further, he would have murdered a man in a state of mortal sın. I gave the golden cup to the rich man, who refused to take us within his roof. He has therefore received his reward in this world, and in the next will suffer for his inhospitality." The hermit fell prostrate at the angel's feet, and, requesting forgiveness, returned to his hermitage, fully convinced of the wisdom and justice of God's government. WARTON. 67. To A WATERFOWL. 1. WHITHER, 'midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,' 2. Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, 3. Seek'st thou the plashy brink 4. There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,— The desert and illimitable2 air,— Lone wandering, but not lost. The poet has sacrificed rhetorical rule to poetical beauty in the second line of this exquisitely beautiful piece. Rhetoricians might, perhaps, ask how the "heavens" could glow with a step. But the true poet (and if ever there was a true poet, William Cullen Bryant is one) looks deeper than rhetorical rule. The picture here presented of Day impressing his gorgeous colors, even with his very footsteps, on the heavens, is more grand and suggestive than any other expression he could have used. Il lim'it a ble, without limit; boundless. 5. All day thy wings have fanned 6. And soon that toil shall end: 7. Thou'rt gone! the abyss of heaven 8. He who, from zone to zone,' Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, Will lead my steps aright. W. C. BRYANT. 68. PASSAGE OF THE POTOMAC THROUGH THE BLUE RIDGE. HE passage of the Potomac through the Blue Ridge, is, perhaps, one of the most stupendous scenes in nature. You stand on a very high point of land. On your right comes up the Shenandoah,3 having ranged along the foot of the mountain a hundred miles to seek a vent. On your left approaches the Potomac, seeking a passage also. In the moment of their junction, they rush together against the mountain, rend it asunder, and pass off to the sea. 2. The first glance at this scene hurries our senses into the opinion that this earth has been created in time; that the mountains were formed first; that the rivers began to flow afterward; that, in this place, particularly, they have been dammed up by the Blue Ridge of mountains, and have formed an ocean 1 Zone to zone, from one part of the earth to another.-Stu pên dous, grand; amazing. Shen an do' ah, a river in Virginia, which unites with the Potomac at Harpers Ferry, just above its passage through the mountain.--* Jůnc' tion, joining; union. which filled the whole valley; that, continuing to rise, they have at length broken over at this spot, and have torn the mountain down from its summit to its base. The piles of rock on each hand, but particularly on the Shenandoah, the evident marks of their disrupture' and avulsion' from their beds by the most powerful agents of nature, corroborate the impression. 3. But the distant finishing which nature has given to the picture is of a different character. It is a true contrast to the foreground. It is as placid and delightful as that is wild and tremendous. For, the mountain being cloven3 asunder, she presents to your eye, through the cleft, a small catch of smooth blue horizon, at an infinite distance in the plain country, inviting you, as it were, from the riot and tumult roaring round, to pass through the breach, and participate of the calm below. 4. Here the eye ultimately composes itself; and that way, too, the road happens actually to lead. You cross the Potomac above its junction, pass along its side through the base of the mountain for three miles, its terrible precipices' hanging in fragments over you, and within about twenty miles reach Fredericktown, and the fine country round that. This scene is worth a voyage across the Atlantic. Yet here, as in the neighborhood of the Natural Bridge, are people who have passed their lives within half a dozen miles, and have never been to survey these monuments of a war between rivers and mountains, which must have shaken the earth itself to its center. THOMAS JEFFERSON. 1 THE 69. PERPETUAL ADORATION. HE turf shall be my fragrant snrine;" And silent thoughts my on.y prayers. Disrupture, a oreaking asunder. A vůl sion, tearing away.Cor rob o rate, strengthen.—* Fåre ground, the front part, or mo conspicuous part of a picture or painting.- Cloven (klo' vn), divideà ; split. Ul' ti mate ly, finally; at last.-' Prêc' i pic es, steep descents of rock or land. Fråg' ments, pieces broke off.-'Turf (tễrf).—1o Shrine, altar; a case or box in which sacred things are kept.-" Con' ser, a vessel in which incense is burnt. 2. My choir shall be the moonlight waves, Even more than music, breathes of thee. 3. I'll seek, by day, some glade' unknown, 4. Thy heaven, on which 'tis bliss to look, 5. I'll read thy anger in the rack Of sunny brightness, breaking througn. 6. There's nothing bright, above, below, 7. There's nothing dark, below, above, THOMAS MOORE. 70. WINDOWS. E have a special doctrine of windows. They are designed WE to let the light in, and equally to let the sight out; and this last function is, in the country, of prime importance. For 'Glade, an open place in a wood or forest. Rite, a ceremony; religious observance.-3 Azure (åz'er), sky-blue.- Nothing (nůth' ing). - De'i ty, Godhead; divinity.- Func' tion, office; employment. a window is but another name for a stately picture. There are no such landscapes on canvas as those which you see through glass. There are no painted windows like those which trees and lawns' paint standing in upon them, with all the glory of God resting on them! 2. Our common, small, frequent windows in country dwellings are contemptible. We love rather the generous old English windows, large as the whole side of a room, manyangled, or circular; but, of whatever shape, they should be recessed-glorious nooks of light, the very antitheses of those shady coverts3 which we search out in forests, in hot summer days. 3. These little chambers of light, into which a group may gather, and be both in-doors and out of doors at the same time; where, in storms or in winter, we may have full access to the elements without chill, wet, or exposure, these are the glory of a dwelling. The great treasures of a dwelling are, the child's cradle, the grandmother's chair, the hearth' and old-fashioned fireplace, the table, and the window. 4. Bedrooms should face the east, and let in the full flush of morning light. There is a positive pleasure in a golden bath3 of early morning light. Your room is filled and glorified. You awake in the very spirit of light. It creeps upon you, and suffuses your soul, pierces your sensibility, irradiates' the thoughts, and warms and cheers the whole day 5. It is sweet to awake and find your thoughts moving to the gentle measures of soft music; but we think it full as sweet to float into morning consciousness upon a flood of golden light, silent though it be! What can be more delicious than a summer morning, dawning through your open windows, to the sound of innumerable birds, while the shadows of branches and leaves sway to and fro along the wall, or spread new patterns on the floor, wavering with perpetual change! H. W. BEECHER. 'Lawns, open spaces between woods.—' An tỉth' e sis, the opposite to a thing. Coverts (kův'erts), covered places; shelters.-* Heårth.— 5 Båth. Suffuses (suf füz' ez). overspreads; covers. -'Ir rå' di ates, brightens fills with light |
