ແ Again, how many years of my life were devoted to the acquisition of those languages, by the means of which I might explore the records of remote ages, and become familiar with the learning and literature of other times! And what have I gathered from these, but the mortifying fact, that man has ever been struggling with his own impotence, and vainly endeavoring to overleap the bounds which limit his anxious inquiries?

"Alas! then, what have I gained by my laborious researches, but an humbling conviction of my weakness and ignorance? How little has man, at his best estate, of which to boast! What folly in him to glory in his contracted powers, or to value himself upon his imperfect acquisitions !"

"Well," exclaimed a young lady, just returned from school," my education is at last finished!-indeed, it would be strange, if, after five years' hard application, any thing were left incomplete. Happily, that is all over now; and I have nothing to do, but to exercise my various accomplish

ments.

"Let me see !—As to French, I am mistress of that, and speak it, if possible, with more fluency than English. Italian I can read with ease, and pronounce very well; as well, at least, as any of my friends; and that is all one need wish for in Italian. Music I have learned till I am perfectly sick of it. But, now that we have a grand piano, it will be delightful to play when we have company; I must still continue to practise a little;-the only thing, I think, that I need now

improve myself in. And then there are my Italian songs!

which every body allows I sing with taste; and as it is what so few people can pretend to, I am particularly glad that I can.

"My drawings are universally admired,-especially the shells and flowers, which are beautiful, certainly besides this, I have a decided taste in all kinds of fancy ornaments. And then my dancing and waltzing,-in which our master himself owned that he could take me no farther;-just the figure for it, certainly; it would be unpardonable if I did not excel.

"As to common things, geography, and history, and poetry, and philosophy, thank my stars, I have got through them all! so that I may consider myself not only perfectly accomplished, but also thoroughly well informed.-Well, to be sure, how much I have fagged through!-the only wonder is, that one head can contain it all !"

LESSON VII.

To the Rainbow.-CAMPBELL.

TRIUMPHAL ARCH, that fill'st the sky
When storms prepare to part,

I ask not proud philosophy

To teach me what thou art.

Still seem, as to my childhood's sight,

A midway station given,

For happy spirits to alight

Betwixt the earth and heaven.

Can all, that optics teach, unfold
Thy form to please me so,

As when I dreamed of gems and gold,
Hid in thy radiant bow?

When Science from Creation's face
Enchantment's veil withdraws,
What lovely visions yield their place
To cold material laws!

And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams,
But words of the Most High,
Have told why first thy robe of beams
Was woven in the sky.

When, o'er the green, undeluged earth, Heaven's covenant thou didst shine, How came the world's gray fathers forth To watch thy sacred sign?

And when its yellow lustre smiled
O'er mountains yet untrod,
Each mother held aloft her child
To bless the bow of God.

Methinks, thy jubilee to keep,
The first-made anthem rang,
On earth, delivered from the deep,
And the first poet sang.

Nor ever shall the Muse's eye
Unraptured greet thy beam:
Theme of primeval prophecy,
Be still the poet's theme!

The earth to thee her incense yields,
The lark thy welcome sings,
When, glittering in the freshened fields,
The snowy mushroom springs.

How glorious is thy girdle, cast
O'er mountain, tower and town,
Or mirrored in the ocean vast,
A thousand fathoms down!

As fresh in yon horizon dark,
As young, thy beauties seem,
As when the eagle from the ark,
First sported in thy beam.

C

For, faithful to its sacred page,

Heaven still rebuilds thy span,

Nor lets the type grow pale with age,
That first spoke peace to man.

LESSON VIII.

Christian Hymn of Triumph;—from "The Martyr of Antioch."-MILMAN.

SING to the Lord! let harp, and lute, and voice,
Up to the expanding gates of heaven rejoice,

While the bright martyrs to their rest are borne !
Sing to the Lord! their blood-stained course is run,
And every head its diadem hath won,

Rich as the purple of the summer morn— Sing the triumphant champions of their God, ✩* While burn their mounting feet along their sky-ward road.

Sing to the Lord! for her, in beauty's prime,
Snatched from this wintry earth's ungenial clime,
In the eternal spring of paradise to bloom;
For her the world displayed its brightest treasure,
And the airs panted with the songs of pleasure.
Before earth's throne she chose the lowly tomb,

The vale of tears with willing footsteps trod,

Bearing her cross with thee, incarnate Son of God

Sing to the Lord! it is not shed in vain,

The blood of martyrs! from its freshening rain

High springs the church, like some fount-shadowing palm: The nations crowd beneath its branching shade,

Of its green leaves are kingly diadems made,

And, wrapt within its deep, embosoming calm, Earth shrinks to slumber like the breezeless deep,

And war's tempestuous vultures fold their wings and sleep.

Sing to the Lord! no more the angels fly-
Far in the bosom of the stainless sky-

The sound of fierce, licentious sacrifice.
From shrined alcove and stately pedestal,
The marble gods in cumbrous ruin fall;

Headless, in dust, the awe of nations lies;
Jove's thunder crumbles in his mouldering hand,
And mute as sepulchres the hymnless temples stand.

Sing to the Lord! from damp, prophetic cave
No more the loose-haired Sybils burst and rave;
Nor watch the augurs pale the wandering bird:
No more on hill or in the murky wood,

Mid frantic shout and dissonant music rude,

In human tones are wailing victims heard;

Nor fathers, by the reeking altar stone,

Cowl their dark heads to escape their children's dying groan.

Sing to the Lord! no more the dead are laid
In cold despair beneath the cypress shade,

To sleep the eternal sleep, that knows no morn :
There, eager still to burst death's brazen bands,
The angel of the resurrection stands;

While, on its own immortal pinions borne, Following the breaker of the imprisoning tomb, Forth springs the exulting soul, and shakes away its gloom.

Sing to the Lord! the desert rocks break out,
And the thronged cities in one gladdening shout,—
The farthest shores by pilgrim step explored;
Spread all your wings, ye winds, and waft around,
Even to the starry cope's pale waning bound,
Earth's universal homage to the Lord;

Lift up thine head, imperial capitol,

Proud on thy height to see the bannered cross unroll.

Sing to the Lord! when time itself shall cease,
And final Ruin's desolating peace

Enwrap this wide and restless world of man;
When the Judge rides upon the enthroning wind,
And o'er all generations of mankind

Eternal Vengeance waves its winnowing fan;

To vast infinity's remotest space,

While ages run their everlasting race,

Shall all the beatific hosts prolong,"

Wide as the glory of the Lamb, the Lamb's triumphant song