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Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating

Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle,

In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb driven cattle!

Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant;

Let the dead Past bury its dead !
Act,--act in the living Present-

Heart within, and God o'erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us

Footprints on the sands of Time;
Footprints, that perhaps another,

Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwreck'd brother,

Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,

With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,

Learn to labour and to wait.

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1. Are the events of life really what they appear at first sight to be?

2. What are afflictions designed to accomplish, if we will only learn?

3. Of what two parts does man consist?

4. Which part was formed of the dust of the ground, and must return to it ?

5. What is not the end or design of life?

6. For what purpose, then, are we placed on the footstool ?

7. Farther daily on what way?

8. To what does every beat of the heart bring us nearer?

9. What must we be in the battle of life?

10. Name the enemies we meet with in this conflict

11. Repeat the noble resolution expressed in the last verse.

BERNARDO AND ALPHONSO.

LOCKHART. Bernard Del Carpio, son of Donna Ximena, (the sister of Alonzo or Alphonso the Chaste), and of Don Sancho Count Saldana, is supposed to have the interview here described in the ballad with the king, after the treacherous execution, or rather murder, of Bernardo's

father by Alphonso. The period is contemporaneous with that of Charlemagne, A.D. 768. WITH some good ten of his chosen men, Bernardo hath appear'd Before them all in the Palace hall, the lying King to beard ; With cap in hand and eye on ground, he came in reverend guise, But ever and anon he frown'd, and flame broke from his eyes.

A curse upon thee,” cries the King, “who com’st unbid to me;
But what from traitor's blood should spring, save traitors like to thee?

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His sire, Lords, had a traitor's heart; perhaps our Champion brave May think it were a pious part to share Don Sancho's grave !" “Whoever told this tale—the King hath rashness to repeat," Cries Bernard, " Here my gage I fling before The LIAR's feet ! No treason was in Sancho's blood, no stain in mine doth lieBelow the throne what knight will own the coward calumny? “The blood that I like water shed, when Roland did advance, By secret traitors hired and led, to make us slaves of France ; The life of King Alphonso I saved at Roncesval,* Your words, Lord King, are recompense abundant for it all. "Your horse was down your hope was flown—I saw the falchion

shine,
That soon had drank your royal blood, had I not ventured mine;
But memory soon of service done deserteth the ingrate,
And ye’ve thank'd the son, for life and crown, by the father's bloody fate.

Ye swore, upon your kingly faith, to set Don Sancho free,
But, shame upon your paltering breath, the light he ne'er did see;
He died in dungeon cold and dim, by Alphonso’s base decree,
And visage blind, and stiffen'd limb, were all they gave to me.
• The king that swerveth from his word hath stain'd his purple black,
No Spanish Lord will draw the sword behind a liar's back:
But noble vengeance shall be mine, an open hate I'll show-
The King hath injured Carpio's line, and Bernard is his foe.”
“ Seize—seize him !”-loud the King doth scream—“There are a

thousand here-
Let his foul blood this instant stream—What, caitiffs, do you fear ?
Seize-seize the traitor!”—But not one to move a finger dareth,—
Bernardo standeth by the throne, and calm his sword he bareth.
He drew the falchion from the sheath, and held it up on high,
And all the hall was still as death: cries Bernard, “Here am I,
And here is the sword that owns no lord, excepting Heaven and me:
Fain would I know who dares his point-King, Condé, or Grandee!”
Then to his mouth the horn he drew-(it hung below his cloak)-
His ten true men the signal knew, and through the ring they broke;
With helm on head, and blade in hand, the knights the circle brake ;
And back the lordlings 'gan to stand, and the false King to quake.
“Ha! Bernard,” quoth Alphonso, “what means this warlike guise ?
Ye know full well I jested-ye know your worth I prize.”
But Bernard turn'd upon his heel, and smiling pass'd away-
Long rued Alphonso and his realm the jesting of that day.

* Roncesvalles (French Roncevaux), a frontier village of Spain, in a gorge of the Pyrenees. Here, it is traditionally said that the rear-guard of Charlemagne's army, under Roland or Orlando, was defeated and destroyed in 778, and that Roland himself fell by the hand of Bernardo del Carpio.

1. Name Bernardo's parents.

8. What does Bernardo say of the king 2. In what century did Charlemagne who breaks his faith? flourish?

9. Why was not Bernardo seized at the 3. Why is Alphonso called the lying King's command ? King?

10. In what words does onr champion 4. Describe Bernardo as he approaches challenge the King and his nobles ? the throne.

11. What takes place when the horn is 5. What are the words of the King as blown? Bernardo advances ?

12. In what tone did the King now ad6. What reply does the champion make dress him? to the King's calumny and threat ?

13. What sort of smile would Bernardo 7. What facts are alluded to in verse 4th? | give on leaving the hall ?

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THE LADY AND ADOPTED CHILD,

MES HEMANS. Some years since, a young New Zealander was carried to England, where he lived many years, was carefully educated, and introduced into the most refined society. When his education was completed, he returned to his home, and at once returned to the habits, the character, and the degradations of savage life. This has almost uni. formly been the result of attempts to civilize and educate young savages. And why? On what principle can it be accounted for? I reply, that the work was begun too late. The impressions made upon early childhood cannot be effaced. You may take the young savage, and make a palace his home, and he is like the young ass's colt; he longs for the forest, for the lawlessness of savage life. This principle is deep, uniform, unalterable.- Rev. John Todd.

LADY. Why wouldst thou leave me, oh! gentle child ?
Thy home on the mountain is bleak and wild,
A straw-roof'd cabin with lowly wall-
Mine is a fair and pillar'd hall,
Where many an image of marble gleams,
And the sunshine of pictures for ever streams!”

Boy. “Oh! green is the turf where my brothers play,
Through the long bright hours of the summer day;
They find the red cup-moss where they climb,
And they chase the bee o'er the scented thyme;
And the rocks where the heath-flower blooms they know,-
Lady, kind lady! oh let me go!”

LADY. “ Content thee, boy, in my bower to dwell;
Here are sweet sounds which thou lovest well;
Flutes on the air in the stilly noon,
Harps which the wandering breezes tune;
And the silvery wood-note of many a bird,
Whose voice was ne'er in thy mountain heard."

Boy. “My mother sings at the twilight's fall,
A song of the hills far more sweet than all;
She sings it under our own green tree,
To the babe half slumbering on her knee:
I dreamt last night of that music low,-
Lady, kind lady! oh let me go!”

Lady. Thy mother hath gone from her cares to rest,
She hath taken the babe on her quiet breast;

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Thou wouldst meet her footsteps, my boy, no more
Nor hear her song at the cabin door;
Come thou with me to the vineyards nigh,
And we'll pluck the grapes of the richest dye !”

Boy. “Is my mother gone from her home away?
But I know that my brothers are there at play:
I know they are gathering the foxglove's bell,
And the long fern-leaves by the sparkling well,
And they launch their boats where the blue streams flow;
Lady, kind lady! oh let me go!"

LADY. “ Fair child, thy brothers are wanderers now,
They sport no more on the mountain's brow,
They have left the fern by the spring's green side,
And the streams where the fairy barks were tied.
Be thou at peace in thy brighter lot,
For thy cabin-home is a lonely spot!"

Boy. Are they gone, all gone from the hill ?
But the bird and the blue fly rove o'er it still,
And the red deer bound in their gladness free,
And the heath is bent by the singing bee,
And the waters leap, and the fresh winds blow!
Lady, sweet lady! oh let me go!

THE DEATH OF KEELDAR.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Percy or Percival Rede of Trochend, in Redesdale, Northumberland, is celebrated in tradition as a huntsman and a soldier. He was upon two occasions singularly unfortunate; once, when an arrow, which he had discharged at a deer, killed his celebrated dog Keeldar; and again, when, being on a hunting party, he was betrayed into the hands of a clan called Crossar, by whom he was murdered. Mr Cooper's painting of the first of these incidents suggested the following stanzas.

UP rose the sun o'er moor and mead,
Up with the sun rose Percy Rede;
Brave Keeldar, from his couples freed,

Career'd along the lea;
The palfrey sprung with sprightly bound,
As if to match the gamesome hound;
His horn the gallant huntsman wound:

They were a jovial three !
Man, hound, or horse, of higher fame,
To wake the wild deer never came,
Since Alnwick's Earl pursued the game

On Cheviot's* rueful day;

* See ballad of Chevy Chase, which relates perhaps a totally fictitious event, unless it may he founded on the battle of Otterbourne (1388), the only one mentioned in history in which a Douglas fell fighting with a Percy.

Keeldar was matchless in his speed; Than Tarras, ne'er was stauncher steed; A peerless archer Percy Rede:

And right dear friends were they! The chase engross'd their joys and woes, Together at the dawn they rose, Together shared the noon's repose,

By fountain or by stream;
And oft when evening skies were red,
The heather was their common bed,
Where each, as wildering fancy led,

Still hunted in his dream.
Now is the thrilling moment near,
Of sylvan hope and sylvan fear,
Yon thicket holds the harbour'd deer,

The signs the hunters know ;-
With eyes of flame, and quivering ears,
The brake sagacious Keeldar nears ;
The restless palfrey paws and rears;

The archer strings his bow,
The game's afoot !-Halloo! halloo !
Hunter and horse and hound pursue ;-
But woe the shaft that erring flew

That e'er it left the string!
And ill betide the faithless yew!
The stag bounds scathless o'er the dew,
And gallant Keeldar's life-blood true

Has drench'd the grey-goose wing.

The noble hound-he dies, he dies ; Death, death, has glazed his fixed eyes, Stiff on the bloody heath he lies,

Without a groan or quiver,
Now day may break and bugle sound,
And whoop and hollow ring around,
And o'er his couch the stag may bound,

But Keeldar sleeps for ever!
Dilated nostrils, staring eyes,
Mark the poor palfrey's mute surprise,
He knows not that his comrade dies,

Nor what is death—but still
His aspect hath expression drear,
Of grief and wonder, mix'd with fear,
Like startled children when they hear

Some mystic tale of ill.
But he that bent the fatal bow,
Can well the sum of evil know,
And o'er his favourite, bending low,

In speechless grief recline;

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