Let not ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the poor,

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed,

Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.

GRAY.

The effect of the devotion of elegant minds to rural occupations has been wonderful on the face of the country. A great part of the island is rather level, and would be monotonous, were it not for the charms of culture; but it is studded and gemmed, as it were, with castles and palaces, and embroidered with parks and gardens. It does not abound in grand and sublime prospects, but rather in little homescenes of rural repose and sheltered quiet.

Every antique farm-house, and moss-grown cottage, is a picture; and as the roads are continually winding, and the view is shut in by groves and hedges, the eye is delighted by a continued succession of small landscapes of captivating loveliness.

If when I meet my brother man
Adrift on life's uncertain sea,
To him I give what 'er I can,
The honor's not to me.

For God to me has freely given
From out his bounteous store,
So give I of the all I have
And only wish t'were more.

And as I leave with tearful eyes,
My brother who to me was sent,
I feel that God has, in disguise,
Another blessing to me lent.

IRVING.

And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,

In that muffled monotone,

Feel a glory in so rolling

On the human heart a stone.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame, fresh and gory:

Through the green plain they marching come
Measureless spread, like a table dread,
For the wild grim dice of the iron game.
Looks are bent on the shaking ground,
Hearts beat low with a knelling sound.

O mother State! the winds of March
Blew chill o'er Auburn's Field of God,
Where, slow, beneath a leaden arch
Of sky, thy mourning children trod.

And once again the organ swells,
Once more the flag is half-way hung,
And yet again the mournful bells
In all thy steeple-towers are rung.

POE.

SCHILLER.

WHITTIER.

The Lord is my shepherd: I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures:
He leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the
Paths of righteousness for his name's sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the
Shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou
Art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

PSALM XXIII.

Let not ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the poor,

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;

is

OW

the

Shall be lifted

nevermore!

1

And when, to guard old Bregenz,
By gateway, street, and tower,

The warder paces all night long

And calls each passing hour;

"Nine," "ten," "eleven," he cries aloud,

And then (O crown of fame!)

When midnight pauses in the skies,

He calls the maiden's name!

VERY SLOW.

POE.

ADELAIDE PROCTOR.

Hear the tolling of the bells,

Iron bells!

What a world of solemn thought their monody
compels !

In the silence of the night,

How we shiver with affright

At the melancholy menace of their tone!

For every sound that floats

From the rust within their throats

And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,

In that muffled monotone,

Feel a glory in so rolling

On the human heart a stone.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame, fresh and gory:

POE.

We carved not a line; we raised not a stone,
But we left him alone in his glory.

WOLFE.

Break, break, break,

On thy cold gray stones, O sea!

And I would that my tongue could utter

The thoughts that arise in me.

Break, break, break,

At the foot of thy crags, O sea!

But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.

TENNYSON.

FORCE.

FORCE is the degree of loudness or softness which is given to the voice, and depends upon the intensity of the feelings or emotions of the speaker. True Force is given to speech by intense rather than loud or noisy utterance.

Gentle force is used in the expression of tenderness, pathos, subdued feeling, and calm emotion.

Moderate is used in simple narration and description, and in animated conversation.

Loud is used in excited utterance, calling, &c.

Very loud is used in shouting, cheering, anger, defiance, &c.

GENTLE.

The heights by great men gained and kept
Were not attained by sudden flight;
But they, while their companions slept,
Were toiling upwards in the light.

LONGFELLOW.

The smallest bark on life's tumultuous ocean
Will leave a track behind for evermore;
The lightest wave of influence, set in motion,
Extends and widens to the eternal shore.
We should be wary, then, who go before
A myriad yet to be, and we should take
Our bearing carefully where breakers roar

And fearful tempests gather: one mistake
May wreck unnumbered barks that follow in our wake.
MRS. S. T. BOLTON.

Life is a bubble which any breath may dissolve; wealth or power a snowflake, melting momently into the treacher. ous deep across whose waves we are floated on to our unseen destiny; but to have lived so that one less orphan shall be called to choose between starvation and infamy, to have lived so that some eyes of those whom Fame shall never know are brightened, and others suffused at the name of the beloved one, so that the few who knew him truly shall recognize him as a bright, warm, cheering presence, which was here for a season and left the world no worse for his stay in it, this, surely, is to have really lived, and not wholly in vain. HORACE GREELEY.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.