Alone, (how glorious to be free!) Now track the mountain stream to find I stand upon the mountain's top, Not even a woodman's smoke curls up The air's light currents run, I look around to where the sky This kingdom, all is mine. This bending heaven, these floating clouds, Waters that ever roll, And wilderness of glory, bring Their offerings to my soul. My palace, built by God's own hand, Though, when in this, my lonely home, I hear no fond "good night," think not O, no! I see my father's house, The hill, the tree, the stream, And the looks and voices of my home And in these solitary haunts, While slumbers every tree In night and silence, GoD himself I feel His presence in these shades, And, as my eyelids close in sleep, E. PEABODY. LESSON CXLVIII. THE SETTLER. His echoing ax the settler swung And rushing, thundering, down were flung Loud shrieked the eagle as he dashed And the first sunlight, leaping, flashed Rude was the garb, and strong the frame, The soul that warmed that frame, disdained The paths which wound 'mid gorgeous trees, The stream whose bright lips kissed their flowers, The winds that swelled their harmonies Through these sun-hiding bowers, The temple vast, the green arcade, These scenes and sounds majestic, made His roof adorned a pleasant spot, 'Mid the black logs green glowed the grain, And herbs and plants the woods knew not, Thrived in the sun and rain. The smoke-wreath curling o'er the dell, Of deeds that wrought the change. The violet sprung at Spring's first tinge, His garden spade, or drove his share He marked the fire-storm's blazing flood He marked the rapid whirlwind shoot, With streaming bough and severed root, His gaunt hound yelled, his rifle flashed, The fleet deer ceased its flying bound, Humble the lot, yet his the race, When liberty sent forth her cry, Who thronged in conflict's deadliest place, Who cumbered Bunker's hight of red, By hope through weary years were led, A. B. STREET. THANKSGIVING! LESSON CXLIX. THANKSGIVING. There is a magic in the sound of the word, which calls up from the grave of years the shadows of departed pleasures, breathes upon them the breath of life, fills them with their original attributes, decorates them again with the freshness of reality, and bids them move before the enraptured imagination, a long and gay procession of images, reflecting the innocence of childhood, the generous affection of youth, and the fervency and faithfulness of that unsophisticated and momentary interval, which precedes the entrance on the scenes of business and bustle, of anxiety and calculation, of coldhearted indifference, of selfish distrust, and, perhaps, of treacherous friendship and insidious hypocrisy. First in the smiling pageant approaches the child, rich—O how rich, beyond the wealth of princes!-in the possession of its primers and playthings, wondering at all the bustle of preparation for the feast, and inquiring, with characteristic simplicity, the meaning of the unusual prodigality and ceremony which every where meet and enchant its unaccustomed eye. Next, comes the troop of schoolboys, with limbs all life and elasticity, and hearts all harmony and gladness, drunk with their dream of liberty and release from study; and mingled with these are the less happy, but, perhaps, more fortunate boys, whose lot compels them to labor for their bread, with well-strung nerves and bodies invigorated by health and exercise, bounding, to find their homes, over fields and meadows, over brook and path, with hearts as unconcerned and steps as light as those of the roe or the young hart on the mountains of spices. The apprentice, the implements of his handcraft laid by, and the stinted portion of his daily simple subsistence forgotten, his eyes glistening with exultation, and his breast heaving with the fullness of anticipation, rushes along to meet at home the anxious parent, proud of the boy's advance in a trade, that will make him independent, and the younger child, who wonders if a year can have wrought so astonishing a transformation, and almost doubts his identity. Now approach the brother and the sister, whom a few months of separation have rendered more affectionate; the friends, whom difference of employment or variety of pursuit had partially estranged; the lovers, whose impatient hearts, though blessed with frequent and delightful intercourse, welcome the return of Thanksgiving as the day when hope and love are to find their consummation, the day which is forever after to be more sacred in their calendar than all the days of the year besides. But the images too thickly throng, "too fast they crowd," for the powers of description. In the midst of the gay and glorious assembly are the father, the mother, the patriarch bowed with years, and she who has been the nurse of generations, partaking of the general joy and congratulation, nor murmuring that, while such a scene engages and employs their faculties, the wheels of time do not more rapidly bring on the promised period of translation to another and more enduring heaven. An anonymous modern writer has beautifully said, "There are moments in existence which comprise the power of years; as thousands of roses are contained in a few drops of their essence. The remark is no more beautiful than just. I once witnessed an incident, which made me feel its truth, though long before the sentiment itself was written. In one of the largest villages in the eastern part of Connecticut, a woman was left a widow with ten children, all but one of whom were under twenty years of age. The family had once enjoyed a competence, and looked forward to years of ease and plenty. Toward the close of the revolutionary war, the father, thinking to make a profitable speculation, disposed of a large and profitable stock in trade, and received in payment what, at the time, was called cash, but which turned out shortly after to be worthless paper; bills of the old "Continental currency." These bills were laid up in his desk, and soon began to depreciate in value. The deterioration went on from day to day, and in a few months the bubble burst; and |