On Israel's funeral pile. O Crucified!

Here, here, where thou didst suffer, I beseech thee,
Even by thy cross!

Hark! — now in impious rivalry
Man thunders. In the centre of our streets
The Gentile trumpet, the triumphant shouts
Of onset; and I, — I, a trembling girl,

Alone, awake, abroad.

Oh! now ye wake.

Now ye pour forth, and hideous Massacre,

Loathing his bloodless conquest, joys to see you
Thus naked and unarmed.

EXERCISE XIV.

The Closing Year.-GEORGE D. PRENTICE.

'Tis midnight's holy hour — and silence now
Is brooding like a gentle Spirit o'er

The still and pulseless world. Hark! on the winds
The bell's deep tones are swelling — 't is the knell
Of the departed year. No funeral train

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Is sweeping past, yet, on the stream and wood,
With melancholy light, the moonbeams rest
Like a pale, spotless shroud; the air is stirred
As by a mourner's sigh- and on yon cloud,
That floats so still and placidly through heaven,
The spirits of the seasons seem to stand,

Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's solemn form,
And Winter with his aged locks, and breathe,

In mournful cadences that come abroad

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Like the far wind-harp's wild and touching wail,
Gone from the Earth for ever.

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'Tis a time

For memory and for tears. Within the deep,
Still chambers of the heart, a spectre dim,
Whose tones are like the wizard voice of Time,
Heard from the tomb of Ages, points its cold
And solemn finger to the beautiful

And holy visions, that have passed away,

And left no shadow of their loveliness

On the dead waste of life. That spectre lifts

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The coffin-lid of Hope, and Joy, and Love;

And, bending mournfully above the pale

Sweet forms that slumber there, scatters dead flowers
O'er what has passed to nothingness. The year

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Has gone, and, with it, many a glorious throng
Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each brow,
Its shadow in each heart. In its swift course,
It waved its sceptre o'er the beautiful —
And they are not. It laid its pallid hand
Upon the strong man and the haughty form
Is fallen, and the flashing eye is dim.

It trod the hall of revelry, where thronged
The bright and joyous — and the tearful wail
Of stricken ones is heard, where erst the song
And reckless shout resounded. It passed o'er
The battle-plain, where sword and spear and shield
Flashed in the light of mid-day - and the strength
Of serried hosts is shivered, and the grass,
Green from the soil of carnage, waves above
The crushed and mouldering skeleton. It came
And faded like a wreath of mist at eve;

Yet, ere it melted in the viewless air,

It heralded its millions to their home

In the dim land of dreams.

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Remorseless Time

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Fierce Spirit of the Glass and Scythe

what power

Can stay him in his silent course, or melt
His iron heart to pity? On, still on

He presses, and forever. The proud bird,
The condor of the Andes, that can soar

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Through heaven's unfathomable depths, or brave

The fury of the northern hurricane,

And bathe his plumage in the thunder's home,
Furls his broad wings at nightfall, and sinks down
To rest upon his mountain-crag, — but Time
Knows not the weight of sleep or weariness,
And night's deep darkness has no chain to bind
His rushing pinion. Revolutions sweep

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To heaven their bald and blackened cliffs, and bow

Their tall heads to the plain; new empires rise,

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Gathering the strength of hoary centuries,
And rush down like the Alpine avalanche,
Startling the nations; and the very stars,
Yon bright and burning blazonry of God,
Glitter awhile in their eternal depths,

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And, like the Pleiad, loveliest of their train,
Shoot from their glorious spheres, and pass away
To darkle in the trackless void; yet Time,
Time, the tomb-builder, holds his fierce career,

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Dark, stern, all-pitiless, and pauses not
Amid the mighty wrecks that strew his path,
To sit and muse, like other conquerors,
Upon the fearful ruin he has wrought.

EXERCISE XV.

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 impassioned 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,

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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

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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.

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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

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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,
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,

As the bright image of the light and beauty

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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

The heaven of April, with its changing light,

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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
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

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.

EXERCISE XVI.

Character of the Italians.-GOLDSMITH.

Far to the right, where Apennine ascends,

Bright as the summer, Italy extends :

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