3.

Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest,

Curl the still waters, bright with stars; and rouse The wide old wood from his majestic rest,

Summoning from the innumerable boughs

The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast;
Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows
The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass,
And 'twixt the o'ershadowing branches and the grass.

4.

The faint old man shall lean his silver head

To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep,
And dry the moistened curls that overspread
His temples, while his breathing grows more deep;
And they who stand about the sick man's bed,
Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep,

And softly part his curtains to allow
Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow.

5.

Go- but the circle of eternal change,

Which is the life of nature, shall restore,
With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range,
Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more:
Sweet odors in the sea-air, sweet and strange,
Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore;
And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem
He hears the rustling leaf and running stream.

W. C. Bryant.

EXERCISE.

Write expressions equivalent to the following:
1. Languid forms rise up, and pulses bound livelier.
2. Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest.

Ν

LESSON 72.

THE MARINER'S DREAM.

IN slumbers of midnight the sailor-boy lay,

His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind; But, watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away, And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind.

2.

He dream'd of his home, of his dear native bowers, And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn, While Memory each scene gayly cover'd with flowers, And restored every rose, but secreted the thorn.

3.

Then Fancy her magical pinions spread wide,
And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy rise;
Now, far, far behind him the green waters glide,
And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes.

4.

The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch,
And the swallow sings sweet from her nest in the wall;
All trembling with transport he raises the latch,

And the voices of lov'd ones reply to his call.

5.

A father bends o'er him with looks of delight;
His cheek is impearl'd with a mother's warm tear;

And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite

With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear.

6

The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast,

Joy quickens his pulse, all his hardships seem o'er; ·

And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest"O God! thou hast blest me, I ask for no more."

7.

Ah! whence is that flame which now bursts on his eye? Ah! what is that sound that now 'larums his ear? 'Tis the lightning's red glare painting hell on the sky! 'Tis the crashing of thunders, the groan of the sphere!

8.

He springs from his hammock, he flies to the deck;

Amazement confronts him with images dire;
Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a wreck,
The masts fly in splinters, the shrouds are on fire!

9.

Like mountains the billows tumultuously swell,
In vain the lost wretch calls on mercy to save;

Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell,

And the death-angel flaps his broad wings o'er the wave.

10.

Oh, sailor-boy! woe to thy dream of delight!

In darkness dissolves the gay frostwork of bliss; Where now is the picture that fancy touched bright? Thy parents' fond pressure, and love's honey'd kiss?

11.

Oh, sailor-boy! sailor-boy! never again

Shall home, love, or kindred, thy wishes repay; Unbless'd and unhonored, down deep in the main, Full many a score fathom, thy frame shall decay.

12.

No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee,
Or redeem form or fame from the merciless surge;

But the white foam of waves shall thy winding-sheet be, And winds, in the midnight of winter, thy dirge.

13.

On beds of green sea-flower thy limbs shall be laid,
Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow;
Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made,
And every part suit to thy mansion below.

14.

Days, months, years, and ages shall circle away,
And still the vast waters above thee shall roll;

Earth loses thy pattern forever and aye:
Oh, sailor-boy! sailor-boy! peace to thy soul.

Dymond.

LESSON 73.

THE DEATH OF HAMILTON.

HAMILTON yielded to the force of an imperious

custom. And yielding, he sacrificed a life in which all had an interest, and he is lost-lost to his country --lost to his family-lost to us. For this act, because he disclaimed it, and was penitent, I forgive him. But there are those whom I cannot forgive. I mean not his antagonist over whose erring steps, if there be tears in heaven, a pious mother looks down and weeps. If he be capable of feeling, he suffers already all that humanity can suffer. Suffers, and wherever he may fly will suffer, with the poignant recollection of taking the life of one who was too magnanimous in return to attempt his own.

2. Had he known this, it must have paralyzed his arm while he pointed at so incorruptible a bosom the instrument of death. Does he know this now, his heart, if it be not adamant, must soften-if it be not ice, it must

melt. But on this article I forbear. Stained with blood as he is, if he be penitent, I forgive him; and if he be not, before these altars, where all of us appear as suppliants, I wish not to excite your vengeance, but rather, in behalf of an object rendered wretched and pitiable by crime, to wake your prayers.

3.. Would to God I might be permitted to approach for once the late scene of death. Would to God, I could there assemble on the one side the disconsolate mother with her seven fatherless children, and on the other those who administer the justice of my country. Could I do this, I would point them to these sad objects. I would entreat them by the agonies of bereaved fondness, to listen to the widow's heartfelt groans; to mark the orphans' sighs and tears; and having done this, I would uncover the breathless corpse of Hamilton-I would lift from his gaping wound his bloody mantle- I would hold it up to heaven before them, and I would ask, in the name of God, I would ask, whether at the sight of it they felt no compunction. Ye who have hearts of pity—ye who have experienced the anguish of dissolving friendship — who have wept, and still weep over the mouldering ruins of departed kindred, ye can enter into this reflection.

4. O thou disconsolate widow! robbed, so cruelly robbed, and in so short a time, both of a husband and a son! what must be the plenitude of thy sufferings! Could we approach thee, gladly would we drop the tear of sympathy, and pour into thy bleeding bosom the balm of consolation. But how could we comfort her whom God hath not comforted! To his throne, let us lift up our voice and weep. O God! if thou art still the widow's husband, and the father of the fatherless - if, in the fullness of thy goodness, there be yet mercies in store for miserable mortals, pity, O pity this afflicted mother, and grant that her helpless orphans may find a friend, a benefactor, a father in thee! Pres. Nott.

-