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they cannot restore our happiness, let them not take away the solace of our affliction."

11. The Philosopher's heart was smitten; and I have heard him, long after, confess that there were moments when the remembrance overcame him even to weakness; when, amidst all the pleasures of philosophical discovery, and the pride of literary fame, he recalled to his mind the venerable figure of the good La Roche, and wished that he had never doubted. MACKENZIE.

2.

June 12, 1779.

LESSON VII.

Hagar in the Wilderness.

1. The morning broke. Light stole upon the clouds
With a strange beauty. Earth received again
Its garment of a thousand dyes; and leaves,
And delicate blossoms, and the painted flowers
And every thing that bendeth to the dew,
And stirreth with the daylight, lifted up
Its beauty to the breath of that sweet morn.
All things are dark to sorrow; and the light,
And melody, and fragrant air, were sad
To the dejected Hagar. The moist earth
Was pouring odours from its spicy pores,
And the young birds were carolling as life
Were a new thing to them; but oh! it came
Upon her heart like discord, and she felt
How cruelly it tries a broken heart,
To see a mirth in any thing it loves.

3. She stood at Abraham's tent. Her lips were pressed
Till the blood left them; and the wandering veins
Of her transparent forehead were swelled out
As if her pride would burst them. Her dark eye
Was clear and tearless, and the light of heaven,
Which made its language legible, shot back
From her long lashes, as it had been flame.
4 Her noble boy stood by her with his hand
Clasped in her own, and his round, delicate feet,
Scarce trained to balance on the tented floor,
Sandaled for journeying. He had looked up
Into his mother's face, until he caught

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The spirit there, and his young heart was swelling
Beneath his snowy bosom, and his form
Straightened up proudly in his tiny wrath,
As if his light proportions would have swelled,
Had they but matched his spirit, to the man.
Why bends the patriarch, as he cometh now,
Upon his staff so wearily? His beard

Is low upon his breast, and his high brow,
So written with the converse of his God,
Beareth the swollen vein of agony.

His lip is quivering, and his wonted step
Of vigour is not there; and, though the morn
Is passing fair and beautiful, he breathes
Its freshness as it were a pestilence.

Oh! man may bear with suffering; his heart
Is a strong thing, and godlike, in the grasp
Of pain that wrings mortality: but tear
One chord affection clings to, break one tie
That binds him to a woman's delicate love,
And his great spirit yieldeth like a reed.

He gave to her the water and the bread,
But spoke no word, and trusted not himself
To look upon her face, but laid his hand
In silent blessing on the fair-haired boy,
And left her to her lot of loneliness.

Should Hagar weep? May slighted woman turn,
And, as a vine the oak hath shaken off,
Bend lightly to her tendencies again?
8. Oh no! by all her loveliness, by all
That makes life poetry and beauty-no!
Make her a slave steal from her rosy
cheek
By needless jealousies-let the last star
Leave her a watcher by your couch of pain-
Wrong her by petulance, suspicion, all
That makes her cup a bitterness,—yet give
One evidence of love, and earth has not
An emblem of devotedness like hers.

9. But oh! estrange her once-it boots not how-
By wrong or silence, any thing that tells
A change has come upon your tenderness,
And there is not a high thing out of heaven
Her pride o'ermastereth not.

1.

2.

LESSON VIII.

The same continued.

She went her way with a strong step, and slow; Her pressed lip arched, and her clear eye undimmed, As it had been a diamond, and her form

Borne proudly up, as if her heart breathed through.
Her child kept on in silence, though she pressed
His hand till it was pained; for he had caught,
As I have said, her spirit, and the seed

Of a stern nation had been breathed upon.

The morning passed, and Asia's sun rode up
In the clear heaven, and every beam was heat.
The cattle of the hills were in the shade,
And the bright plumage of the Orient lay
On beating bosoms in her spicy trees.
It was an hour of rest; but Hagar found
No shelter in the wilderness, and on
She kept her weary way until the boy
Hung down his head, and opened his parched lips
For water-but she could not give it him.

3. She laid him down beneath the sultry sky,-
For it was better than the close, hot breath
Of the thick pines,-and tried to comfort him.
But he was sore athirst, and his blue eyes
Were dim and bloodshot, and he could not know
Why God denied him water in the wild.
4. She sat a little longer, and he grew

Ghastly and faint, as if he would have died.
It was too much for her. She lifted him,
And bore him farther on, and laid his head
Beneath the shadow of a desert shrub;
And, shrouding up her face, she went away,
And sat to watch, where he could see her not,
Till he should die,—and watching him she mourned:

5. "God stay thee in thine agony, my boy!
I cannot see thee die; I cannot brook

Upon thy brow to look,

And see death settle on my cradle joy.
How have I drunk the light of thy blue eye!
And could I see thee die?

6. "I did not dream of this when thou wast straying,
Like an unbound gazelle, among the flowers,—
Or wearing rosy hours,

By the rich gush of water-sources playing,-
Then sinking weary to thy smiling sleep,
So beautiful and deep:-

7. “Oh no! and when I watched by thee the while,
And saw thy bright lip curling in thy dream,
And thought of the dark stream

In my own land of Egypt, the deep Nile,-
How prayed I that my fathers' land might be
A heritage for thee.

8. "And now the grave for its cold breast hath won thee,
And thy white, delicate limbs the earth will press;
And oh! my last caress

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Must feel thee cold, for a chill hand is on thee.
How can I leave my boy, so pillowed there
Upon his clustering hair!"

She stood beside the well her God had given
To gush in that deep wilderness, and bathed
The forehead of her child until he laughed
In his reviving happiness, and lisped
His infant thought of gladness at the sight
Of the cool plashing of his mother's hand.

WILLIS.

LESSON IX.

The Chinese Prisoner.

1. A certain emperor of China, on his accession to the throne of his ancestors, commanded a general release of all those who were confined in prison for debt. Amongst that number was an old man, who had fallen an early victim to adversity, and whose days of imprisonment, reckoned by the notches which he had cut on the door of his gloomy cell, expressed the annual circuit of more than fifty

suns.

2. With trembling limbs and faltering steps, he departed from his mansion of sorrow: his eyes were dazzled with the splendour of the light; and the face of nature presented to his view a perfect paradise. The jail in which he had

been imprisoned, stood at some distance from Pekin, and to that city he directed his course, impatient to enjoy the caresses of his wife, his children, and his friends.

3. Having with difficulty found his way to the street in which his decent mansion had formerly stood, his heart became more and more elated at every step he advanced. With joy he proceeded, looking eagerly around; but he observed few of the objects with which he had been formerly conversant. A magnificent edifice was erected on the site of the house which he had inhabited; the dwellings of his neighbours had assumed a new form; and he beheld not a single face of which he had the least remembrance.

4. An aged beggar, who with trembling knees stood at the gate of a portico, from which he had been thrust by the insolent domestic who guarded it, struck his attention. He stopped, therefore, to give him a small pittance out of the bounty with which he had been supplied by the emperor, and received, in return, the sad tidings, that his wife had fallen a lingering sacrifice to penury and sorrow; that his children were gone to seek their fortunes in distant or unknown climes; and that the grave contained his nearest and most valuable friends.

5. Overwhelmed with anguish, he hastened to the palace of his sovereign, into whose presence his hoary locks and mournful visage soon obtained admission; and casting himself at the feet of the emperor, "Great Prince," he cried, "send me back to that prison from which mistaken mercy has delivered me! I have survived my family and friends, and even in the midst of this populous city I find myself in a dreary solitude.

6. "The cell of my dungeon protected me from the gazes at my wretchedness; and whilst secluded from society, I was the less sensible of the loss of its enjoyments. I am now tortured with the view of pleasure in which I cannot participate; and die with thirst, though streams of delight surround me." PERCIVAL.

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