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One sleeps where southern vines are dressed,
Above the noble slain;

He wrapped his colors round his breast

On a blood-red field of Spain.

And one,-o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves, by soft winds fanned;
She faded 'mid Italian flowers,

The last of that bright band.

And parted thus they rest, who played
Beneath the same green tree;
Whose voices mingled as they prayed,
Around one parent knee;

They that with smiles lit up the hall,

And cheered with song the hearth:

Alas! for love, if thou wert all,

And naught beyond, O Earth!

MRS. HEMANS.

LESSON CXLI.

THE CHEERFUL GIVER.

"WHAT shall I render Thee, Father Supreme, For thy rich gifts, and this the best of all?" Said a young mother, as she fondly watched Her sleeping babe.

There was an answering voice

That night, in dreams.

"Thou hast a tender flower,

Wrapt in thy breast, and fed with dews of love.
Give me that flower. Such flowers there are in heaven."

But there was silence. Yea, a hush so deep,

Breathless, and terror-stricken, that the lip

Blanched in its trance.

"Thou hast a little harp;

How sweetly would it swell the angel's song!

Lend me that harp."

Then burst a shuddering sob,

As if the bosom by some hidden sword

Were cleft in twain.

Morn came.

A blight had found

The crimson velvet of the unfolding bud,

The harp-strings rang a thrilling strain and broke,
And that young mother lay upon the earth

In childless agony.

Again the voice

That stirred her vision.

"He, who asked of thee,

Loveth a cheerful giver."

So she raised

Her gushing eye, and ere the tear-drop dried

Upon its fringes, smiled.

Doubt not that smile,

Like Abraham's faith, was counted righteousness.

MRS. SIGOURNEY.

LESSON CXLII.

THE BELEAGUERED CITY.
I HAVE read, in some old marvelous tale,
Some legend strange and vague,
That a midnight host of specters pale
Beleaguered the walls of Prague.

Beside the Moldau's rushing stream,
With the wan moon overhead,
There stood, as in an awful dream,
The army of the dead.

White as a sea-fog, landward bound,
The spectral camp was seen,
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,
The river flowed between.

No other voice, nor sound was there,
No drum, nor sentry's pace;
The mist-like banners clasped the air,
As clouds with clouds embrace.

But, when the old cathedral bell
Proclaimed the morning prayer,
The white pavilions rose and fell
On the alarmed air.

Down the broad valley fast and far
The troubled army fled;
Up rose the glorious morning star,
The ghastly host was dead.

I have read, in the marvelous heart of man,
That strange and mystic scroll,

That an army of phantoms vast and wan
Beleaguer the human soul.

Encamped beside Life's rushing stream
In Fancy's misty light,
Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam
Portentous through the night.

Upon its midnight battle ground
The spectral camp is seen,
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,
Flows the River of Life between.

No other voice, nor sound is there,
In the army of the grave;
No other challenge breaks the air,
But the rushing of Life's wave.

And when the solemn and deep church-bell
Entreats the soul to pray,

The midnight phantoms feel the spell,

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LESSON CXLIII.

MATILDA.

OUR happiness is in the power of One, who can bring it about in a thousand unforeseen ways, that mock our foresight. If example be necessary to prove this, I will give you a story,' told us by a grave, though sometimes romancing, historian.

66

Matilda was married, very young, to a Neapolitan nobleman of the first quality, and found herself a widow and a mother, at the age of fifteen. As she stood, one day, caressing her infant son, in the open window of an apartment which hung over the river Volturnus, the child, with a sudden spring, leaped from her arms into the flood below, and disappeared in a moment. The mother, struck with instant surprise, and making an effort to save him, plunged in after; but, far from being able to assist the infant, she herself, with great difficulty, escaped to the opposite shore, just when some French soldiers were plundering the country on that side, who immediately made her their prisoner.

"As the war was then carried on, between the French and Italians, with the utmost inhumanity, they were going, at once, to take her life. This base resolution, however, was opposed by a young officer, who, though their retreat required the utmost expedition, placed her behind him, and carried her in safety to her native city. Her beauty, at first, caught his eye, her merit, soon after, his heart. They were married: he rose to the highest posts: they lived long together, and were happy. But the felicity of a soldier can never be called permanent. After an interval of several years, the troops which he commanded having met with a repulse, he was obliged to take shelter in the city where he had lived with his wife. Here they suffered a siege, and the city, at length, was taken.

"Few histories can produce more various instances of cruelty, than those which the French and Italians at that time exercised upon each other. It was resolved by the victors, upon this occasion, to put all the French prisoners to death; but particularly the husband of the unfortunate Matilda, as he was principally instrumental in protracting the siege. Their determinations were, in general, executed almost as soon as resolved upon

"The captive soldier was led forth, and the executioner, with his sword, stood ready, while the spectators, in gloomy silence, awaited the fatal blow, which was on'y suspended till the general, who presided as judge, should give the signal. It was in this interval of anguish and expectation, that Matilda came to take her last farewell of her husband and deliverer, deploring her wretched situation, and the cruelty of fate, that had saved her from perishing, by a premature death, in the river Volturnus, to be the spectator of still greater calamities. The general, who was a young man, was struck with surprise at her beauty, and pity at her distress; but with still stronger emotions, when he heard her mention her former dangers. He was her son; the infant, for whom she had encountered so much danger. He acknowledged her, at once, as his mother, and fell at her feet. The rest may be easily supposed. The captive was set free, and all the happiness that love, friendship, and duty could confer on each, was enjoyed."

GOLDSMITH.

LESSON CXLIV.

THE VOYAGE OF LIFE: AN ALLEGORY.

"LIFE," says Seneca, "is a voyage, in the progress of which we are perpetually changing our scenes; we first leave childhood behind us, then youth, then the years of ripened manhood, then the better and more pleasing part of old age."

The perusal of this passage having excited in me a train of reflections on the state of man, the incessant fluctuation of his wishes, the gradual change of his disposition to all external objects, and the thoughtlessness with which he floats along the stream of time, I sunk into a slumber amid my meditations, and, on a sudden, found my ears filled with a tumult of labor, the shouts of alacrity, the shrieks of alarm, the whistle of winds, and the dash of waters.

My astonishment, for a time, repressed my curiosity; but soon recovering myself, so far as to inquire whither we were going, and what was the cause of such clamor and confusion, ] was told that we were launching out into the ocean of life, that

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