stances attending it, extraordinary in character, and en titling it to peculiar distinction. It was fought on this eminence; in the neighbourhood of yonder city; in the presence of more spectators than there were combatants in the conflict. Men, women and children, from every commanding position, were gazing at the battle, and looking for its result with all the eagerness natural to those who knew that the issue was fraught with the deepest consequences to them. Yet, on the sixteenth of June, 1775, there was nothing around this hill but verdure and culture. There was, indeed, the note of awful preparation in Boston. There was the provincial army at Cambridge with its right flank resting on Dorchester, and its left on Chelsea. But here all was peace. Tranquillity reigned around.

On the seventeenth, every thing was changed. On yonder height had arisen, in the night, a redoubt in which Prescott commanded. Perceived by the enemy at dawn, it was immediately cannonaded from the floating batteries in the river, and the opposite shore. And then ensued the hurry of preparation in Boston, and soon the troops of Britain embarked in the attempt to dislodge the colonists.

I suppose it would be difficult, in a military point of view, to ascribe to the leaders on either side, any just motive for the conflict which followed. On the one hand it could not have been very important to the Americans to attempt to hem the British within the town by advancing one single post a quarter of a mile; while on the other hand, if the British found it essential to dislodge the American troops, they had it in their power, at no expense of life. By moving up their ships and batteries, they could have completely cut off all communication with the main land over the neck, and the forces in the redoubt would have been reduced to a state of famine in forty-eight hours.

But that was not the day for such considerations on either side! Both parties were anxious to try the strength of their arms. The pride of England would not permit the rebels, as she termed them, to defy her to the teeth; and, without for a moment calculating the cost, the British general determined to destroy the fort immediately. On the other side, Prescott and his gallant followers longed and thirsted for a conflict. They wished it, and wished it

at once. And this is the true secret of the movements on this hill.

I will not attempt to describe the battle. The cannonading-the landing of the British-their advance—the coolness with which the charge was met-the repulsethe second attack-the second repulse-the burning of Charlestown-and, finally, the closing assault, and the slow retreat of the Americans-the history of all these is familiar.

But the consequences of the battle of Bunker Hill are greater than those of any conflict between the hostile armies of European powers. It was the first great battle of the Revolution; and not only the first blow, but the blow which determined the contest. It did not, indeed, put an end to the war, but in the then existing hostile feeling, the difficulties could only be referred to the arbitration of the sword. And one thing is certain; that after the New England troops had shown themselves able to face and repulse the regulars, it was decided that peace could never be established but upon the basis of the independence of the colonies. When the sun of that day went down, the event of independence was certain! When Washington heard of the battle, he inquired if the militia had stood the fire of the regulars? And when told that they had not only stood the fire, but reserved their own till the enemy was within eight rods, and then poured it in with tremendous effect-" Then," exclaimed he, “the liberties of the country are safe!"

LESSON LXIV

Ode to the Saviour.-MILMAN.

For thou wert born of woman! thou didst come,
Oh, Holiest to this world of sin and gloom,
Not in thy dread omnipotent array;

And not by thunders strewed

Was thy tempestuous road;

Nor indignation burned before thee on thy way.

But Thee, a soft and naked child,

Thy mother undefiled

In the rude manger laid to rest
From off her virgin breast.

The heavens were not commanded to prepare
A gorgeous canopy of golden air,

Nor stoop'd their lamps the enthroned fires on high:
A single silent star

Came wandering from afar,

Gliding uncheck'd and calm along the liquid sky;
The eastern sages leading on,

As at a kingly throne,

To lay their gold and odours sweet
Before thy infant feet.

The earth and ocean were not hush'd to hear
Bright harmony from every starry sphere;
Nor at thy presence brake the voice of song
From all the cherub-choirs,

And seraphs' burning lyres,

Pour'd thro' the host of heaven the charmed clouds along. One angel-troop the strain began ;

Of all the race of man

By simple shepherds heard alone
That soft Hosanna's tone.

And when thou didst depart, no car of flame
To bear Thee hence in lambent radiance came;
Nor visible angels mourn'd with drooping plumes;
Nor didst Thou mount on high

From fatal Calvary,

With all thy own redeem'd, outbursting from their tombs, For Thou didst bear away from earth,

But one of human birth,

The dying felon by thy side, to be

In Paradise with Thee.

Nor o'er thy cross the clouds of vengeance brake;
A little while the conscious earth did shake,

At that foul deed by her fierce children done;

A few dim hours of day

The world in darkness lay,

Then bask'd in bright repose beneath the cloudless sun.
While Thou didst sleep within the tomb
Consenting to thy doom;

Ere yet the white-robed angel shone
Upon the sealed stone.

And when Thou didst arise, Thou didst not stand
With devastation in thy red right hand,
Plaguing the guilty city's murderous crew!
But Thou didst haste to meet

Thy mother's coming feet,

And bear the words of peace unto the faithful few. Then calmly, slowly, didst thou rise

Into thy native skies,

Thy human form dissolved on high
In its own radiancy.

LESSON LXV.

The Ocean.-BARRY CORNWALL.

O THOU, Vast Ocean! ever sounding Sea!
Thou symbol of a dread immensity!
Thou thing that windest round the solid world
Like a huge animal, which downward hurled
From the black clouds, lies weltering and alone
Lashing and writhing till its strength be gone!
Thy voice is like the thunder, and thy sleep
Is as a giant's slumber, loud and deep.
Thou speakest in the east and in the west
At once, and on thy heavily-laden breast
Fleets come and go, and shapes that have no life
Or motion, yet are moved, and meet in strife.

The earth hath nought of this: no chance nor change
Ruffles its surface, and no spirits dare

Give answer to the tempest-waken air;
But o'er its wastes the weakly tenants range
At will, and wound its bosom as they go.
Ever the same, it hath no ebb, no flow;
But to their stated rounds the seasons come,
And pass, like visions, to their viewless home,
And come again and vanish; the young spring
Looks ever bright with leaves and blossoming,
And winter always winds his sullen horn
When the wild autumn, with a look forlorn
Dies in his stormy manhood; and the skies
Weep, and flowers sicken when the summer flies.

Thou only, terrible Ocean! hast a power,
A will, a voice, and in thy wrathful hour,
When thou dost lift thine anger to the clouds,
A fearful and magnificent beauty shrouds

Thy broad, green forehead. If thy waves be driven
Backwards and forwards, by the shifting wind,
How quickly dost thou thy great strength unbind,
And stretch thine arms, and war at once with heaven.

Thou trackless and immeasurable Main !

On thee no record ever lived again

To meet the hand that writ it: line nor lead
Hath ever fathomed thy profoundest deeps,
Where, haply, the huge monster swells and sleeps,
King of his watery limit, who, 'tis said,
Can move the mighty Ocean into storm-
Oh! wonderful thou art, great element;
And fearful in thy spleeny humours bent,
And lovely in repose: thy summer form
Is beautiful, and when thy silver waves
Make music in earth's dark and winding caves,
I love to wander on thy pebbled beach
Marking the sunlight at the evening hour,
And hearken to the thoughts thy waters teach-
"Eternity, eternity, and power."