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-Thou bird, that seek'st thy food upon that bough,
Peck not alone; that bird below, as thòu,

Is bùsy after food, and happy, too;

-They're gone! Both, pléased, away together flèw.

And see we thus sent up, rock, sånd, and wood,
Life, joy, and motion from the sleepy flood?
The world, O man, is like that flood to thèe:
Turn where thou wilt, thyself in all things see
Reflected back. As drives the blinding sand
10 Round Egypt's piles, where'er thou tak'st thy stand,
If that thy heart be barren, there will sweep
The drifting waste, like waves along the deep,
Fill up the vàle, and choke the laughing streams
That ran by grass and brake, with dancing beams,
15 Sear the fresh woods, and from thy heavy eye
Veil the wide-shifting glories of the ský,

And one, still, sightless level make the earth,
Like thy dull, lonely, joyless Sòul,—a dèarth.

The rill is túneless to hís ear who feels
20 No harmony within; the south wind steals
As silent as unseen, amongst the leaves.
Who has no inward beauty, none percèives,
Though all around is beautiful. Nay, more,-
In nature's calmest hour he hears the roar
25 Of winds and flinging wàves,-puts out the light,
When high and angry passions meet in flight;
And, his own spirit into túmult hurled,

He makes a turmoil of a quiet world:
The fiends of his own bosom, people air

30 With kindred fiends, that hunt him to despair.
Hates he his fellow-mén? Why, then, he deems
'Tis háte for hate :—as hé, so each one seems.

Sóul! fearful is thy power, which thus transforms All things into its likeness: heaves in storms 35 The strong, proud séa, or lays it down to rest, Like the hushed infant on its mother's breast,— Which gives each outward circumstance its húe, And shapes all others' acts and thoughts anèw, That so, they joy, or lòve, or háte impart, 40 As joy, love, háte, holds rule within the hèart.

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LESSON XXV.-HYMN OF NATURE.-W. B. 0. PEABODY.

[To be marked for Inflections.]

God of the earth's extended plains!
The dark green fields contented lie:
The mountains rise like holy towers,

Where man might commune with the sky:

The tall cliff challenges the storm

That lowers upon the vale below,
Where shaded fountains send their streams,
With joyous music in their flow.

God of the dark and heavy deep!

The waves lie sleeping on the sands,
Till the fierce trumpet of the storm

Hath summon'd up their thundering bands:
Then the white sails are dash'd like foam,
Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas,
Till, calm'd by Thee, the sinking gale
Serenely breathes, Depart in peace.

God of the forest's solemn shade!
The grandeur of the lonely tree,
That wrestles singly with the gale,
Lifts up admiring eyes to Thee;
But more majestic far they stand,

When, side by side, their ranks they form,
To wave on high their plumes of green,
And fight their battles with the storm.

God of the light and viewless air!

Where summer breezes sweetly flow,
Or, gathering in their airy might,

The fierce and wintry tempests blow:
All, from the evening's plaintive sigh,
That hardly lifts the drooping flower,
To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry,-
Breathe forth the language of Thy power.
God of the fair and open sky!

How gloriously above us springs
The tented dome, of heavenly blue,
Suspended on the rainbow's rings!
Each brilliant star that sparkles through,
Each gilded cloud that wanders free
In evening's purple radiance, gives
The beauty of its praise to Thee.

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God of the rolling orbs above!

Thy name is written clearly bright,
In the warm day's unvarying blaze,

Or evening's golden shower of light.
For every fire that fronts the sun,

And every spark that walks alone,
Around the utmost verge of heaven,
Were kindled at thy burning throne.

God of the world! the hour must come,
And Nature's self to dust return;
Her crumbling altars must decay;
Her incense fires shall cease to burn;
But still her grand and lovely scenes
Have made man's warmest praises flow;
For hearts grow holier as they trace
The beauty of the world below.

LESSON XXVI.-UNIVERSAL DECAY.-GREENWOOD.

[Marked for Rhetorical Pauses, Emphasis, and Inflections.*] We receive such repeated intimations of decay in the world through which we are passing;-decline | and change and loss, follow decline and change and loss Il in such rapid succession, that we can almost catch the 5 sound of universal wàsting, and hear the work of desolátion going on busily around us. The mountain | falling cometh to nòught, and the rock | is removed out of his place. The waters | wear the stones, the things which grow out of the dust of the earth || are washed away, and 10 the hope of man | is destroyed." Conscious of our own instability, we look about for something to rèst on; but we look in vàin. The heavens and the earth | had a beginning, and they will have an end. The face of the world is changing, dáily and hourly. All animated 15 things grow old and die. The rocks crumble, the trees I | fall, the leaves | fáde, and the grass | withers. The clouds are flying, and the waters | are flowing awày

from us.

The firmest works of màn, too, are gradually giving 20 way, the ivy | clings to the mouldering tower, the brier

*The learner having been conducted through the application of the rules for Pauses, Emphasis, and Inflections, separately, will now be prepared to study and apply them in conjunction.

hangs out from the shattered window, and the wall-flower springs from the disjointed stones. The founders of these perishable works || have shared the same fate | long agò. If we look back to the days of our ancestors, to the 5 mèn as well as the dwellings | of former times, they become immediately associated in our imaginations, and only make the feeling of instability stronger and déeper than before. In the spacious domes, which once held our fáthers, the serpent | hisses, and the wild bird | scrèams. 10 The halls, which once were crowded with all that tàste and science and lábor | could procure,—which resounded with melody, and were lighted up with béauty, are buried by their own rùins, mocked by their own desolation. The voice of merriment, and of wailing, the steps of the 15 busy and the idle || have cèased in the deserted courts, and the weeds choke the entrances, and the long grass upon the hearth-stone. The works of art, the forming hand, the tombs, the very àshes they contained, are all gòne.

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While we thus walk among the ruins of the pást, a sad feeling of insecurity | comes over us; and that feeling is by no means diminished when we arrive at home. If we turn to our friends, we can hardly speak to them || before they bid us farewell. We see them for a few mó25 ments and in a few moments more, their countenances are changed, and they are sent away. It matters not how near

and dear they are. The ties which bind us together || are never too close to be pàrted, or too strong to be bròken. Tears were never known to move the king of 30 tèrrors; neither is it enough that we are compelled to surrender óne, or two, or many of those we love; for though the price is so great, we buy no favor with it, and our hold on those who remain is as slight as èver. The shadows all elude our grasp, and follow one an35 other down the valley. We gain no confidence, then, no feeling of security, by turning to our contémporaries and kindred. We know that the forms, which are breathing around us, are as shortlived and fleeting as those were, which have been dúst | for centuries. The sensation of 40 vànity, uncertainty, and rúin, is equally strong, whether we muse on what has long been pròstrate, or gaze on what is falling nów, or will fall I so soon.

If every thing which comes under our notice has

endured for so short a time, and in so short a time | will be no more, we cannot say that we receive the lèast assúrance by thinking on ourselves. When a few more friends have left, a few more hopes | deceived, and a few 5 more changes mócked us, "we shall be brought to the grave, and shall remain in the tomb: the clods of the valley shall be sweet unto us, and every man shall fóllow us, as there are innumerable befòre us." All power

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I will have forsaken the strongest, and the loftiest will 10 be laid low, and every eye will be closed, and every voice! húshed, and every heart will have ceased its beating. And when we have gone ourselves, even our memories will not stay behind us lóng. A few of the near and dear || will bear our likeness in their bosoms, till they too have ar15 rived at the end of their journey, and entered the dark dwelling of unconsciousness. In the thoughts of others || we shall live only till the last sound of the bell, which informs them of our departure, has ceased to vibrate in their ears. A stòne, perhaps, may tell some wanderer 20 where we lie, when we came here, and when we went awày; but even that will soon refuse to bear us rècord: "time's effacing fingers" | will be busy on its súrface, and at length will wear it smooth; and then | the stone itself will sink, or crùmble, and the wanderer of 25 another age will pass, without a single càll ↓ upon his sympathy, over our unheeded gràves.

LESSON XXVII.-ETERNITY OF GOD.-GREENWOOD.

[Marked for Rhetorical Pauses, Emphasis, and Inflections.] There is one Being to whom we can look | with a perfect conviction of finding that security, which nothing about us can give, and which nothing about us can take away. To this Being | we can lift up our souls, 5 and on Him we may rèst them, exclaiming in the language I of the monarch of Israel, "Before the mounwere brought forth, or ever Thou hadst formed the earth and the world, even from everlasting to everlàsting Thou art GòD." "Of old || hast Thou laid the foun10 dations of the earth, and the heavens | are the work of Thy hands. They shall pérish, but Thou shalt endùre; yea, all of them | shall wax old like a garment, as a vèsture shalt Thou change them, and they shall be

tains