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Deluged the woods with overflow of song.

"Unholy birds," he said, "your throats be riven,

You mar my prayers, you take my thoughts from heaven."

4. But still the song, magnificent and loud,

Pour'd from the trees like rain from thunder-cloud.
Now to his vex'd and melancholy ear

Sounding like bridal music, pealing clear;
Anon it deepen'd on his throbbing brain.
To full triumphal march or battle strain;
Then seem'd to vary to a choral hymn,
Or De Projundis' from cathedral dim,
"Te Deum," or "Hosanna to the Lord,"
Chanted by deep-voiced priests in full accord.
He shut his ears, he stamp'd upon the sod-
"Be ye accursed, ye take my thoughts from God
And thou, beloved saint, to whom I bend,
Lamp of my life, my guardian and friend,
Make intercession for me, sweet St. John,
And hear the anguish of thy suffering son.
May nevermore within these woods be heard
The song of morning or of evening bird,
May nevermore their harmonies awake
Within the precincts of this lonely brake,
For I am weary, old, and full of woe,

And their songs vex me. This one boon bestow,
That I may pray; and give my thoughts to thee,
Without distraction of their melody;

And that within these bowers my groans and sighs
And ceaseless prayers be all the sounds that rise.
Let God alone possess me, last and first;
And, for His sake, be all these birds accursed."

This having said, he started where he stood,
And saw a stranger walking in the wood;
A purple glory, pale as amethyst,'

De profundis, the Latin commencement of a psalm, which has given its Lame to the psalm itself.- Am' e thyst, a precious stone of a violet blue color

Clad him all o'er. He knew the Evangelist;'
And, kneeling on the earth with reverence meet,
He kiss'd his garment's hem, and clasp'd his feet.

7. "Rise," said the saint, "and know, unhappy king,
That true Religion hates no living thing:
It loves the sunlight, loves the face of man,
And takes all virtuous pleasure that it can―
Shares in each harmless joy that Nature gives,
Bestows its sympathy on all that lives,
Sings with the bird, rejoices with the bee,
And, wise as manhood, sports with infancy.
Let not the nightingales disturb thy prayers,
But make thy thanksgiving as pure as theirs;
So shall it mount on wings of love to Heaven,
And thou, forgiving, be thyself forgiven."

8. The calm voice ceased;-King Edward dared not ook,
But bent to earth, and blush'd at the rebuke;
And though he closed his eyes and hid his face,
He knew the saint had vanish'd from the place.
And when he rose, ever the wild woods rang
With the sweet song the birds of evening sang.
No more he cursed them; loitering on his way
He listen'd pleased, and bless'd them for their lay;
And on the morrow quitted Havering

To mix with men, and be again a king,

And fasting, moaning, scorning, praying less,
Increased in virtue and in happiness.

CHARLES MACKAY.a

THE

38. THE GOOD WIFE.

THE heart of a man, with whom affection is not a name, aad love a mere passion of the hour, yearns3 toward the quiet of a home, as toward the goal of his earthly joy and hope. And

1 E vån' gel ist, one of the writers of Gospel history; one who preaches the Gospel.-2 See Biographical Sketch, p. 91.-- Yearn.-' Earthly (&rth' lf).

a ou fasten' there your thought, an indulgent, yet dreamy faney paints the loved image that is to adorn3 it, and to make it sacred.

2. She is there to bid you-God speed! and an adieu, that hangs like music on your ear, as you go out to the every-day labor of life. A evening, she is there to greet you, as you come back wearied with a day's toil; and her look so full of gladness, cheats you of your fatigue; and she steals her arm around you, with a soul of welcome, that beams like sunshine on her brow and that fills your eye with tears of a twin gratitude-to her, and Heaven.

3. She is not unmindful of those old-fashioned virtues of cleanliness and of order, which give an air of quiet, and which secure content. Your wants are all anticipated; the fire is burning trightly; the clean hearth flashes under the joyous blaze; the oid elbow-chair is in its place. Your very unworthiness of all th's haunts you like an accusing spirit, and yet penetrates your heart with a new devotion, toward the loved one who is thus watchful of your comfort.

4. She is gentle;-keeping your love, as she has won it, by a thousand nameless and modest virtues, which radiate from her whole life and action. She steals upon your affections like a summer wind breathing softly over sleeping valleys. She gains a mastery over your sterner" nature, by věry contrast; and wins you unwittingly to her lightest wish. And yet her wishes are guided by that delicate tact, which avoids conflict with your manly pride; she subdues, by seeming to yield. By a single soft word of appeal, she robs your vexation of its anger; and with a slight touch of that fair" hand, and one pleading look of that earnest eye, she disarms your sternest pride.

5. She is kind;-shedding her kindness, as Heaven sheds dew. Who indeed could doubt it?-least of all, you who are living on her kindness, day by day, as flowers live on light? There is none of that officious parade which blunts the point of benevolence: but it tempers every action with a blessing.

7

8

'Fasten (fås' sn).-There (thår).—3 Adorn (a dårn').— Air (år).— Burning (bern'ing).-- Hearth. - Chair. - Håunts. -Mâs' ter y.10 Stern'er. Fåir.-12 Earnest (ễrn' est).

6. If trouble has come upon you, she knows that her voice, beguiling you into cheerfulness, will lay your fears; and as she draws her chair beside you, she knows that the tender and confiding way with which she takes your hand, and looks up into your earnest face, will drive away from your annoyance all its weight. As she lingers, leading off your thought with pleasant words, she knows well that she is redeeming you from care,' and soothing you to that sweet calm, which such home and such wife can alone bestow.

7. And in sickness,-sickness that you almost covet for the sympathy it brings,—that hand of hers resting on your fevered forehead, or those fingers playing with the scattered locks, are more full of kindness than the loudest vaunt of friends; and when your failing strength will permit no more, you grasp3 that cherished hand, with a fullness of joy, of thankfulness, and of love, which your tears only can tell.

8. She is good; her hopes live where the angels live. Her kindness and gentleness are sweetly tempered with that meekness and forbearance which are born of Faith. Trust comes into her heart as rivers come to the sea. And in the dark hours of doubt and foreboding, you rest fondly upon her buoyant faith, as the treasure of your common life; and in your holier musings, you look to that frail hand, and that gentle spirit, to lead you away from the vanities of worldly ambition, to the fullness of that joy which the good inherit.

D. G. MITCHELL.

DONALD G. MITCHELL was born in Norwich, Connecticut, April, 1822. His father was the pastor of the Congregational church of that place, and his grandfather a member of the first Congress at Philadelphia, and for many years Chief-justice of the Supreme Court of Connecticut. Mr. Mitchell graduated in due course, at Yale, in 1841. His health being feeble, he passed the three following years in the country, where he became much interested in agriculture, and wrote a number of letters to the "Cultivator," at Albany. He gained a silver cup from the New York Agricultural Society, as a prize for a plan of turm buildings. He next crossed the ocean, and after remaining about two years in Europe, returned home, and soon after published "Fresh Gleanings." In 1850, after his return from a second visit to Europe, he published "The Battle Summer," containing personal observations in Paris during the year 1848. He has since published the Reveries of a Bachelor," "Dream Life," and "Fudge Doings." His works have usually been well received. His style is quiet, pure, and effective. In 1853, Mr. Mitchell received the appointment of United States consul at Venice. He is at present residing in the vicinity of New Haven.

'Cåre.--' Väunt.-Gråsp.- Buoyant (bwal' ant).

A

39. SCENE WITH A PANTHER.

S soon as I had effected my dangerous passage, I screened myself behind a cliff, and gave myself up to reflection. While thus occupied, my eyes were fixed upon the opposite steers. The tops of the trees, waving to and fro in the wildest commotion, and their trunks occasionally bending to the blast, which, in these lofty regions, blew with a violence unknown in the tracts below, exhibited an awful spectacle.

2. At length my attention was attracted by the trunk which lay across the gulf, and which I had converted into a bridge. I perceived that it had already somewhat swerved from its original position, that every blast broke or loosened some of the fibers by which its roots was connected with the opposite bank, and that, if the storm did not speedily abate, there was imminent danger of its being torn from the rock and precipitated into the chasm. Thus my retreat would be cut off, and the evils from which I was endeavoring to rescue another, would be experienced by myself.

3. I believed my destiny to hang upon the expedition with which I should recross this gulf. The moments that were spent in these deliberations were critical, and I shuddered to observe that the trunk was held in its place by one or two fibers which were already stretched almost to breaking. To pass along the trunk, rendered slippery by the wet and unsteadfast by the wind, was eminently dangerous. To maintain my hold in passing, in defiance of the whirlwind, required the most vigorous exertions. For this end, it was necessary to discommode myself of my cloak.

4. Just as I had disposed of this encumbrance, and had risen from my seat, my attention was again called to the opposite steep, by the most unwelcome object that at this time could possibly present itself. Something was perceived moving among the bushes and rocks, which, for a time, I hoped was no more than a raccoon or opossum, but which presently appeared to be a panther. His gray coat, extended claws, fiery eyes, and a cry which he at that moment uttered, and which, by its resemblance to the human voice, is peculiarly terrific, denoted him to be the most ferocious and untamable of that detested race.

5. The in'dustry of our hunters has nearly banished animals

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