Now what is the cause of all this, and how is it to be accounted for? Unbelievers may have many explanations to give, and they may be ingenious ones. I have but one, and it is a simple one. It is, that their crucified Master rose from the dead, as they have told us he did; that he instructed them, as they have told us he did; and that the Holy Spirit, the Comforter, was sent from the Father, according to his promise, to enlighten and sustain them. In short, I consider the conduct of the apostles, at, and after the death of Jesus, as perhaps the strongest proof of the reality of his glorious resurrection. If he rose from the dead, and appeared to them, and instructed and confirmed them, I can account for the sudden change in their characters, and for their subsequent knowledge and perseverance, and boldness, and success. If he rose not from the dead, I cannot account for those things; and the whole subject remains to me a deep historical mystery.

Simple, honest, excellent men! raised up by Providence for wonderful ends by wonderful means! Your lives, unadorned as they are, and comprehended in a few plain words, are yet alone among the lives of men; alone, in the varieties and contrasts of their fortunes; alone, in the multitude and importance of their consequences. We should be senseless, if we did not perceive the influence which you have exerted, on the character and opinions of mankind. We should be thankless, if we did not acknowledge the benefits of that influence, and bless God that we live to know and feel them.

And we humbly pray to God, the universal Father, the Source of all excellence and truth, that our fidelity to our common Master may be like yours; that our perseverance in executing his commands may be like yours; and that like yours may be our courage and constancy, if we should ever be called on to sacrifice comfort, worldly consideration, or life itself, to duty, conscience, and faith.

LESSON LXI.

The Dangers of a Military Spirit.-HOPKINSON.

THE dangers which our country may apprehend from the encouragement of a military spirit in our people, have been eloquently portrayed. It is undoubtedly true, that a strong

disposition of this sort has been manifested and was rapidly rising, in the people of the United States; and a greater evil could hardly befall us, than the consummation of its ascendency.

There is something so infatuating in the pomp and triumphs of war, that a young and brave people, who have known but little of its destructive miseries, may require to be guarded against falling into the snare, and led to direct their energies to other and better objects. It is worthy of remark that, in the various ways in which the genius and powers of men display themselves, the military course is the only one eminently dangerous to his species. Genius, in every other department, however dazzling and powerful, is never hurtful, and is generally a blessing to the world.

The stupendous genius of Newton elevated the dignity of man, and brought him nearer to his God; it gave him a path to walk in the firmament, and knowledge to hold converse with the stars. The erratic comet cannot elude his vigilance; nor the powerful sun disappoint his calculations. Yet this genius, so mighty in the production of good, was harmless of evil as a child. It never inflicted injury or pain on any thing that lives or feels.

Shakspeare prepared an inexhaustible feast of instruction and delight, for his own age, and the ages to come; but he brought no tears into the world, but those of fictitious wo, which the other end of his wand was always ready to cure. It is military genius alone, that must be nourished with blood, and can find employment only in inflicting misery and death upon man,

LESSON LXII.

Poetry. PERCIVAL.

THE world is full of Poetry-the air
Is living with its spirit; and the waves
Dance to the music of its melodies,

And sparkle in its brightness. Earth is veiled

And mantled with its beauty; and the walls,

That close the universe with crystal in,

Are eloquent with voices, that proclaim
The unseen glories of immensity,

In harmonies, too perfect, and too high,
For aught but beings of celestial mould,
And speak to man in one eternal hymn,
Unfading beauty, and unyielding power.

The year leads round the seasons, in a choir
Forever charming, and forever new;
Blending the grand, the beautiful, the gay,
The mournful, and the tender, in one strain,
Which steals into the heart, like sounds, that rise
Far off, in moonlight evenings, on the shore
Of the wide ocean resting after storms;
Or tones, that wind around the vaulted roof,
And pointed arches, and retiring aisles
Of some old, lonely minster, where the hand
Skilful, and moved with passionate love of art,
Plays o'er the higher keys, and bears aloft
The peal of bursting thunder, and then calls
By mellow touches, from the softer tubes,
Voices of melting tenderness, that blend
With pure and gentle musings, till the soul,
Commingling with the melody, is borne,
Rapt, and dissolved in ecstasy, to Heaven.

"Tis not the chime and flow of words, that move
In measured file, and metrical array;
'Tis not the union of returning sounds,
Nor all the pleasing artifice of rhyme,
And quantity, and accent, that can give
This all pervading spirit to the ear,
Or blend it with the movings of the soul.
'Tis a mysterious feeling, which combines
Man with the world around him, in a chain
Woven of flowers, and dipped in sweetness, till
He tastes the high communion of his thoughts,
With all existences, in earth and heaven,
That meet him in the charm of grace and
'Tis not the noisy babbler, who displays,
In studied phrase, and ornate epithet,
And rounded period, poor and vapid thoughts,
Which peep from out the cumbrous ornaments,
That overload their littleness. Its words
Are few, but deep and solemn; and they break
Fresh from the fount of feeling, and are full
Of all that passion, which, on Carmel, fired

power.

The holy prophet, when his lips were coals,
His language winged with terror, as when bolts
Leap from the brooding tempest, armed with wrath,
Commissioned to affright us, and destroy.

LESSON LXIII.

The Dying Boy.-ANONYMOUS.

Ir must be sweet, in childhood, to give back
The spirit to its Maker; ere the heart
Has grown familiar with the paths of sin,
And sown-to garner up its bitter fruits.
I knew a boy whose infant feet had trod
Upon the blossoms of some seven springs,

And when the eighth came round, and called him out
To revel in its light, he turned away,

And sought his chamber, to lie down and die.

'Twas night: he summoned his accustomed friends, And on this wise bestowed his last bequest.

'Mother-I'm dying now!

There's a deep suffocation in my breast,
As if some heavy hand my bosom pressed:-
And on my brow

I feel the cold sweat stand:

My lips grow dry and tremulous, and my breath

Comes feebly up.

Oh! tell me, is this death?

Mother, your hand

Here-lay it on my wrist,

And place the other thus beneath my head,
And say, sweet mother, say, when I am dead,
Shall I be missed?

Never beside your knee,

Shall I kneel down again at night to pray;
Nor with the morning wake, and sing the lay
You taught me.

Oh, at the time of prayer,

When you look round, and see a vacant seat,

You will not wait then for my coming feet-
You'll miss me there.

Father-I'm going home!

To the good home you spoke of, that blest land,
Where it is one bright summer always, and
Storms do not come.

I must be happy then:

From pain and death you say I shall be free,
That sickness never enters there, and we
Shall meet again.

Brother-the little spot

I used to call my garden, where long hours
We 've stayed to watch the budding things, and flowers,
Forget it not!

Plant there some box or pine,
Something that lives in winter, and will be
A verdant offering to my memory,

And call it mine!

Sister-my young rose tree,

That all the spring has been my pleasant care,
Just putting forth its leaves so green and fair,
I give to thee;

And when its roses bloom,

I shall be gone away, my short life done;
But will you not bestow a single one
Upon my tomb?

Now, mother, sing the tune

You sang last night; I'm weary, and must sleep.

Who was it called my name?

You'll all come soon!'

Nay do not weep,

Morning spread over earth her rosy wings,
And that meek sufferer, cold and ivory pale,
Lay on his couch asleep. The gentle air
Came through the open window, freighted with
The savory odors of the early spring-
He breathed it not; the laugh of
passers by,
Jarred like a discord in some mournful tune,
But worried not his slumbers. He was dead.