Where outworn creeds, like Rome's grey senate, quake. Is called for by the instinct of mankind. 10 With endless change, is fitted to the hour; 15 Let us speak plain: there is more force in names LESSON CXXXV.-LIBERTY TO ATHENS.--JAMES G. PERCIVAL. The flag of freedom floats once more It waves, as waved the palm of yore, As bright a glory from the skies, Pours down its light around those towers, And once again the Greeks arise, As in their country's noblest hours; Their swords are girt in virtue's cause, Oh! may she keep her equal laws, While man shall live, and time shall be! The pride of all her shrines went down ; Her helm by many a sword was cleft: 5 10 15 20 She lay among her ruins low, Where grew the palm, the cypress rose, And sounds redemption to the Greeks. Their servile years have rolled away; And beauty wakes a fairer spring; LESSON CXXXVI.-THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms; 5 Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, When the Death-Angel touches those swift keys! What loud lament and dismal Miserere 10 Will mingle with their awful symphonies! I hear, even now, the infinite fierce chorus, On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer, 15 And loud amid the universal clamor, O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. I hear the Florentine, who from his palace Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin. 5 The tumult of each sacked and burning village; The shout, that every prayer for mercy drowns ; The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage, 10 The wail of famine in beleaguered towns! The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder, The diapason of the cannonade. Is it, O man, with such discordant noises, With such accursed instruments as these, 15 Thou drownest nature's sweet and kindly voices, And jarrest the celestial harmonies ? 20 Were half the power that fills the world with terror, The warrior's name would be a name abhorred ! Would wear for evermore the curse of Cain! 25 Down the dark future, through long generations, The echoing sounds grow fainter, and then cease; And, like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, 30 I hear once more the voice of Christ say, "Peace!" Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies! The holy melodies of Love arise. LESSON CXXXVII.-IMMORTALITY.-RICHARD H. DANA, SEN. Is this thy prison-house, thy grave, then, Love? 5 The Eternal Mind, the Father of all thought, Are they become mere tenants of a tomb ?- 15 By that bright day which ends not; as the sun And with our frames do perish all our loves? Do those that took their root, and put forth buds, And their soft leaves unfolded, in the warmth Of mutual hearts, grow up and live in beauty, Then fade and fall, like fair unconscious flowers? 20 Are thoughts and passions, that to the tongue give speech, And make it send forth winning harmonies,That to the cheek do give its living glow, And vision in the eye the soul intense With that for which there is no utterance, 25 Are these the body's accidents ?-no more ?To live in it, and, when that dies, go out Like the burnt taper's flame? Oh! listen, man! A voice within us speaks that startling word, 35 Thick clustering orbs, and this our fair domain, Oh! listen, ye, our spirits; drink it in From all the air. "Tis in the gentle moonlight; 40 'Tis floating midst Day's setting glories; Night, Wrapped in her sable robe, with silent step Comes to our bed, and breathes it in our ears: Night, and the dawn, bright day, and thoughtful eve, All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse, 5 The dying hear it; and, as sounds of earth LESSON CXXXVIII.-THE GRAY OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN.HARRY HIBBARD. 5 10 15 20 25 30 [A Natural Image in Franconia Mountain Notch.] Through the small opening mid the green birch trees, There pause. What doth thy anxious gaze espy? A crag abrupt hung from the mountain's brow! And full and plain those features are displayed, The compass of his plastic art to try. From the curved neck up to the shaggy hair To cheat the expecting eye with fancied forms of air! Most wondrous vision! the broad earth hath not, More fit to stir the poet's phantasy. Gray Old Man of the Mountain, awfully There from thy wreath of clouds thou dost uprear Lone dweller mid the hills! with gaze austere Thou lookest down, methinks, on all below thee here! And curious travellers have descried the trace Of the sage Franklin's physiognomy In that most grave and philosophic face. If it be true, Old Man, that we do see Sage Franklin's countenance, thou indeed must be |