He spoke: "I join your revelry,

Bold sons of the Bacchan rite;

And I drink the toast you have drank before-
The pledge of yon dauntless knight,
Fill high-fill high-we drink to Life,
And we scorn the reaper, Death ;
For he is a grim old gentleman,

And he wars but with his breath.

"He's a noble soul, that champion knight,
And he bears a martial brow;

O, he'll pass the gates of Paradise,
To the regions of bliss-below!"
This was too much for the Bacchanal,
Fire flashed from his angry eye;
A muttered curse, and a vengeful oath-
"Intruder, thou shalt die!"

He struck-and the stranger's guise fell off,
And a phantom form stood there-

A grinning, and ghastly, and horrible thing,
With rotten and mildewed hair.

And they struggled awhile, till the stranger blew
A blast of his withering breath;

And the Bacchanal fell at the phantom's feet, And his conqueror was- -DEATH.

LESSON CXIX.

THE WATERS.

The following enthusiastic lines were written by Miss E. COOKE, of England. If spoken by a female pupil, she must be careful to feel all she expresses, and not to relapse for a moment into tameness.

What was it that I loved so well about my childhood's home?

It was the wide and wave-lashed shore, the black rocks, crowned with foam!

It was the sea-gull's flapping wing, all trackless in its

flight,

Its screaming note that welcomed on the fierce and stormy night!

The wild heath had its flowers and moss, the forest had its trees,

Which, bending to the evening wind, made music in the breeze.

But earth, ha! ha! I laugh e'en now, earth had no charms for me ;

No scene half bright enough to win my young heart from the sea!

No! 'twas the ocean, vast and deep, the fathomless, the free!

The mighty, rushing waters, that were ever dear to me! My earliest steps would wander from the green and fertile land,

Down where the clear blue ocean rolled, to pace the rugged strand;

I shouted to the distant crew, or launched my mimic bark;

I met the morning's freshness there, and lingered till the dark;

When dark, I climbed, with bounding step, the steep and jutting cliff,

To see them trim the beacon light that guides the fisher's skiff!

Oh! how I loved the waters, and even longed to be
A bird, or boat, or any thing that dwelt upon the sea!
The moon! the moon! O, tell me, do ye love her
placid ray?

Do ye love the shining, starry train that gathers round her way?

Look! and thy soul will own the spell; thou'lt feel as I have felt,

Thou'lt love the waves as I have loved, and kneel as I have knelt!

And, well I know, the prayer of saint, or martyr, ne'er could be

More grateful to a God, than mine beside the moonlit sea!

And am I changed? have I become a tame and fashioned thing?

Have I yet learned to sing the joys that pleasure's minions sing?

Is there a smile upon my brow, when mixed with folly's crowd?

Is the false whisper dearer than the storm wail, shrill and loud?

No! no! my soul is as it was, and as it e'er will be, Loving and wild as what it loves,-the curbless mighty sea!

LESSON CXX.

DRINK AND DIE!

The following affecting lines are said to be written by a Lady as an excuse for her zeal in the cause of Temperance. Her name is unknown to the Editor, but the picture she has drawn of the ruinous effects of Intemperance upon domestic happiness, is familiar to every one. The piece should be spoken by a young lady.

Go, feel what I have felt,

Go, bear what I have borne

Sink 'neath the blow a father dealt,

And the cold, proud world's scorn

Then struggle on from year to year,
Thy sole relief the scalding tear.

Go, weep as I have wept,
O'er a loved father's fall;
See every cherished promise swept,
Youth's sweetness turned to gall,
Hope's faded flower strowed all the way
That led me up to woman's day.

Go, kneel as I have knelt,
Implore, beseech and pray-
Strive the besotted heart to melt,

The downward course to stay-
Be cast, with bitter curse, aside,
Thy prayers burlesqued, thy tears defied.

Go, hear what I have heard,
The sobs of sad despair,

As memory feeling's fount had stirred,
And its revealings there

Have told him what he might have been,
Had he the drunkard's fate foreseen.

Go to thy mother's side,

And her crushed spirit cheer,
Thine own deep anguish hide,
Wipe from her cheek the tear-

Mark her dim eye, her furrowed brow,
The that streaks her dark hair now,
grey
Her toil worn frame, her trembling limb,
And trace the ruin back to him
Whose plighted faith in early youth,
Promised eternal love and truth,
But who, forsworn, hath yielded up
This promise in the deadly cup,
And led her down from love and light,
From all that made her pathway bright,

And chained her there, 'mid want and strife,
That lowly thing—a Drunkard's Wife,
And stamped on childhood's brow so mild,
That withering blight—a Drunkard's Child!

Go, hear, and see, and feel, and know
All that my soul hath felt or known—
Then look upon the wine cup's glow,
See if its brightness can atone,—

Think if its flavor

you

will try,

When all proclaims-" "Tis Drink-and Die!"

LESSON CXXI.

THE HALL OF REVELRY.

The following, though a gloomy view of the House of Mirth, has but too much truth in it; for if none may stay but those whose hearts are free from painful reminiscences, from present woes, or anticipated ills, the Hall will indeed be deserted. But, although "It is better to go to the house of mourning than to the house of feasting," a kind Creator has assured us that there is a time to rejoice as well as one to mourn, and it is not His fault if man has so perverted his nature and his condition, that he seems only "made to mourn." The author is MRS. HEMANS.

Ring, joyous chords!-ring out again!

A swifter still, and a wilder strain!

They are here the fair face and the careless heart,
And the stars shall wane ere the mirthful part.—
But I met a dimly mournful glance,

In a sudden turn of the flying dance;
I heard the tone of a heavy sigh,
In a pause of the thrilling melody!

And it is not well that we should breathe

On the bright spring flowers of the festal wreath!

Ye that to thought or to grief belong,

Leave, leave the hall of song!