A Book for the Young | Page 3

could only consider a little when things annoy us, and reflect how much worse they
might be, and how differently they would affect us even under less favourable
circumstances than those in which we are placed; but instead of making the best of every
thing, we only dwell on the annoyance, regardless of many extenuations that may attend
it.
As one of the means to happiness, I would beg of you, my fair young Brides, not to fix
too high a standard by which to measure either the perfections of your beloved partners
or your own hopes of being happy. Bear in mind that those to whom you are united are
subject to the same infirmities as yourself. Look well to what are your requirements as
wives, and then prayerfully and steadily act up to them, and if your hopes are not built
too high, you may, by acting rightly and rationally, find a well spring of peace and
enjoyment that must increase. Think what very proud feelings will be yours, to find you
are appreciated and esteemed for the good qualities of the heart and endowments of the
mind, and to hear after months of trial, the wife pronounced dearer than the bride.
Look around at the many who have entered the pale of matrimony before you, equally
buoyant with hope; with the same loving hearts and the same bright prospects as you
had,--and yet the stern realities of life have sobered down that romance of feeling with
which they started; yet they are perhaps more happy, though it is a quiet happiness,
founded on esteem. Oh, you know not the extent to which the conduct I have urged you
to pursue, may affect your well-being, and that of him to whom you are united.
And now with the same greeting I commenced with, will I take my leave--a Merry
Christmas and Happy New Year to you all, and may each succeeding return find you
progressing in all that can give you peace and happiness, not only here but hereafter!

THE DYING HORSE.
Heaven! what enormous strength does death possess! How muscular the giant's arm must
be To grasp that strong boned horse, and, spite of all His furious efforts, fix him to the
earth! Yet, hold, he rises!--no--the struggle's vain; His strength avails him not. Beneath
the gripe Of the remorseless monster, stretched at length He lies with neck extended;
head hard pressed Upon the very turf where late he fed. His writhing fibres speak his
inward pain! His smoking nostrils speak his inward fire! Oh! how he glares! and hark!
methinks I hear His bubbling blood, which seems to burst the veins. Amazement! Horror!
What a desperate plunge, See! where his ironed hoof has dashed a sod With the velocity
of lightning. Ah!-- He rises,--triumphs;--yes, the victory's his! No--the wrestler Death
again has thrown him And--oh! with what a murdering dreadful fall! Soft!--he is quiet.
Yet whence came that groan, Was't from his chest, or from the throat of death Exulting in
his conquest! I know not, But if 'twas his, it surely was his last; For see, he scarcely stirs!
Soft! Does he breathe? Ah no! he breathes no more. 'Tis very strange!
How still he's now! how fiery hot--how cold How terrible! How lifeless! all within A few
brief moments!--My reason staggers! Philosophy, thy poor enlightened dotard, Who canst
for every thing assign a cause, Here take thy stand beside me, and explain This hidden
mystery. Bring with thee The head strong Atheist; who laughs at heaven And impiously
ascribes events to chance, To help to solve this wonderful enigma! First, tell me, ye proud
haughty reasoners, Where the vast strength this creature late possessed Has fled to? how

the bright sparkling fire, Which flashed but now from those dim rayless eyes Has been
extinguished? Oh--he's dead you say. I know it well:--but how, and by what means? Was
it the arm of chance that struck him down, In height of vigor, and in pride of strength, To
stiffen in the blast? Come, come, tell me: Nay shake not thus the head's that are enriched
With eighty years of wisdom, gleaned from books, From nights of study, and the
magazines Of knowledge, which your predecessors left. What! not a word!--I ask you,
once again, How comes it that the wond'rous essence, Which gave such vigour to these
strong nerved limbs Has leaped from its enclosure, and compelled This noble
workmanship of nature, thus To sink Into a cold inactive clod? Nay sneak not off thus
cowardly--poor fools Ye are as destitute of information As is the lifeless subject of my
thoughts!
The _subject of my thoughts_? Yes--there he lies As free from life, as if he ne'er had
lived. Where are his friends and where