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Noiseless the sun emits his fire,
And pours his golden streams;
And silently the shades retire
Before his rising beams.

The hand that moves, and regulates,
And guides the vast machine,-
That governs wills, and times, and fates,-
Retires, and works unseen.
Angelic visitants forsake

Their amaranthine bowers;
On silent wing their stations take,
And watch the allotted hours.

Sick of the vanity of man,

His noise, and pomp, and show,----
I'll move upon great Nature's plan,
And, silent, work below.
With inward harmony of soul,
I'll wait the upper sphere;
Shining, I'll mount above the pole,
And break my silence there.

LESSON LXI.

A Thought.-BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE.

O COULD we step into the grave,
And lift the coffin lid,

And look upon the greedy worms
That eat away the dead,―

It well might change the reddest cheek
Into a lily white,

And freeze the warmest blood, to look

Upon so sad a sight!

Yet still it were a sadder sight,

If, in that lump of clay,

There were a sense, to feel the worms

So busy with their prey.

O pity, then, the living heart,-
The lump of living clay,—

On which the canker-worms of guilt
Forever, ever prey.

LESSON LXII.

Fidelity.-WORDSWORTH.

A BARKING Sound the shepherd hears,
A cry as of a dog or x;-
He halts, and searches with his eyes
Among the scattered rocks:

And now, at distance, can discern
A stirring in a brake of fern,
From which immediately leaps out
A dog, and, yelping, runs about.

The dog is not of mountain breed ;
Its motions, too, are wild and shy;
With something-as the shepherd thinks
Unusual in its cry:

Nor is there any one in sight,

All round, in hollow, or on height;

Nor shout, nor whistle, strikes his ear:

What is the creature doing here?

It was a cove, a huge recess,

That keeps, till June, December's snow; A lofty precipice in front,

A silent tarn* below!

Far in the bosom of Helvellyn,
Remote from public road or dwelling,
Pathway or cultivated land,

From trace of human foot or hand.

There, sometimes, does a leaping fish
Send through the tarn a lonely cheer:

The crags repeat the raven's croak,

In symphony austere.

Tarn is a small mere or lake, mostly high up in the mountains.

Thither the rainbow comes; the cloud;
And mists, that spread the flying shroud;
And sun-beams; and the sounding blast,
That, if it could, would hurry past :-
But that enormous barrier binds it fast.

Not knowing what to think, a while
The shepherd stood; then makes his way
To'wards the dog, o'er rocks and stones,
As quickly as he may;

Nor far had gone, before he found
A human skeleton on the ground:
Sad sight! the shepherd, with a sigh,
Looks round, to learn the history.

From those abrupt and perilous rocks,
The man had fallen,-that place of fear!-
At length, upon the shepherd's mind.
It breaks, and all is clear.

He instantly recalled the name,

And who he was, and whence he came;
Remembered, too, the very day

On which the traveller passed this way.

But hear a wonder now, for sake

Of which this mournful tale I tell! A lasting monument of words

This wonder merits well:

The dog, which still was hovering* nigh,
Repeating the same timid cry,

This dog had been, through three months space,
A dweller in that savage place.

Yes, proof was plain, that, since the day

On which the traveller thus had died,

The dog had watched about the spot,
Or by his master's side:

How nourished here, through such long time,

He knows, who gave that love sublime,
And gave that strength of feeling, great
Above all human estimate.

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LESSON LXIII.

Solitude.-HENRY K. WHITE.

r is not that my lot is low,
That bids this silent tear to flow:
It is not grief that bids me moan:
It is that I am all alone.

In woods and glens I love to roam,
When the tired hedger hies him home;
Or, by the woodland pool to rest,
When pale the star looks on its breast.

Yet, when the silent evening sighs,
With hallowed airs and symphonies,
My spirit takes another tone,
And sighs that it is all alone.

The autumn leaf is sear and dead:
It floats upon the water's bed :-
I would not be a leaf, to die
Without recording sorrow's sigh.

The woods and winds, with sudden wail,
Tell all the same unvaried tale :-

I've none to smile when I am free,
And, when I sigh, to sigh with me.

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Necessity of Industry, even to Genius.-V. KNOX.

FROM the revival of learning to the present day, every thing that labour and ingenuity can invent, has been produced to facilitate the acquisition of knowledge. But, not

withstanding all the Introductions, the Translations, the Annotations, and the Interpretations, I must assure the student, that industry, great, and persevering industry, is absolutely necessary to secure any very valuable and distinguished improvement. Superficial qualifications are indeed obtained at an easy price of time and labour; but superficial qualifications confer neither honour, emolument, nor satisfaction.

The pupil may be introduced, by the judgment and the liberality of his parents, to the best schools, the best tutors, the best books; and his parents may be led to expect, from such advantages alone, extraordinary advancement. But these things are all extraneous. The mind of the pupil must be accustomed to submit to labour; sometimes to painful labour.

The poor and solitary student, who has never enjoyed any of these advantages, but in the ordinary manner, will, by his own application, emerge to merit, fame, and fortune; while the indolent, who has been taught to lean on the supports which opulence supplies, will sink into insignificance. His mind will have contracted habits of inactivity, and inactivity causes imbecility.

I repeat, that the first great object is, to induce the mind to work within itself, to think long and patiently on the same subject, and to compose in various styles, and in various metres. It must be led not only to bear, but to seek, occasional solitude. If it is early habituated to all these exercises, it will find its chief pleasure in them; for the energies of the mind affect it with the finest feelings.

But is industry, such industry as I require, necessary to genius? The idea, that it is not necessary, is productive of the greatest evils. We often form a wrong judgment in determining who is, and who is not, endowed with this noble privilege. A boy who appears lively and talkative, is often supposed by his parents to be a genius. He is suffered to be idle, for he is a genius; and genius is only injured by application.

Now it usually happens, that the very lively and talkative boy is the most deficient in genius. His forwardness arises from a defect of those fine sensibilities, which, at the same time, occasion diffidence and constitute genius. He ought to be inured to literary labour; for, without it, he will be prevented, by levity and stupidity, from receiving any valuable impressions.

Parents and instructors must be very cautious how they

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