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The bleak wind whistles: snow-showers, far and near,
Drift without echo to the whitening ground:
Autumn hath pass'd away; and, cold and drear,
Winter stalks on with frozen mantle bound:
Yet still that prayer ascends: "Oh! laughingly
My little brothers round the warm hearth crowd;
Our home-fire blazes broad, and bright, and high,
And the roof rings with voices light and loud:
Spare me awhile! raise up my drooping brow!
I am content to die,—but, Oh! not now!"

The spring is come again-the joyful spring!
Again the banks with clustering flowers are spread;
The wild bird dips upon its wanton wing:-

The child of earth is number'd with the dead!
"Thee never more the sunshine shall awake,
Beaming all redly through the lattice-pane;
The steps of friends thy slumber may not break,
Nor fond familiar voice arouse again!

Death's silent shadow veils thy darken'd brow:
Why didst thou linger?-thou art happier now!"

LESSON CXLVI.

The Soul's Glimpses of Immortality.-JANE TAYLOR.

THE soul, at times, in silence of the night,

Has flashes-transient intervals of light;

When things to come, witbout a shade of doubt,

In dread reality stand fully out.

Those lucid moments suddenly present

Glances of truth, as though the heavens were rent; And, through the chasm of celestial light,

The future breaks upon the startled sight.

Life's vain pursuits, and time's advancing pace,
Appear with death-bed clearness, face to face;
And immortality's expanse sublime
In just proportion to the speck of time!
Whilst death, uprising from the silent shade,
Shows his dark outline, ere the vision fade!

In strong relief, against the blazing sky
Appears the shadow, as it passes by;

And, though o'erwhelming to the dazzle? rain,
These are the moments when the mind is sane.

LESSON CXLVII.

Rienzi's Address to the Men of Rome.-MISS Mitford,

FRIENDS,

I come not here to talk. Ye know too well
The story of our thraldom :—we are slaves!
The bright sun rises to his course, and lights
A race of slaves! He sets, and his last beam
Falls on a slave ;-not such as, swept along
By the full tide of
power, the conqueror leads
To crimson glory and undying fame;
But base, ignoble slaves-slaves to a horde
Of petty tyrants, feudal despots, lords,
Rich in some dozen paltry villages-

Strong in some hundred spearmen-only great

In that strange spell, a name. Each hour, dark fraud, Or open rapine, or protected murder,

Cries out against them. But this very day,

An honest man, my neighbour-there he stands—
Was struck-struck like a dog, by one who wore
The badge of Ursini; because, forsooth,

He tossed not high his ready cap in air,
Nor lifted up his voice in servile shouts,

At sight of that great ruffian. Be we men,

And suffer such dishonour? men, and wash not

The stain away in blood? Such shames are common.
I have known deeper wrongs. I, that speak to you,
I had a brother once, a gracious boy,

Full of all gentleness, of calmest hope,
Of sweet and quiet joy; there was the look
Of heaven upon his face, which limners give
To the beloved disciple. How I loved
That gracious boy! Younger by fifteen years,
Brother at once and son! He left my side,

A summer bloom on his fair cheeks, a smile
Parting his innocent lips. In one short hour,
The pretty, harmless boy, was slain! I saw
The corse, the mangled corse, and then I cried
For vengeance! Rouse, ye Romans: rouse, ye slaves!
Have ye brave sons? Look, in the next fierce brawl,
To see them die. Have ye daughters fair?
Look
To see them live, torn from your arms, distained,
Dishonoured; and, if ye dare call for justice,
Be answered by the lash. Yet this is Rome,
That sat on her seven hills, and, from her throne
Of beauty, ruled the world! Yet we are Romans!
Why, in that elder day, to be a Roman

Was greater than a king! And once, again,—
Hear me, ye walls, that echoed to the tread
Of either Brutus !—once again, I swear,
The eternal city shall be free! her sons
Shall walk with princes!

LESSON CXLVIII.

The Missing Ship.-EPES Sargent.

GOD speed the noble President! A gallant boat is she,
As ever enter'd harbour, or cross'd a stormy sea:

Like some majestic castle she floats upon the stream;
The good ships moor'd beside her, like pigmy shallops

seem!

How will her mighty bulwarks the dashing surges brave! How will her iron sinews make way 'gainst wind and

wave!

Farewell, thou stately vessel! Ye voyagers, farewell!
Securely on that deck shall ye the tempest's shock repel.

The stately vessel left us in all her bold array;
A glorious sight, O landsmen! as she glided down our bay;
Her flags were waving joyously, and, from her ribs of oak,
Farewell" to all the city, her guns in thunder spoke.

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Flee, on thy vapoury pinions! back, back to England flee! Where patient watchers by the strand have waited long for

thee;

Where kindred hearts are beating to welcome home thy

crew,

And tearful eyes gaze constantly across the waters blue!

Alas, ye watchers by the strand! weeks, months have roll'd away,

But where-where is the President? and why is this delay? Return, pale mourners, to your homes! ye gaze, and gaze

in vain :

O, never shall that pennon'd mast salute your eyes again!

And now our hopes, like morning stars, have, one by one, gone out;

And mute despair subdues at length the agony of doubt; But still Affection lifts the torch by night along the shore, And lingers by the surf-beat rocks, to marvel, to deplore!

In dreams I see the fated ship torn by the northern blast; About her tempest-riven track, the white fog gathers fast; When lo! above the swathing mist their heads the icebergs lift,

In lucent grandeur to the clouds-vast continents adrift!

One mingled shriek of awe goes up at that stupendous sight;

Now, helmsman, for a hundred lives, O guide the helm

aright!

Vain prayer! she strikes! and thundering down, the avalanches fall;

Crush'd, whelm'd, the stately vessel sinks-the cold sea covers all!

Anon, unresting fancy holds a direr scene to view;

The burning ship, the fragile raft, the pale and dying crew! Ah me! was such their maddening fate upon the billowy brine?

Give

up, remorseless Ocean! a relic and a sign!

No answer cometh from the deep to tell the tale we dread: No messenger of weal or woe returneth from the dead:

But Hope, through tears, looks up and sees, from earthly haven driven,

The lost ones meet in fairer realms, where storms reach not-in Heaven!

LESSON CXLIX.

Napoleon and the British Sailor.-CAMPBELL.

I LOVE contemplating apart
From all his homicidal story,
The traits that soften to our heart
Napoleon's glory.

'Twas when his banner at Boulogne
Arm'd in our island every freeman,
His navy chanced to capture one
Poor British seaman.

They suffered him,-I know not how,
Unprisoned on the shore to roam,
And aye was bent his youthful brow
On England's home.

His eye, methinks, pursued the flight
Of birds to Britain half way over,
With envy they could reach the white
Dear cliffs of Dover!

A stormy midnight watch he thought

Than this sojourn would have been dearer,
If but the storm the vessel brought

To England nearer!

At last, when care had banished sleep,
He saw, one morning-dreaming-doating,

An empty hogshead on the deep

Come shoreward floating!

He hid it in a cave, and wrought

The live-long day-laborious, lurking,

Until he launched a tiny boat

By mighty working!

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