' s return , From the haunts of comrades wild . Like a statue , pale , she sits , Burning thoughts within her brain
, List'ning for his well-known step , But , alas ! she lists in vain . She hearcth but the mournful wind , Sighing , wailing as it goes ; And thc tapping of the rain , Which louder at the lattice grows .
No refreshing , balmy tears , Now upspring to calm her grief ; Years of sorrow have drunk up Those pearly treasures of relief .
Bitter now her cup of life , And , like the basin at the spring—Hourly drank from—ever full , Yet to life she still doth cling , One . two , three , comes on the wind In strange foreboding tone—Slowly as a funeral march ,
Faintly ; ls an infant ' s moaii . Still she sits , but hearcth not Tiie bell-notes , nor the wild wind roar Nor her son ' s impatient knock , Oft repeated at thc door . Her gentle , patient spirit . Long to pain and sorrow wed , Hath taken fli g ht , to dwell with Him , AA'ho for a sinful people bled ,
Note: This text has been automatically extracted via Optical Character Recognition (OCR) software.
The Sabbath As An Institution.
the Irish , St . Patrick's Day ; the Scotch , St . Andrew ' s ; and the Americans Christmas , New Year's , first of April , and fourth of July . Now , all of them , as giving rest to the labouring poor , are good . I wish there were more of them , if some intellectual and moral could be combined with the physical improvement . But all of them are calculated to recruit the physical energies , leaving thc mind and morals wholly unattended to .
Each of them has a feature peculiar to itself , but a feature peculiar to all is , they do not recognize man as a moral intelligence . On Christmas wc wish our friends a merry clay ; on New Year ' s ive wish them a happy new year , and generally express our happiness on the arrival of thc new year by eating , drinking , and dancing . On April Fools' Day ive enjoy the fun of cracking innocent jokes at the expense of our friends , and on the fourth of July by speeches , bonfires , & c , but in none of them is provision made for mental and moral improvement—this is reserved for the Sabbath . —Bob Morris ' s Voice of Masonry .
The Mother.
THE MOTHER .
13 v a lone and cheerless hearth , "Waits a widow for her child—AVaits her only son ' s return , From the haunts of comrades wild . Like a statue , pale , she sits , Burning thoughts within her brain
, List'ning for his well-known step , But , alas ! she lists in vain . She hearcth but the mournful wind , Sighing , wailing as it goes ; And thc tapping of the rain , Which louder at the lattice grows .
No refreshing , balmy tears , Now upspring to calm her grief ; Years of sorrow have drunk up Those pearly treasures of relief .
Bitter now her cup of life , And , like the basin at the spring—Hourly drank from—ever full , Yet to life she still doth cling , One . two , three , comes on the wind In strange foreboding tone—Slowly as a funeral march ,
Faintly ; ls an infant ' s moaii . Still she sits , but hearcth not Tiie bell-notes , nor the wild wind roar Nor her son ' s impatient knock , Oft repeated at thc door . Her gentle , patient spirit . Long to pain and sorrow wed , Hath taken fli g ht , to dwell with Him , AA'ho for a sinful people bled ,