passion, too late, and too unavailing, he may talk of truths in which he himself does not believe, and which he has long exhorted me, and has at last persuaded me, to cast away as the dreams and the delusions of human folly!From such comforters may heaven preserve me! "My soul come not thou into their secrets. Unto their assembly, mine honor, be not thou united !" LESSON CXIII. Death-Scene in Gertrude of Wyoming.*-CAMPBELL. BUT short that contemplation-sad and short Where friendly swords were drawn, and banners flew, And tranced in giddy horror Gertrude swooned; Heaven's *The three characters mentioned in the above passage, being warned of the approach of a hostile tribe of North American Indians, are forced to abandon their peaceful retreat, in the vale of Wy'oming, and fly for safety to a neighboring fort. On the following morning, at sun-rise, while Gertrude, together with Albert, her father, and Waldegrave, her husband, are looking from the battlements on the havoc and desolation which had marked the progress of the barbarous enemy, an Indian marksman fires a mortal shot from his ambush at Albert; and, as Gertrude clasps him in agony to her heart, another shot lays her bleeding by his side. She then takes farewell of he husband in a speech which our greatest modern critic has described as "more sweetly pathetic than any thing ever written in rhyme."-McDiarmid. "Clasp me a little longer, on the brink Of fate! while I can feel thy dear caress; And, when this heart hath ceased to beat-oh! think, That thou hast been to me all tenderness, A friend, to more than human friendship just. And by the hopes of an immortal trust, God shall assuage thy pangs-when I am laid in dust! "Go, Henry, go not back, when I depart; The scene thy bursting tears too deep will move, In heaven; for ours was not like earthly love: No! I shall love thee still, when death itself is past." * * * * * * Hushed were his Gertrude's lips! but still their bland Ah, heart! where once each fond affection dwelt, Mute, gazing, agonizing as he knelt,— Of them that stood encircling his despair, He heard some friendly words;-but knew not what they were. LESSON CXIV. To a Waterfowl.—Bryant. WHITHER, 'midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,— Lone wandering, but not lost. All day thy wings have fanned And soon that toil shall end, Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows: reeds shall bend Soon o'er thy sheltered nest. Thou'rt gone! the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart. He, who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, LESSON CXV. Hohenlinden.-CAMPBELL. ON Linden, when the sun was low, But Linden saw another sight, * Pron. Eser. By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, To join the dreadful revelry. Then shook the hills with thunder riven, And redder yet those fires shall glow, Of Iser, rolling rapidly. lurid sun 'Tis morn, but scarce yon The combat* deepens. On, ye brave, And charge with all thy chivalry! Ah! few shall part where many meet! LESSON CXVI. Thanatopsis.-BRYANT. To him who, in the love of Nature, holds 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 gentle sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight * Pron. cum'bat. † ch as in church. Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, To Nature's teachings, while from all around- Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim To mix for ever with the elements, To be a brother to the insensible rock And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Shalt thou retire alone-nor couldst thou wish That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,— Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, |