justice, which is common with tyrants; and with respect to Damon, to do a piece of justice, by rescuing him from a danger which he incurred out of generosity to me.

Diony. And thou, Damon, wert thou not really afraid that Pythias would never come back, and that thou shouldst have to pay for him?

Damon. I knew but too well that Pythias would return punctually, and that he would be much more afraid to break his word, than to lose his life; would to the gods that his relations and friends had forcibly detained him; so he would now be the comfort of good men, and I should have that of dying for him.

Diony. What does life displease thee?

Damon. Yes; it displeases me when I see a tyrant.

Diony. Well, thou shalt see him no more: I'll have thee put to death immediately.

Pyth. Pardon the transports of a man who regrets his dying friend. But remember, that it was I only thou devotedst to death: I come to suffer it, in order to redeem my friend refuse me not this consolation in my last hour.

Diony. I cannot bear two men who despise their lives and my power.

Damon. Then thou canst not bear virtue.

Diony. No: I cannot bear that proud disdainful virtue, which contemns life, which dreads no punishment, which is not sensible to riches and pleasures.

Damon. However, thou seest that it is not insensible to honor, justice, and friendship.

Diony. Guards! take Pythias away to execution: we shall see whether Danon will continue to despise my power.

Damon. Pythias, by returning to submit himself to thy pleasure has merited his life at thy hand; and I, by giving myself up to thy indignation for him, have enraged thee: be content, and put me to death.

Pyth. No, no, Dionysius, remember that it was I alone who displeased thee: Damon could not

Diony. Alas! what do I see? Where am I? How unhappy am I, and how worthy to be so! No, I have hitherto known nothing: I have spent my days in darkness and error: all my power avails me nothing towards making myself beloved: I cannot boast of having acquired, in above thirty years of tyranny, one single friend upon earth: these two men, in a private condition, love each other tenderly,

unreservedly confide in each other, are happy in a mutual love, and content to die for each other.

Pyth. How should you have friends, you who never loved any body? Had you loved men, they would love you; you have feared them: they fear you, they detest you.

Diony. Damon! Pythias! vouchsafe to admit me between you, to be the third friend of so perfect a society; give you your lives, and will load you with riches.

Damon. We have no occasion for thy riches; and as fo thy friendship, we cannot accept of it until thou be good and just; till that time thou canst have only trembling slaves, and base flatterers. Thou must be virtuous, beneficent, sociable, susceptible of friendship, ready to hear the truth, and must know how to live in a sort of equality with real friends, in order to be beloved by free men.

LESSON XII.

The Rainbow.-BALDWIN'S LOND. MAGAZINE.

THE evening was glorious, and light through the trees
Play'd the sunshine and rain-drops, the birds and the breeze,
The landscape, outstretching in loveliness, lay

On the lap of the year, in the beauty of May.

For the Queen of the Spring, as she pass'd down the vale.
Left her robe on the trees, and her breath on the gale;
And the smile of her promise gave joy to the hours,
And flush in her footsteps sprang herbage and flowers.
The skies, like a banner in sunset unroll'd,

O'er the west threw their splendor of āzure and gold;
But one cloud at a distance rose dense, and increas'd,
Till its margin of black touch'd the zenith, and east.

We gazed on the scenes, while around us they glow'd,
When a vision of beauty appear'd on the cloud;-
'Twas not like the Sun, as at mid-day we view,

Nor the Moon, that rolls nightly through star-light and blue.
Like a spirit, it came in the van of a storm!

And the eye, and the heart, hail'd its beautiful form.
For it look'd not severe, like an Angel of Wrath,
But its garment of brightness illumed its dark path

In the hues of its grandeur, sublimely it stood,
O'er the river, the village, the field, and the wood;
And river, field, village, and woodlands grew bright,
As conscious they gave and afforded delight.

'Twas the bow of Omnipotence; bent in His hand
Whose grăsp at Creation the universe spann'd;
'Twas the presence of God, in a symbol sublime
His vow from the flood to the exit of Time!

Not dreadful, as when in the whirlwind he pleads,
When storms are his chariot, and lightnings his steeds,
The black clouds his banner of vengeance unfurl'd,
And thunder his voice to a guilt-stricken world;-

In the breath of his presence, when thousands expire,
And seas boil with fury, and rocks burn with fire,

And the sword and the plague-spot, with death strew* the plain,

And vultures, and wolves, are the graves of the slain :

Not such was the Rainbow, that beautiful one!
Whose arch was refraction, its key stone--the Sun;
A pavilion it seem'd which the Deity graced,
And Justice and Mercy met there, and embraced.
Awhile, and it sweetly bent over the gloom,
Like Love o'er a death couch, or Hope o'er the tomb
Then left the dark scene; whence it slowly retired,
As Love had just vanish'd, or Hope had expired.

I gazed not alone on that source of my song;
To all who beheld it these verses belong;
Its presence to all was the path of the Lord!
Each full heart expanded,-grew warm, and adored

Like a visit the converse of friends-or a day,
That bow, from my sight, păssed for ever away:
Like that visit, that converse, that day-to my heart,
That bow from remembrance can never depart.

'Tis a picture in memory distinctly defined,
With the strong and unperishing colors of mind:
A part of my being beyond my control,

Beheld on that cloud, and transcribed on my soul.

*Pron. strow.

LESSON XIII.

Eternity of God.-GREENWOOD.

WE receive such repeated intimations of decay in the world through which we are passing; decline and change and loss, follow decline and change and loss in such rapid succession, that we can almost catch the sound of universal wasting, and hear the work of desolation going on busily around us. "The mountain falling cometh to nought, and the rock is removed out of his place. The waters wear the stones, the things which grow out of the dust of the earth are washed away, and the hope of man is destroyed." Conscious of our own instability, we look about for some thing to rest on, but we look in vain. The heavens and the earth had a beginning, and they will have an end. The face of the world is changing, daily and hourly. All animated things grow old and die. The rocks crumble, the trees fall, the leaves fade, and the grass withers. The clouds are flying, and the waters are flowing away from us.

The firmest works of man, too, are gradually giving way, the ivy clings to the mouldering tower, the brier hangs out from the shattered window, and the wallflower springs from the disjointed stones. The founders of these perishable works have shared the same fate long ago. If we look back to the days of our ancestors, to the men as well as the dwellings of former times, they become immediately associated in our imaginations, and only make the feeling of instability stronger and deeper than before. In the spacious domes, which once held our fathers, the serpent hisses, and the wild bird screams. The halls, which once were crowded with all that taste, and science, and labor could procure, which resounded with melody, and were lighted up with beauty, are buried by their own ruins, mocked by their own desolation. The voice of merriment, and of wailing, the steps of the busy and the idle have ceased in the deserted courts, and the weeds choke the entrances, and the long grass waves upon the hearth-stone. The works of art, the forming hand, the tombs, the very ashes they contained, are all gone.

While we thus walk among the ruins of the past, a sad feeling of insecurity comes over us; and that feeling is by no means diminished when we arrive at home. If we turn to

our friends, we can hardly speak to them before they bid us farewell. We see them for a few moments, and in a few moments more their countenances are changed, and they are sent away. It matters not how near and dear they are. The ties which bind us together are never too close to be parted, or too strong to be broken. Tears were never known to move the king of terrors, neither is it enough that we are compelled to surrender one, or two, or many of those we love; for though the price is so great, we buy no favor with it, and our hold on those who remain is as slight as ever. The shadows all elude our grasp, and follow one another down the valley. We gain no confidence, then, no feeling of security, by turning to our contemporaries and kindred. We know that the forms, which are breathing around us, are as shortlived and fleeting as those were, which have been dust for centuries. The sensation of vanity, uncertainty, and ruin, is equally strong, whether we muse on what has long been prostrate, or gaze on what is falling now, or will fall so soon.

If every thing which comes under our notice has endured for so short a time, and in so short a time will be no more, we cannot say that we receive the least assurance by thinking on ourselves. When they, on whose fate we have been meditating, were engaged in the active scenes of life, as full of health and hope as we are now, what were we? We had no knowledge, no consciousness, no being; there was not a single thing in the wide universe which knew us. And after the same interval shall have elapsed, which now divides their days from ours, what shall we be? What they are now. When a few more friends have left, a few more hopes deceived, and a few more changes mocked us, we shall be brought to the grave, and shall remain in the tomb: the clods of the valley shall be sweet unto us, and every man shall follow us, as there are innumerable before us." All power will have forsaken the strongest, and the loftiest will be laid low, and every eye will be closed, and every voice hushed, and every heart will have ceased its beating. And when we have gone ourselves, even our memories will not stay behind us long. A few of the near and dear will bear our likeness in their bosoms, till they too have arrived at the end of their journey, and entered the dark dwelling of unconsciousness. In the thoughts of others we shall live only till the last sound of the bell, which informs them of our departure, has ceased to vibrate in their ears. A stone, per