moment he rose, and shone, and triumphed in a consummate' eloquence. Here was true moral courage. And it was well observed by a heathen moralist, that it is not because things are difficult that we dare not undertake them.
5. Be, then, bold in spirit. Indulge no doubts-they are traitors. In the practical pursuit of our high aim, let us never lose sight of it in the slightest instance; for it is more by a disregard of small things, than by open and flagrant offences, that men come short of excellence. There is always a right and a wrong; and if you ever doubt, be sure you take not the wrong. Observe this rule, and every experience will be to you a means of advancement.
AIR Pennsylvania! than thy midland vales,
FLying twist hills of green, and bound afar
By billowy mountains rolling in the blue, No lovelier landscape meets the traveler's eye. There Labor sows and reaps his sure reward, And Peace and Plenty walk amid the glow And perfume of full garners.
I have seen In lands less free, less fair, but far more known, The streams which flow through history and wash The legendary shores-and cleave in twain Old capitals and towns, dividing oft Great empires and estates of petty kings And princes, whose domains full many a field, Rustling with maize along our native West, Out-measures and might put to shame! and yět
Nor Rhine, like Bacchus crown'd, and reeling through
1 Con sûm' mate, accomplished; perfect.-' Traitors: Shakspeare has most beautifully expressed this idea: "Our doubts are traitors, aud make us lose the good we oft might win, by daring to attempt.' - Legendary (led' jen da re), connected with some legend or story.- BACCHUS, or rather Dionysus, the youthful, beautiful, but effeminate god of wine, in heathen mythology, represented as crowned with vine leaves.
His hills-nor Danube, marr'd with tyranny, His dull waves moaning on Hungarian shores— Nor rapid Po, his opaque' waters pouring Athwart the fairest, fruitfulest, and worst Enslaved of European lands-nor Seine, Winding uncertain through inconstant France- Are half so fair as thy broad stream, whose breast Is gemm'd with many isles, and whose proud name Shall yet become among the names of rivers A synonym3 of beauty-Susquehanna!
3. But where, fair land, thy smaller streams invite With music among plenteous farms, I turn, As to a parent's fond embrace, and lay, Well pleased, my way-worn mantle by, and shed, With grateful heart, from off my weary feet The white dust gather'd in the world's highway Here my young muse first learn'd to love and dream To love the simplest blossom by the road- To dream such dreams as will not come again. And for one hour of that unletter'd time— One hour of that wild music in the heart, When Fancy, like the swallow's aimless wing, Flitted eccentrics through all moods of nature— I would exchange, thrice told, this weary day. 4. Then were yon hills, still beautiful and blue, Great as the Andes; and this rushy brook, Which the light foot-board, fallen, turns aside, A flood considerable, with noisy falls
And gulfy pools profound; and yonder stream, The fisher wades with ease to throw his bait Into the larger ripple, was a river
To measure Jordan by! For then my thoughts Were full of scriptural lore, oft heard at morn,
1 Opaque (o påk'), impervious to light; not transparent.—2 Seine (sån). Syn' o nym, a word which has the same signification or meaning as another, is its synonym.—1 Pår' ent..- Eccentric (ek sên' trik), deviating from the center; irregular.- Jor' dan, a famous river of Asiatic Turkey, forming the east boundary of Palestine.
And in the evening heard, until the place Became a Palestine, while o'er the hills The blue horizon compass'd all the world.
THOMAS BUCHANAN READ was born in Chester county, Pennsylvania, March 2th, 1822. In 1839 he went to Cincinnati, where he was employed in the studio of Clevenger, the sculptor, and here his attention was first called to painting, which he chose for his profession, and soon practiced with marked skill and success. He settled in New York city in 1841. After a few months he removed to Boston, where he remained until 1816, and then went to Philadelphia, where he practiced his profession, writing occasionally for periodicals, until 1850, when he first visited Europe. In the summer of 1853 he went abroad a second time, and settled in Florence, where he now resides. In 1853 he issued an illustrated edition of his poems, comprising, with some new pieces, all he wished to preserve of volumes previously printed. In 1855 he published “The House by the Sea" and "The New Pastoral,”-the latter, in thirty-seven books, from which the above extract is taken, being the longest of his poems. Mr. Read's distinguishing characteristic is a delicate and varied play of fancy. His verse, though sometimes irregular, is always musical. He excels in homely descriptions. Tho flowers by the dusty wayside, the cheerful murmur of the meadow brook, the village tavern, and rustic mill, and all tender impulses and affections, are his choice sources of inspiration.
6. SABBATH MORNING.
TOW still the morning of the hallow'd day!- Mute is the voice of rural' labor, hush'd The plowboy's whistle, and the milkmaid's song. The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers, That yester-morn bloom'd, waving in the breeze. Sounds, the most faint, attract the ear, the hum Of early bee, the trickling of the dew, The distant bleating, midway up the hill. Calmness sits throned on yon unmoving cloud.
2. To him who wanders o'er the upland leas, The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale; And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark Warbles with heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook Murmurs more gently down the deep-worn glen;
1 Rural (rö' ral).— Ted' ded, spread out after being mowed down.
While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke O'ermounts the mist, is heard, at intervals,
The voice of psalms,-the simple song of praise.
8. With dove-like wings, Peace o'er yon village broods: The dizzying mil-wheel rests; the anvil's din Hath ceased; all, all around is quietness.
Less fearful, on this day, the limping hare
Stops, and looks back, and stops, and looks on man, Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set free, Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large; And as his stiff, unwieldy bulk he rolls, His iron-arm'd hoofs gleam in the morning ray.
4. But chiefly man the day of rest enjoys. Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day. On other days, the man of toil is doom'd To eat his joyless bread lonely, the ground Both seat and board, screen'd from the winter's col And summer's heat by neighboring hedge or tree; But on this day, embosom'd in his home, He shares the frugal meal with those he loves; With those he loves, he shares the heart-felt joy Of giving thanks to God,—not thanks of form, A word and a grimace', but reverently,
With cover'd face, and upward, earnest eye.
5. Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day: The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe The morning air, pure from the city's smoke; While, wandering slowly up the river's side, He meditates on Him, whose power he marks In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough, As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom Around its roots; and while he thus surveys, With elevated joy, each rural charm,
He hopes, yet fears presumption in the hope,-- That heaven may be one Sabbath without end.
6. But now his steps a welcome sound recalls: Solemn the knell, from yönder ancient pile,
Fills all the air, inspiring joyful awe:
Slowly the throng moves o'er the tomb-paved ground; The aged man, the bowed down, the blind
Led by the thoughtless boy, and he who breathes With pain, and eyes the new-made grave, well-pleased; These, mingled with the young, the gay, approach The house of God-these, spite of all their ills, A glow of gladness feel; with silent praise They enter in; a placid stillness reigns, Until the man of God, worthy the name, Opens the book, and reverentially
The stated portion reads. A pause ensues.
7. The organ breathes its distant thunder-notes, Then swells into a diapason' full:
The people rising sing, "with harp, with harp, And voice of psalms;" harmoniously attuned, The various voices blend; the long-drawn aisles, At every close, the lingering strain prolong. And now the tubes a soften'd stop controls; In softer harmony the people join, While liquid whispers from yon orphan band Recall the soul from adoration's trance, And fill the eye with pity's gentle tears.
8. Again the organ-peal, loud, rolling, meets The halleluiahs of the choir. Sublime A thousand notes symphoniously ascend, As if the whole were one, suspended high In air, soaring heavenward: afar they float, Wafting glad tidings to the sick man's couch: Raised on his arm, he lists the cadence close, Yet thinks he hears it still: his heart is cheer'd; He smiles on death; but ah! a wish will rise- "Would I were now beneath that echoing roof! No lukewarm accents from my lips should flow; My heart would sing; and many a sabbath-day
'Diapason (dla på' zon), in music, the octave or interval which ineludes all the tones. - - Halleluiah (hal le lù' yå), praise ye the Lord.
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