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All passions in our frames of clay
Come thronging at his call.
Imagination's world of air,

And our own world, its gloom and glee,
Wit, pathos, poetry, are there,

And death's sublimity.

And Burns, though brief the race he ran,
Though rough and dark the path he trod,-
Lived, died, in form and soul a Man,
The image of his God.

LESSON LXVI.-THE FUTURE LIFE.-W. C. BRYANT.
Lines addressed to a deceased friend.

How shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps
The disembodied spirits of the dead,

When all of thee that time could wither, sleeps,
And perishes among the dust we tread?

5 For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless pain,
If there I meet thy gentle presence not;
Nor hear the voice I love, nor read again
In thy serenest eyes the tender thought.
Will not thy own meek heart demand me there?
That heart whose fondest throbs to me were given?
My name on earth was ever in thy prayer,

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Shall it be banished from thy tongue in heaven? In meadows fanned by heaven's life-breathing wind In the resplendence of that glorious sphere, 15 And larger movements of the unfettered mind, Wilt thou forget the love that joined us here? The love that lived through all the stormy past, And meekly with my harsher nature bore, And deeper grew, and tenderer to the last, Shall it expire with life, and be no more?

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A happier lot than mine, and larger light,
Await thee there; for thou hast bowed thy will
In cheerful homage to the rule of right,

And lovest all, and renderest good for ill.

25 For me, the sordid cares in which I dwell,

Shrink and consume the heart, as heat the scroll

And wrath hath left its scar,-that fire of hell
Has left its frightful scar upon my soul.
Yet, though thou wear'st the glory of the sky,
Wilt thou not keep the same beloved name,
5 The same fair thoughtful brow, and gentle eye,
Lovelier in heaven's sweet climate, yet the same?
Shalt thou not teach me, in that calmer home,
The wisdom that I learned so ill in this,—
The wisdom which is love,-till I become

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Thy fit companion in that land of bliss?

LESSON LXVII.—THE SPIRIT OF POETRY.-H. W. LONGFELLOW.

There is a quiet spirit in these woods,

That dwells where'er the south wind blows;

Where, underneath the white thorn in the glade,
The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air,
The leaves above their sunny palms outspread.
With what a tender and empassion'd voice
It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought,
When the fast-ushering star of morning comes,
O'er-riding the gray hills with golden scarf;
Or when the cowled and dusky-sandaled Eve,
In mourning weeds, from out the western gate,
Departs with silent pace! That spirit moves
In the green valley, where the silver brook,
From its full laver, pours the white cascade;
And, babbling low amid the tangled woods,

Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter.
And frequent, on the everlasting hills,

Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself

In all the dark embroidery of the storm,

And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid

The silent majesty of these deep woods,

Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth,
As to the sunshine, and the pure bright air,

Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards
Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades.
For them there was an eloquent voice in all
The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun,
The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way,
Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds;
The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun

Aslant the wooded slope at evening goes;

Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in ;
Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale,

The distant lake, fountains, and mighty trees,

5 In many a lazy syllable, repeating

Their old poetical legends to the wind.

And this is the sweet spirit that doth fill

The world; and, in these wayward days of youth,
My busy fancy oft embodies it,

10 As the bright image of the light and beauty
That dwell in nature, of the heavenly forms
We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues

That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds
When the sun sets.
Within her eye

15 The heaven of April, with its changing light,
And when it wears the blue of May, is hung,
And on her lip the rich red rose.

Her hair

Is like the summer tresses of the trees,

When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek

20 Blushes the richness of an autumn sky,

With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath,

It is so like the gentle air of Spring,

As, from the morning's dewy flowers, it comes
Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy

25 To have it round us, and her silver voice

Is the rich music of a summer bird,

Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence.

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LESSON LXVIII. THE SOLDIER'S WIDOW.-N. P. WILLIS.
Woe! for my vine-clad home!

That it should ever be so dark to me,

With its bright threshold, and its whispering tree!
That I should ever come,

Fearing the lonely echo of a tread,

Beneath the roof-tree of my glorious dead!

Lead on! my orphan boy!

Thy home is not so desolate to thee,
And the low shiver in the linden tree

May bring to thee a joy;

But, oh how dark is the bright home before thee
To her who with a joyous spirit bore thee!

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Lead on! for thou art now

My sole remaining helper. God hath spoken,
And the strong heart I leaned upon is broken;
And I have seen his brow,

The forehead of my upright one, and just,
Trod by the hoof of battle to the dust.

He will not meet thee there

Who blessed thee at the eventide, my son!
And when the shadows of the night steal on,
He will not call to prayer.

The lips that melted, giving thee to God,
Are in the icy keeping of the sod!

Ay, my own boy! thy sire

Is with the sleepers of the valley cast,
And the proud glory of my life hath past,

With his high glance of fire.

Woe! that the linden and the vine should bloom,
And a just man be gathered to the tomb!

LESSON LXIX. THE SICILIAN VESPERS.-J. G. WHITTIER.

Silence o'er sea and earth

With the veil of evening fell,

Till he convent tower sent deeply forth
The chime of its vesper-bell.*

5 One moment, and that solemn sound
Fell heavily on the ear;

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But a sterner echo passed around,
Which the boldest shook to hear.
The startled monks thronged up,
In the torchlight cold and dim;
And the priest let fall his incense cup,
And the virgin hushed her hymn;
For a boding clash, and a clanging tramp,
And a summoning voice were hard,
And fretted wall, and tombstone da ip,
To the fearful echo stirred.

The peasant heard the sound,

As he sat beside his hearth;

And the song and the dance were hushed around,
With the fireside tale of mirth.

The signal adopted by the Sicilians, for commencing the massacre of their French conquerors.

The chieftain shook in his bannered hall,

As the sound of war drew nigh;

And the warder shrank from the castle wall,
As the gleam of spears went by.

5 Woe, woe, to the stranger then,
At the feast and flow of wine,
In the red array of mailed men,
Or bowed at the holy shrine!

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For the wakened pride of an injured land
Had burst its iron thrall;

From the plumed chief to the pilgrim band;
Woe, woe, to the sons of Gaul!

Proud beings fell that hour,

With the young and passing fair;

And the flame went up from dome and tower
The avenger's arm was there!

The stranger priest at the altar stood,

And clasped his beads in prayer,

But the holy shrine grew dim with blood,—

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The avenger found him there!

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Woe, woe, to the sons of Gaul,

To the serf and mailed lord!

They were gathered darkly, one and all,
To the harvest of the sword;

And the morning sun, with a quiet smile,
Shone out o'er hill and glen,

On ruined temple and mouldering pile,
And the ghastly forms of men.
Ay, the sunshine sweetly smiled,
As its early glance came forth;
It had no sympathy with the wild
And terrible things of earth;

And the man of blood that day might read,

In a lang age freely given,

How ill his dark and midnight deed

Became he light of heaven.

LESSON LXX. MEXICAN MYTHOLOGY.-WM. H. PRESCOTT.

The Aztecs, or ancient

ception of the true God.

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Mexicans, had no adequate con-
The idea of unity,-of a being,

with whom volition is action, who has no need of inferior

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