And forced him from the fatal plain. Speed hence, my liege, for on your trace, God send my sovereign joy and bliss, Again he faced the battle-field,- "Now then," he said, and couched his spear, 66 My course is run,-the goal is near: One effort more, one brave career, Must close this race of mine!" And, of the bold pursuers, four But still on Colonsay's fierce lord, Who pressed the chase with gory sword, And through his bloody tartans bored, Had turned him on the ground, And laughed in death-pang, that his blade Now toiled the Bruce, the battle done, And gave command for horse and spear 66 Save, save his life," he cried, "Oh! save He raised his red-cross shield no more; He strove, even then, to couch his lance: The effort was in vain! The spur-stroke failed to rouse the horse; Then foremost was the generous Bruce, My sovereign's charge, and adverse fate, As boon from ancient comrade, crave,- Bruce pressed his dying hand :-its grasp It stiffened and grew cold; And, "O! farewell!" the victor cried, The courteous mien, the noble race, Ex. CXXXV.-THE INQUIRY. TELL me, ye winged winds, The bliss for which he sighs, And friendship never dies? J. MONTGOMERY. The loud waves, roaring in perpetual flow, Asleep in night's embrace ; Tell me, in all thy round, Hast thou not seen some spot Might find a happier lot? Behind a cloud the moon withdrew in woe; Oh! tell me, Hope and Faith, Is there no resting-place From sorrow, sin, and death? Is there no happy spot, Where mortals may be blessed, And weariness a rest? Faith, Hope, and Love,-best boons to mortals given,— Waved their bright wings, and whispered, "Yes, in heaven!" Ex. CXXXVI.—ANCIENT AND MODERN PRODUCTIONS. C. SUMNER. THE classics possess a peculiar charm, from the circum. stance that they have been the models, I might almost say the masters, of composition and thought, in all ages. In the contemplation of these august teachers of mankind, we are filled with conflicting emotions. They are the early voice of the world, better remembered and more cherished still than all the intermediate words that have been uttered, as the lessons of childhood still haunt us when the impressions of later years have been effaced from the mind. But they show with most unwelcome frequency the tokens of the world's childhood, before passion had yielded to the sway of reason and the affections. They want the highest charm of purity, of righteousness, of elevated sentiments, of love to God and man. It is not in the frigid philosophy of the porch and academy that we are to seek these; not in the marvellous teachings of Socrates, as they come mended by the mellifluous words of Plato; not in the resounding line of Homer, on whose inspiring tale of blood Alexander pillowed his head; not in the animated strain of Pindar, where virtue is pictured in the successful strife of an athlete at the Isthmian games; not in the torrent of Demosthenes, dark with self-love and the spirit of vengeance; not in the fitful philosophy and intemperate eloquence of Tully; not in the genial libertinism of Horace, or the stately atheism of Lucretius. No! these must not be our masters; in none of these are we to seek the way of life. For eighteen hundred years the spirit of these writers has been engaged in weaponless contest with the Sermon on the Mount, and those two sublime commandments on which hang all the law and the prophets. The strife is still pending. Heathenism, which has possessed itself of such siren forms, is not yet exorcised. It still tempts the young, controls the affairs of active life, and haunts the meditations of age. Our own productions, though they may yield to those of the ancients in the arrangement of ideas, in method, in beauty of form, and in freshness of illustration, are immeasurably superior in the truth, delicacy, and elevation of their sentiments, above all, in the benign recognition of that great Christian revelation, the brotherhood of man. How vain are eloquence and poetry, compared with this heaven-descended truth! Put in one scale that simple utterance, and in the other the lore of antiquity, with its accumulating glosses and commentaries, and the last will be light and trivial in the balance. Greek poetry has been likened to the song of the nightingale as she sits in the rich, symmetrical crown of the palm-tree, trilling her thick-warbled notes; but even this is less sweet and tender than the music of the human heart. Ex. CXXXVII.—THANATOPSIS. W. C. BRYANT. To him who, in the love of Nature, holds Their sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, To Nature's teachings, while from all around- In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim Shalt thou retire alone-nor couldst thou wish |