quent recurrence of this struggle between the claims of nature and affection, and the sterner demands of legal justice? And shall we sit here, "deliberating in cold debates," whether men shall be saved from moral wretched5 ness like this?

LESSON CLX.-EXTRACT FROM AN ADDRESS DELIVERED AT CHAPEL HILL.-WM. GASTON.

Deeply rooted principles of probity, confirmed habits of industry, and a determination to rely on one's own exertion, constitute the great preparation for the discharge of the duties of man, and the best security for performing 5 them with honor to one's self, and benefit to others. But it may be asked, what is there in such a life of never-ending toil, effort, and privation, to recommend it to the acceptance of the young and the gay? Those who aspire to heroic renown, may indeed make up their minds to embrace these 10 "hard doctrines;" but it may be well questioned, whether happiness is not preferable to greatness, and enjoyment more desirable than distinction. Let others, if they will, toil up "the steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar;" we choose rather to sport in luxurious ease and careless 15 glee, in the valley below.

It is, indeed, on those who aspire to eminence, that these injunctions are intended to be pressed with the greatest emphasis, not only because a failure in them would be more disastrous than in others, but because they are ex20 posed to greater and more numerous dangers of error. But it is a sad mistake to suppose, that they are not suited to all, and are not earnestly urged upon all, however humble their pretensions or moderate their views. Happiness, as well as greatness, enjoyment, as well as renown, have 25 no friends so sure as Integrity, Diligence and Independ

ence.

We We are not placed here to waste our days in wanton riot or inglorious ease, with appetites perpetually gratified and never palled, exempted from all care and solicitude, 30 with life ever fresh, and joys ever new. He who has fitted us for our condition, and assigned to us its appropriate duties, has not left his work unfinished, and omitted to provide a penalty for the neglect of our obligations. Labor is not more the duty, than the blessing of man. Without 35 it, there is neither mental nor physical vigor, health, cheer

fulness nor animation; neither the eagerness of hope, nor the capacity to enjoy.

Every human being must have some object to engage his attention, excite his wishes, and rouse him to action, 5 or he sinks, a prey to listlessness. For want of proper occupations, see strenuous idleness resorting to a thousand expedients, the race-course, the bottle, or the gamingtable, the frivolities of fashion, the debasements of sensuality, the petty contentions of envy, the grovelling pursuits 10 of avarice, and all the various distracting agitations of vice. Call you these enjoyments? Is such the happiness which it is so dreadful to forego?

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"Vast happiness enjoy thy gay allies!
A youth of folly, an old age of cares,
Young yet enervate, old yet never wise;
Vice wastes their vigor and their mind impairs.
Vain, idle, dissolute, in thoughtless ease,

Reserving woes for age, their prime they spend;
All wretched, hopeless, to the evil days,

With sorrow to the verge of life they tend;

Grieved with the present, of the past ashamed;

They live and are despised, they die, nor more are named."

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LESSON CLXI.-THE LYRE.-MILTON WARD.

There was a lyre, 't is said that hung
High waving in the summer air;

An angel hand its chords had strung,
And left to breathe its music there.

Each wandering breeze, that o'er it flew,
Awoke a wilder, sweeter strain

Than ever shell of mermaid blew
In coral grottoes of the main.

When, springing from the rose's bell,
Where all night he had sweetly slept,
The zephyr left the flowery dell

Bright with the tears that morning wept,
He rose, and o'er the trembling lyre,

Waved lightly his soft azure wing;
What touch such music could inspire!
What harp such lays of joy could sing!
The murmurs of the shaded rills,

The birds, that sweetly warbled by,

And the soft echo from the hills,

Were heard not where that harp was nigh.

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When the last light of fading day
Along the bosom of the west,
In colors softly mingled lay

While night had darkened all the rest,
Then, softer than that fading light,

And sweeter than the lay, that rung
Wild through the silence of the night,
As solemn Philomela sung,

That harp its plaintive murmurs sighed
Along the dewy breeze of even;
So clear and soft they swelled and died,
They seemed the echoed songs of heaven.
Sometimes, when all the air was still,

And not the poplar's foliage trembled,
That harp was nightly heard to thrill
With tones, no earthly tones resembled.
And then, upon the moon's pale beams,
Unearthly forms were seen to stray,
Whose starry pinions' trembling gleams
Would oft around the wild harp play.
But soon the bloom of summer fled,-

In earth and air it shone no more;
Each flower and leaf fell pale and dead,
While skies their wintry sternness wore.
One day, loud blew the northern blast,
The tempest's fury raged along.
Oh! for some angel, as they passed,

To shield the harp of heavenly song!
It shrieked,—how could it bear the touch,
The cold rude touch of such a storm,
When e'en the zephyr seemed too much
Sometimes, though always light and warm!
It loudly shrieked, but ah! in vain ;-
The savage wind more fiercely blew :
Once more, it never shrieked again,

For every chord was torn in two.
It never thrilled with anguish more,
Though beaten by the wildest blast;
The pang, that thus its bosom tore,
Was dreadful, but it was the last.
And though the smiles of summer played
Gently upon its shattered form,
And the light zephyrs o'er it strayed,

That Lyre they could not wake or warm.

LESSON CLXII.-POLISH WAR SONG.-JAMES G. PERCIVAL.

Freedom calls you! Quick, be ready,

Rouse ye in the name of God,

Onward, onward, strong and steady,-
Dash to earth the oppressor's rod.
Freedom calls! ye brave!

Rise, and spurn the name of slave.

Grasp the sword!-its edge is keen,
Seize the gun!-its ball is true:
Sweep your land from tyrant clean,-
Haste, and scour it through and through!
Onward, onward! Freedom cries,
Rush to arms, the tyrant flies.

By the souls of patriots gone,
Wake, arise, your fetters break,
Koskiusco bids you on,—

Sobieski cries awake!

Rise, and front the despot czar,
Rise, and dare the unequal war.

Freedom calls you! Quick, be ready,-
Think of what your sires have been,-
Onward, onward! strong and steady,-
Drive the tyrant to his den,

On, and let the watchwords be,
Country, home, and liberty!

LESSON CLXIII.—BELSHAZZAR.—Geo. Croly.
Hour of an Empire's overthrow!

The princes from the feast were gone;
The Idol flame was burning low;-
"T was midnight upon Babylon.

That night the feast was wild and high;
That night was Sion's gold profaned;
The seal was set to blasphemy;

The last deep cup of wrath was drained.

'Mid jewelled roof and silken pall,
Belshazzar on his couch was flung;

A burst of thunder filled the hall,

He heard,—but 't was no mortal tongue :—

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"King of the East! the trumpet calls,
That calls thee to a tyrant's grave;
A curse is on thy palace walls,-
A curse is on thy guardian wave:
"A surge is in Euphrates' bed,

That never filled its bed before ;
A surge, that, ere the morn be red,

Shall load with death its haughty shore.
"Behold a tide of Persian steel!

A torrent of the Median car;
Like flame their gory banners wheel;
Rise, king, and arm thee for the war

Belshazzar gazed; the voice was past,-
The lofty chamber filled with gloom;
But echoed on the sudden blast

The rushing of a mighty plume.

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He listened; all again was still;
He heard no chariot's iron clang;
He heard the fountain's gushing rill,
The breeze that through the roses sang.

He slept; in sleep wild murmurs came;
A visioned splendor fired the sky;
He heard Belshazzar's taunted name;

He heard again the Prophet cry,—

"Sleep, Sultan ! 't is thy final sleep,

Or wake, or sleep, the guilty dies.
The wrongs of those who watch and weep,
Around thee and thy nation rise."

He started; 'mid the battle's yell,
He saw the Persian rushing on :
He saw the flames around him swell;
Thou 'rt ashes! King of Babylon.

LESSON CLXIV.—ELIJAH'S INTERVIEW.

Thomas Campbell.

On Horeb's rock the prophet stood,-
The Lord before him passed;

A hurricane in angry mood
Swept by him strong and fast;