ere--there--to us the bliss was given,
To seek and find the path to heaven."

[Bourne, "The Sabbath School", stz. 1-3, 5. Quoted from _The
Christian Visitant_, Boston 1827:

How sweet to mark the artless throng,
And hear th' ingenious youth
Raise with one voice, the infant song,
And learn the word of truth;
Delightful work! his path to trace,
Who died to save our ruined race.

Now fancy, o'er life's little span,
Glances her busy eyes.
And sees them bear the name of man--
Industrious, good, and wise:
Bids them each useful art employ,
Anticipates their future joy.

Some of the little ones may live
To adorn their country's name;
Indulgent heaven by them may give
Fresh lustre to her fame.
Some may the blessed Gospel bear
To distant lands, and plant it there.

...

And many to this honor'd spot,
On God's eventful day,
(Oh happy enviable lot!)
Grateful shall point and say,
There,--there,--to us the bliss was giv'n,
To seek and find the path to heav'n!]

FRIENDSHIP.

"Oh, give me the friend, from whose warm, faithful breast,
The sigh breathes responsive to mine;
Where my cares may obtain the soft pillow of rest,
And my sorrows may love to recline."

Not the friend who my hours of pleasure will share,
But abide not the season of grief;
Who flies from the brow that is darken'd by care,
And the silence that looks for relief.

Not the friend who suspicious of change or of guile,
Would shrink from a confidence free;
Nor him who with fondness complacent can smile,
On the eye that looks coldly on me.

"As the mirror that's just to each blemish or grace,
To myself will my image reflect;
But to none but myself will that image retrace,
Nor picture one absent defect."

To myself let my friend be a mirror as true,
Thus my faults from all others conceal,
Nor ever when absent those foibles renew,
"That from heav'n and from man he should veil."

[Tighe, _A Faithful Friend is the Medicine of Life_, last five
stanzas:

Oh! give me the friend, from whose warm faithful breast
The sigh breathes responsive to mine,
Where my cares may obtain the soft pillow of rest,
And my sorrows may love to recline.

Not the friend who my hours of pleas