Hardly were they out of sight, those awkward and unmannerly creatures; hardly had the poor little brook begun to breathe, after that terrible visitation, when all her powers of self-possession were called for, by the abrupt approach of another and more prodigious personage. A huge ox, goaded by the intolerable stinging of a gad-fly, broke away from his fellows of the herd, and from his cool station in the great pond, and came galloping down, in his blind agony, lashing the air with his tail, and making the vale echo with his furious bellowing. To the woods just beyond the new cleared spot, he took his frantic course, and, the little brook lying in his way, he splashed into it and out of it without ceremony, or probably so much as heeding the hapless object, subjected to his ruffian treatment. That one splash pretty nearly annihilated the miserable little brook. The huge fore-hoofs forced themselves into its mossy bank; the hind ones, with a single extricating plunge, pounded bank and brook together into a muddy hole; and the tail, with one insolent whisk, spattered half the black mass over the surrounding herbage.

And now, what was wanting to complete the ruin and degradation of the unhappy little brook? A thick, black puddle was all that remained of the once pellucid pool. Poor little brook! if it had erred greatly, was it not greatly humbled? Night came again; but darkness was on the face of the unhappy brook, and well for it, that it was total darkness; for in that state of conscious degradation, how could it have sustained the searching gaze of its pure, forsaken star? Long, dark, and companionless was the first night of misery, and when morning dawned, though the turbid water had regained a degree of transparency, it had shrunk away to a tenth part of its former "fair proportions," so much had it lost by evaporation in that fierce solar alembic; so much from absorption in the loosened and choking soil of its once firm and beautiful margin; and so much by dispersion, from the wasteful havoc of its destructive invaders.

Again, the great sun looked down upon it; again, the vertical beams drank fiercely of its shrunken water; and when evening came, no more remained of the poor little brook, than just so many drops as filled the hollow of one of those large pebbles which had paved its unsullied basin, in the day of its bright

ness and beauty. But never, in the season of its brightest plenitude, was the water of the little brook so clear, so perfectly clear and pure, as that last portion, which lay, like a liquid gem, in the small concave of that polished stone. It had been filtered from every grosser particle, refined by rough discipline, purified by adversity, even from those lees of vanity and light-mindedness, which had adulterated its sparkling waters in their prosperous state. Just as the last sunbeam was withdrawing its amber light from that small pool, the old, familiar robin hopped on the edge of the hollow pebble, and dipping his beak once and again in the diminished fount, which had slaked his thirst so often and so long, drooped his russet wings with a slight, quivering motion, and broke forth into a short, sweet gush of parting song, before he winged his way forever from his expiring benefactress.

Twilight had melted into night-dark night; for neither moon nor stars were visible through the dark clouds that canopied the earth. In darkness and silence lay the little brook; forgotten it seemed, even by its benignant star, as though its last drops were exhaled into nothingness; its languishing existence already struck out of the list of created things. Time had been, when such apparent neglect would have excited its highest indignation; but now, it submitted humbly and resignedly to the deserved infliction. And, after a little while, looking fixedly upward, it almost fancied that the form, if not the radiance of the beloved star was faintly perceptible through the intervening darkness.

The little brook was not deceived: cloud after cloud rolled away from the central heaven, till, at last, the unchanging star was plainly discernible through the fleecy vapor which yet obscured its perfect luster. But, through that silvery vail, the beautiful star looked intently on its repentant love; and there was more of tenderness, of pity, and reconciliation in that dim, trembling gaze, than if the pure, heavenly dweller had shone out in perfect brightness on the frail, humbled creature below. Just then, a few large drops fell heavily from the disparting cloud; and one, trembling for a moment with starry light, fell, like a forgiving tear, into the bosom of the little pool.

Long, long and undisturbed (for no other eye looked out from heaven that night) was the last mysterious communion of

the reconciled friends. No doubt, that voiceless intercourse was yet eloquent of hope and futurity; for, though all that remained of the pure little brook was sure to be exhausted by the next day's fiery trial, it would but change its visible form, to become an imperishable essence: and who can tell whether the elementary nature, so purged from earthly impurities, may not have been received up into the sphere of its heavenly friend, and indissolubly united with the celestial substance ? ANONYMOUS.

LESSON CC.

THE SEASONS.

(Elliptical.)

WHO may she be, this beauteous, smiling maid,
In light-green robe with careless ease arrayed?
Her head is with a flowery garland crowned,
And where she treads, fresh flowerets spring around;
Her genial breath dissolves the gathered snow;

Loosed from their icy chains the rivers flow;

At sight of her the lambkins bound along,

And each glad warbler thrills his sweetest (

);

Their mates they choose, their breasts with love are filled,

And all prepare their mossy (. . . ) to build.
Ye youths and maidens, if ye know, declare

The name and lineage of this smiling fair.

Who from the south is this, with lingering tread
Advancing, in transparent garments clad?
Her breath is hot and sultry: now she loves
To seek the inmost shelter of the (. . . );
The crystal brooks she seeks, and limpid streams,
To(...) the heat that preys upon her limbs.
From her the brooks and wandering rivulets fly;
At her approach their currents quickly (..
Berries and every acid fruit she sips,
To allay the fervor of her parching lips;
Apples and melons, and the cherry's juice
She loves, which orchards plenteously (..
The sunburnt hay-makers, the swain who sheers
The flocks, still hail the maid when she appears.

).

At her approach, O, be it mine to lie

Where spreading beeches cooling shades supply;
Or with her let me (
) at early morn,

When drops of pearly dew the grass adorn;

Or, at soft twilight, when the flocks repose,
And the bright star of evening mildly (

).

Ye youths and maidens, if ye know, declare
The name and lineage of this blooming fair.

Sallow is his ( .

Who may he be that next, with sober pace,
Comes stealing on us?
The grape's red blood distains his robes around;
His temples with a wheaten sheaf are bound;
His hair hath just begun to fall away,

The auburn (..

) with the mournful (

The ripe, brown nuts he scatters to the swain;
He winds the horn, and calls the hunter train;
The gun is heard; the trembling partridge bleeds;
The beauteous pheasant to his fate succeeds.
Who is he with the wheaten sheaf?
If ye can tell, ye youths and maidens ( .

Declare,

Who is he from the north that speeds his way? Thick furs and wool (. ) his warm array:

);

).

His cloak is closely folded; bald his head;
His beard of clear, sharp icicles is made.
By blazing fire he loves to stretch his limbs;
With skate-bound feet the frozen lakes he (
When he is by with breath so piercing cold,
No floweret dares its tender (...) unfold.
Naught can his powerful, freezing touch withstand;
And, should he smite you with his chilling (..
Your stiffened form would on his snows be cast,
Or stand, like marble, breathless as he passed.
Ye youths and maidens, does he yet appear?
Fast he approaches, and will soon be (
Declare, I pray you, tell me, if you can,
The name and lineage of this aged man.

MRS. BARBAULD.

).

LESSON CCI.

MORNING IN SPRING.

How sweet the landscape! Morning twines
Her tresses round the brow of Day,
And bright mists, o'er the forest pines,
Like happy spirits, float away,

To revel on the mountain's crown,

Whence the glad stream comes shouting down, Through woods and rocks, that hang on high, Like clouds against the deep-blue sky.

The woven sounds of bird and stream
Are falling beautiful and deep
Upon the spirit, like a dream

Of music on the hour of sleep;
And gently from the dewy bowers
Soft murmurs, like the breath of flowers,
Are winding through the purple grove,
And blending with the notes of love.

The streams in veins of silver flow;
The sunrise gale o'er flower and tree
So lightly breathes, it scarce would blow
A fairy bark upon the sea;

It comes so fresh, so calm, so sweet,

It draws the heart from its retreat,

To mingle in the glories born

In the first holy light of morn.

A cloud is on the sky above;

And calmly, o'er the young year blue, 'Tis coming like a thing of love,

To gladden in the rising dew:

Its white waves with the sunlight blend,
And gentle spirits seem to bend

From its unrolling folds, to hear

The glad sounds of our joyous sphere.

The lake, unruffled by the breeze,
Smiles in its deep, unbroken rest,
As it were dreaming of the trees

And blossoms pictured on its breast;
Its depths are glowing, bright, and fair,
And the far skies seem hollowed there,