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Gifts of frankincense, with sweet song of birds,
And Autumn cast his yellow coronet

Down at thy feet, and stormy Winter speak
Hoarsely of Man's neglect.

-

But now we come
To do thee homage,-Mother of our Chief!
Fit homage-Such as honoreth him who pays

Methinks we see thee, as in olden time,—
Simple in garb-majestic and serene-
Unawed by 'pomp and circumstance '—in truth
Inflexible,—and with a Spartan zeal
Repressing Vice, and making Folly grave.
Thou didst not deem it Woman's part to waste
Life in inglorious sloth, to sport awhile
Amid the flowers, or on the Summer wave,
Then fleet like the Ephemeron away,-
Building no temple in her children's hearts,
Save to the vanity and pride of life,
Which she had worshipped.

Of the might that clothed
The Pater Patriæ,'—of the deeds that won
A nation's liberty, and earth's applause,
Making Mount Vernon's tomb a Mecca haunt
For patriot and for sage, while time shall last,
What part was thine, what thanks to thee are due,
Who, 'mid his elements of being, wrought
With no uncertain aim-nursing the germs
Of godlike Virtue in his infant mind,

We know not-Heaven can tell.

Rise, noble pile!

And show a race unborn who rests below,-
And say to Mothers, what a holy charge
Is theirs, with what a kingly power their love
Might rule the fountains of the new-born mind-
Warn them to wake at early dawn, and sow
Good seed before the world doth sow its tares,
Nor in their toil decline,-that angel-hands
May put the sickle in, and reap for GoD,
And gather to His garner.

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Ye, who stand,

With thrilling breast, and kindling cheek, this morn, Viewing the tribute that Virginia pays

To the blest Mother of her glorious Chief,

Ye, whose last thought upon your nightly couch,
Whose first at waking, is your cradled son---
What though no dazzling hope aspires to rear
A second WASHINGTON or leave your name
Wrought out in marble with your country's tears
Of deathless gratitude,-yet may ye raise
A monument above the Stars-a soul

Led by your teachings and your prayers to GOD.

LESSON XLV.

The Sunbeam.-MRS. HEMANS.

THOU art no lingerer in monarch's hall;
A joy thou art, and a wealth to all!
A bearer of hope upon land and sea-
Sunbeam! what gift hath the world like thee?

Thou art walking the billows, and ocean smiles—
Thou hast touched with glory his thousand isles-
Thou hast lit up the ships and the feathery foam,
And gladdened the sailor like words from home.

To the solemn depths of the forest shades,

Thou art streaming on through their green arcades;
And the quivering leaves that have caught thy glow
Like fire-flies glance to the pools below.

I looked on the mountains -a vapor lay,
Folding their heights in its dark array;
Thou brokest forth-and the mist became
A crown and a mantle of living flame.

I looked on the peasant's lowly cot-
Something of sadness had wrapped the spot
But the gleam of THEE on its casement fell,
And it laughed into beauty at that bright spell.

To the earth's wild places a guest thou art,
Flushing the waste like the rose's heart;
And thou scornest not from thy pomp to shed
A tender light on the ruin's head.

Thou tak'st through the dim church aisles thy way,
And its pillars from twilight flash forth to day;
And its high pale tombs with their trophies old,
Are bathed in a flood as of burning gold.

And thou turn'st not from the humblest grave,
Where flower to the sighing winds may wave;
Thou scatterest its gloom like the dreams of rest,
Thou sleepest in love on its grassy breast.

Sunbeam of summer! Oh, what is like thee?
Hope of the wilderness, joy of the sea!
One thing is like thee, to mortals given-
The FAITH, touching all things with hues of heaven

LESSON XLVI.

Christmas in England.-IRVING.

THERE is nothing in England that exercises a more delightful spell over my imagination, than the lingerings of the holyday customs and rural games of former times. They recall the pictures my fancy used to draw in the May morn ing of life, when as yet I only knew the world through books, and believed it to be all that poets had painted it; and they bring with them the flavor of those honest days of yore, in which, perhaps with equal fallacy, I am apt to think the world was more homebred, social, and joyous than at pres

ent.

I regret to say that they are daily growing more and more faint, being gradually worn away by time, but still more obliterated by modern fashion. They resemble those picturesque morsels of Gothic architecture, which we see crunbling in various parts of the country, partly dilapidated by the waste of ages, and partly lost in the additions and alterations of latter days.

Poetry, however, clings with cherishing fondness about the rural game and holyday revel, from which it has deriv ed so many of its themes-as the ivy winds its rich foliage about the Gothic arch and mouldering tower, gratefully repaying their support, by clasping together their tottering remains, and, as it were, embalming them in verdure.

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Shorn, however, as it is, of its ancient and festive honors, Christmas is still a period of delightful excitement in England. It is gratifying to see that home feeling completely aroused, which holds so powerful a place in every Polish bosom,

preparations making on every side for the social at is again to unite friends and kindred-the presd cheer passing and repassing, those tokens of quickeners of kind feelings—the evergreens about houses and churches, emblems of peace --all these have the most pleasing effect in

producing fond associations, and kindling benevolent sympathies.

Even the sound of the waits, rude as may be their minstrelsy, breaks upon the midwatches of a winter night with the effect of perfect harmony. As I have been awakened by them in that still and solemn hour, when deep sleep falleth upon man,' I have listened with a hushed delight, and connecting them with the sacred and joyous occasion, have almost fancied them into another celestial choir, announcing peace and good-will to mankind.

How delightfully the imagination, when wrought upon by these moral influences, turns every thing to melody and beauty! The very crowing of the cock, heard sometimes in the profound repose of the country, 'telling the nightwatches to his feathery dames,' was thought by the common people to announce the approach of this sacred festival:

'Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes,
Wherein our Saviour's birth was celebrated,
This bird of dawning singeth all night long:
And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad;
The nights are wholesome-then no planets strike,
No fairy takes, no witch hath power to charm,
So hallowed and so gracious is the time.'

Amidst the general call to happiness, the bustle of the spirits, and stir of the affections, which prevail at this period, what bosom can remain insensible? It is, indeed, the season of regenerated feeling-the season for kindling not merely the fire of hospitality in the hall, but the genial flame of charity in the heart. The scene of early love again rises green to memory beyond the sterile waste of years, and the idea of home, fraught with the fragrance of home-dwelling joys, reanimates the drooping spirit-as the Arabian breeze will sometimes waft the freshness of the distant fields to the weary pilgrim of the desert.

LESSON XLVII.

Sports of New Year's Day.-PAulding.

THE morning was still, clear, and frosty. The sun shone with the lustre, though not with the warmth, of sumnier, and his bright beams were reflected, with indescribable

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