Noiseless the sun emits his fire, The hand that moves, and regulates, Their amaranthine bowers; Sick of the vanity of man, His noise, and pomp, and show,---- LESSON LXI. A Thought.-BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE. O COULD we step into the grave, And look upon the greedy worms It well might change the reddest cheek 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,- On which the canker-worms of guilt LESSON LXII. Fidelity.-WORDSWORTH. A BARKING Sound the shepherd hears, And now, at distance, can discern The dog is not of mountain breed ; 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, From trace of human foot or hand. There, sometimes, does a leaping fish 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; Not knowing what to think, a while Nor far had gone, before he found From those abrupt and perilous rocks, He instantly recalled the name, And who he was, and whence he came; 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, This dog had been, through three months space, Yes, proof was plain, that, since the day On which the traveller thus had died, The dog had watched about the spot, How nourished here, through such long time, He knows, who gave that love sublime, LESSON LXIII. Solitude.-HENRY K. WHITE. r is not that my lot is low, In woods and glens I love to roam, Yet, when the silent evening sighs, The autumn leaf is sear and dead: The woods and winds, with sudden wail, I've none to smile when I am free, 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 |