"Agite Mais Constant."
"Though the speed with which we are hurried through the immensity of space, is not perceptible to our vision; yet the truth that 'Time is ever on the wing,' should teach us to be wise while it is called 'to-day.'"
| Pleasures of time and sense can give No hope or real joy; They leave an aching void behind, Are mixed with base alloy. Say, wouldst thou twine a lasting wreath To deck thy forehead fair, Go—wipe away the widow's tear, And sooth the orphan's care. Wouldst thou be meet to join the choir Who sing in endless bliss, Go—drink at that Eternal Fount, Whose stream shall never cease. Wouldst thou improve the talents here, Transmitted from above; Go—turn the sinner from his way, And prove a Saviour's love. |
POWHATAN.
EXTRACT.
Men will wrangle for religion; write for it; fight for it; die for it; any thing but—live for it.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.