With Whitefield's,"-said, he, yielding up his breath, Were all things done; the tomb was oped to ken And, lighted with a single lamp, whose ray Fell dimly down upon the mouldering clay, Was left, prepared, to silence as of night, 10 Till hour appointed for the funeral rite. It chanced, the plodding teacher of a school,- How far the fears of spirits might infest Both stood within the mansion of the dead, Must he be watcher with these corpses!-Who Be mated thus?—The thought was cruel, wild! 35 His knees together smote, as first, in fear, 5 Most safely, humbly, on his Father's care, Who hears a child's, as well as prelate's, prayer. And thus he stood, on Whitefield's form his glance Meanwhile, the recreant teacher,—where was he? With the lad's mother!-Supper done, he told 10 How showers that mother's scorn, rebuke, and shame! 15 He would sustain himself, and she would find Him patient and possessed, she trusted well his mind. power; The boy yet lives, and from that distant hour 5 LESSON CVIII.-LOVE AND FAME.-H. T. TUCKERMAN. Give me the boon of Love! I ask no more for fame; Far better one unpurchased heart Than Glory's proudest name. Why wake a fever in the blood, Or damp the spirit now, To gain a wreath whose leaves shall wave Give me the boon of Love! 5 10 The brilliant orbs that scatter light But in their very hearts enshrined, Keep e'er the holy flame, which once Give me the boon of Love! 15 Give me the boon of Love! 20 25 30 - 35 The path of Fame is drear, And Glory's arch doth ever span One wild flower from the path of Love, Is dearer than the wreath that waves Give me the boon of Love! The lamp of Fame shines far, But Love's soft light glows near and warm, A pure and household star. One tender glance can fill the soul With a perennial fire; But Glory's flame burns fitfully, A lone, funereal pyre. Give me the boon of Love! Fame's trumpet-strains depart, But Love's sweet lute breathes melody That lingers in the heart; And the scroll of fame will burn, When sea and earth consume; But the rose of Love, in a happier sphere, 20* LESSON CIX.-LAMENTATION OF REBECCA THE JEWESS.-G. LUNT. 5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 If I had Jubal's chorded shell, O'er which the first-born music rolled, If to my soul one note were given Of that high harp, whose sweeter tone Then might my soul aspire, and hold All that we were but are no more! Of home, his eyes may never see. And darkly spreads o'er Zion's hill, And cedars wave the stately head, Thy tears are seen, thy prayers are heard! Though Judah feels the stranger's yoke, Yet shall the day of promise come. 5 Thy sons from iron bondage break, And God shall lead the wanderers home!" LESSON CX.-TWO HUNDRED YEARS AGO.-GRENVILLE MELLEN. 5 10 15 20 25 30 Wake your harp's music!-louder,—higher, And pour your strains along; And smite again each quivering wire, In all the pride of song! Shout like those godlike men of old, Who, daring storm and foe, On this blest soil their anthem rolled, From native shores by tempests driven, And found, beneath a milder heaven, An altar rose, and prayers,-a ray Broke on their night of woe,- Two hundred years ago! They clung around that symbol too, Their refuge and their all; And swore, while skies and waves were blue, That altar should not fall. They stood upon the red man's sod, 'Neath heaven's unpillared bow, With home, a country, and a God, Oh! 't was a hard unyielding fate And Persecution strove with Hate, But safe above each coral grave, |