5. His Son, when he appeared in our nature, exhibited, both in his life and his death, the most illustrious example of for giveness which the world ever beheld. If we look into the history of mankind, we shall find that, in every age, they who have been respected as worthy, or admired as great, have been distinguished for this virtue.

6. Revenge dwells in little minds. A noble and magnanimous spirit is always superior to it. It suffers not, from the injuries of men, those severe shocks which others feel. Collected within itself, it stands unmoved by their impotent assaults; and with generous pity, rather than with anger, looks down on their unworthy conduct. It has been truly said that the greatest man on earth can no sooner commit an injury, than a good man can make himself greater by forgiving it. BLAIR.

LESSON III.—PASSING AWAY.

i. Was it the chime of a tiny bell,
That came so sweet to my dreaming ear,
Like the silvery tones of a fairy's shell,

JOHN PIERPONT.

That he winds on the beach, so mellow and clear,
When the winds and the waves lie together asleep,
And the moon and the fairy are watching the deep,
She dispensing her silvery light,

And he his notes as silvery quite,

While the boatman listens and ships his oar,

To catch the music that comes from the shore'?
Hark! the notes, on my ear that play,

Are set to words': as they float, they say,
'Passing away'! passing away!"

66

2. But no'; it was not a fairy's shell,

Blown on the beach so mellow and clear';
Nor was it the tongue of a silver bell,

Striking the hour, that fill'd my ear,
As I lay in my dream'; yet was it a chime
That told of the flow' of the stream of time'.
For a beautiful clock from the ceiling hung,
And a plump little girl, for a pendulum, swung
(As you've sometimes seen, in a little ring,
That hangs in his cage, a canary-bird swing);

And she held to her bosom a budding bouquet,
And, as she enjoyed it, she seem'd to say,

"Passing away! passing away'!"

3. Oh, how bright were the wheels that told

Of the lapse of time as they moved round slow!

And the hands, as they swept o'er the dial of gold,
Seemed to point to the girl below.

And, lo! she had changed'; in a few short hours,
Her bouquet had become a garland of flowers,
That she held in her outstretch'd hands, and flung
This way and that, as she, dancing, swung,
In the fullness of grace and womanly pride,
That told me she soon was to be a bride;

Yet then', when expecting her happiest day',
In the same sweet voice I heard her say,
"Passing away! passing away'!"

4. While I gazed at that fair one's cheek, a shade
Of thought, or care, stole softly over,
Like that by a cloud on a summer's day made,
Looking down on a field of blossoming clover.
The rose yet lay on her cheek, but its flush
Had something lost of its brilliant blush;

And the light in her eye, and the light on the wheels,
That marched so calmly round above her,

Was a little dimmed, as when evening steals

Upon noon's hot face: yet one couldn't but love her,
For she look'd like a mother whose first babe lay,
Rock'd on her breast, as she swung all day;
And she seem'd in the same silver tone to say,
"Passing away! passing away'!"

5. While yet I looked', what a change there came'!
Her eye was quench'd', and her cheek was wan':
Stooping and staffed' was her wither'd frame',
Yet just as busily swung she on';

The garland beneath her had fallen to dust';
The wheels above her were eaten with rust';

The hands that over the dial swept',

Grew crooked and tarnish'd, but on they kept';
And still there came that silver tone,

From the shriveled lips of the toothless crone-
Let me never forget to my dying day
The tone or the burden of her lay-
"Passing away! passing away'!"

LESSON IV. THE DREAM OF THE TWO ROADS.

1. It was New-Year's night; and Von Arden, having fallen into an unquiet slumber, dreamed that he was an aged man standing at a window. He raised his mournful eyes toward the deep blue sky, where the stars were floating, like white lilies, on the surface of a clear calm lake. Then he cast them on the earth, where few more hopeless beings than himself now moved toward their certain goal-the tomb.

2. Already, as it seemed to him, he had passed sixty of the stages which lead to it, and he had brought from his journey

nothing but errors and remorse. His health was destroyed, his mind vacant, his heart sorrowful, and his old age devoid of comfort.

3. The days of his youth rose up in a vision before him, and he recalled the solemn moment when his father had placed him at the entrance of two roads--one leading into a peaceful, sunny land, covered with a fertile harvest, and resounding with soft sweet songs; the other leading the wanderer into a deep, dark cave, whence there was no issue, where poison flowed instead of water, and where serpents hissed and crawled.

4. He looked toward the sky, and cried out in his agony: "O days of my youth, return! O my father, place me once more at the entrance to life, that I may choose the better way!" But the days of his youth and his father had both passed away.

5. He saw wandering lights floating away over dark marshes, and then disappear. These were the days of his wasted life. He saw a star fall from heaven, and vanish in darkness. This was an emblem of himself; and the sharp arrows of unavailing remorse struck home to his heart. Then he remembered his early companions, who entered on life with him, but who, having trod the paths of virtue and of labor were now honored and happy on this New-Year's night.

6. The clock, in the high church tower, struck, and the sound, falling on his ear, recalled his parents' early love for him, their erring son; the lessons they had taught him; the prayers they had offered up on his behalf. Overwhelmed with shame and grief, he dared no longer look toward that heaven where his father dwelt; his darkened eyes dropped tears, and with one despairing effort he cried aloud, "Come back, my early days! come back!"

7. And his youth did return; for all this was but a dream which visited his slumbers on New-Year's night. He was still young; his faults alone were real. He thanked God fervently that time was still his own; that he had not yet entered the deep, dark cavern, but that he was free to tread the road leading to the peaceful land, where sunny harvests wave. 8. Ye who still linger on the threshold of life, doubting which path to choose, remember that, when years are passed, and your feet stumble on the dark mountain, you will cry bitterly, but cry in vain: "O youth, return! Oh give me back my early days!"-From JEAN PAUL RICHTER.

LESSON V.-THANATOPSIS.

THANATOPSIS is a compound Greek word meaning a View of Death; or it may be translated Reflections on Death."

[The air of pensive contemplation that pervades this piece requires the inflections, in the reading of it, to be slight and gentle, and the tone throughout to be one of tender sadness and Christian resignation.]

1. To him who in the love of nature holds

2.

3.

Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language; for his gayer' hours'
She has a voice of gladness', and a smile
And eloquence of beauty', and she glides
Into his darker musings with a mild
And healing sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness' ere he is aware'.

When thoughts

Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit', and sad images

Of the stern agony', and shroud', and pall',
And breathless darkness', and the narrow house',
Make thee to shudder and grow sick at heart',
Go forth unto the open sky, and list

To Nature's' teaching, while from all around',
Earth and her waters', and the depths of air',
Comes a still voice-

"Yet a few days, and thee,

The all-beholding sun shall see no more

In all his course'; nor yet, in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist

Thy image. Earth, that nourish'd thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again;
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go

To mix forever with the elements',

To be a brother to th' insensible rock

And to the sluggish clod', which the rude swain
Turns with his share', and treads' upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad', and pierce thy mould'.

4. "Yet not to thy eternal resting-place

Shalt thou retire alone, nor could'st thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world', with kings',
The powerful of the earth', the wise', the good
Fair forms', and hoary seers of ages past',
All in one mighty sepulchre'.

"The hills,
Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun'; the vales,
Stretching in pensive quietness between';
The venerable woods'; rivers that move

6.

In majesty, and the complaining brooks

That make the meadows green'; and, pour'd round all',
Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste

Are but the solemn decorations all

Of the great tomb of man.

The golden sun',

The planets', all the infinite host of heaven',
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages.

All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings
Of morning', and the Barcan desert pierce',
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon', and hears no sound
Save his own dashings'—yet the dead are there';
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began', have laid them down
In their last sleep': the dead reign there alone.
7. So shalt thou' rest; and what if thou shalt fall
Unnoticed by the living', and no friend

Take note of thy departure'? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone'; the solemn brood of care
Plod on'; and each one, as before', will chase
His favorite phantom'; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glides away', the sons of men',

The youth in life's green spring', and he who goes
In the full strength of years', matron and maid',
The bow'd with age', the infant in the smiles
And beauty of its innocent age cut off,
Shall, one by one', be gather'd to thy side',
By those who, in their turn', shall follow them'.

8. So live that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan that moves

To the pale realms of shade', where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death',

Thou go not like the quarry-slave at night,

Scourged' to his dungeon'; but, sustain'd and soothed

By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave

Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch

About him', and lies down to pleasant dreams'.-BRYANT.

LESSON VI.

-THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

1. UNDER a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands,

The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;

LONGFELLOW.