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Press on!—and we who may not share
The toil or glory of your fight,

May ask, at least, in earnest prayer,
God's blessing on the right!

LESSON XLVI.

"HE MADE THE STARS ALSO."

No science is so well calculated to enlarge the mind of man and extend its powers, as that of Astronomy. No wonder that M'JILTON, the author of the following poem, after viewing the successful efforts of man to penetrate beyond that firmament which bounds the unassisted vision, bursts forth in admiration of the human intellect, that wonderful gift of the creating spirit.

While yonder sparkling orbs of night
Are rising from the deep;
Rolling in silence and in light,
Up the cerulean steep-

I steal from men-alone to muse
On shore and shining sea;

And on those bright and burning worlds
That swim immensity.

Monarch of waters,-ocean rolls

Unfettered, free and wild;

Majestic in his hour of calm,

And gentle as a child-
Majestic, if his surface swell,
By tempests rudely driven,
Or mirror in his shining depths,
The myriads of heaven.

Yon orbs of beauty-all are wrought

With most amazing skill;

The power by which we count them o'er,
Is more amazing still.

But higher shines the attribute
By which their ways we scan,
Vast work of the eternal mind,-
The Intellect of man.

Mysterious power!--in thought I turn
Aside the vaulting blue,

And gaze beyond, where worlds of light
Are swimming in my view.
There I behold the isles of bliss,
By angels only trod;
Bright amaranthine paradise-
The residence of God.

The INTELLECT-of deathless joys
Alone immortal heir-

May look beyond these starry worlds,
And claim its portion there.
On all intelligence may gaze,
While yet in earthly thrall,
And in exultant hope exclaim,
"My Father made them all."

LESSON XLVII.

THE CUP TOO MUCH.-EDITOR.

The following imitation of a French Fable gives a faithful picture of a common occurrence. Until the tempted man can see all the conse quences of yielding to the temptation, he is bound by every holy and humane consideration to resist it. The piece is fitted for a young pupil.

"T is easier to keep the way Than to return when far astray; And faults in trains so often run, "T is safer not to hazard one.

As boys sometimes, in playful art,

Set

up the bricks a space apart,

And touching one, knock down the row,
So virtues fall if one but go.

No happier home was ever known
Than that of Darby and his Joan,
Till one sad night, when, at the fair,
He drank till he had ceased to care
For friend or foe, for wife or child,
And coming home, with liquor wild,
Disposed to quarrel and to fret,

He struck his wife, whom first he met.
Poor Joan, half crazy by the blow,
The children whipped and angered so,
They kicked, as long as they were able,
The faithful dog beneath the table;
And he, because the cat was near,
Bit her, and half destroyed her ear.
The cat the kitten scratched, because
He dared to come too near her claws;
The kitten tried at once to break
The robin's neck, revenge to take;
poor bird struggling to get clear,
Knocked o'er the lamp that stood too near
The curtain, and with sudden blaze,
The inmates, frightened different ways,
The burning cottage quickly left ;-
And thus of house and home bereft,
Poor Darby said no one could tell
How near the ale house was to hell!
And rued the day he dared to touch,
That cursed, cursed "cup too much."

The

LESSON XLVIII.

THE STRICKEN KING.

It is not easy to say to what Syrian king the following expressive description fully applies. The word Lazar, in the last stanza, is derived from Lazarus, the poor man in the parable, who was rendered loathsome by disease. The poem was written by Miss JEWSBURY, an English lady.

d;

A king sat on his stately throne,
His people round him bowed
He was an old and mighty one—
Gorgeous, and fierce, and proud.
The friend of many kings was he,
And oft, with kings for foes,
He had quaffed to death and victory,
Where the wine of battle flows.
Blood stained him in his early age;
Blood steeped his latter day;
He had been a lion in his rage,
A tiger in his play.

The king put on his royalty,
The people shouted loud;
They knew not it was vanity-
He felt not 't was a shroud.
He glittered in the noon-day sun,
With golden crown and rod,
They hailed him the Eternal One,
And shouted forth-" A god!"
No angry thunder muttered " Nay,”
The sun shone as before;
Yet woe for that Syrian holiday!
Woe, woe, for evermore!

The king is on his dying bed,

Ere stars are on the sky;

And he who was a god, they said,
Must like a lazar die.

He hath torture for his royal pall,
And terror for his throne;

Grim crimes, like spectres on the wall,
And a heart like burning stone;
And fears of what he can not see,
And sense of Syria's scorn :-
He hath these for the glittering company
That thronged him in the morn!

LESSON XLIX.

THE SWORD.

It has been remarked, that the bed of glory is a very cold one. It seems so to surviving friends, at least, and such pieces as the following must have a tendency to prevent the sacrifices which are annually made to the god of war. There is as much true glory in living well as in dying well. The author of the piece is unknown to the Editor.

'T was the battle field; and the cold, pale moon
Looked down on the dead and dying;

And the wind passed o'er with dirge and wail,
Where the young and the brave were lying.

With his father's sword in his red right hand,
And the hostile dead around him,

Lay a youthful chief; but his bed was the ground,
And the grave's icy sleep had bound him.

A reckless rover mid death and doom,
Passed a soldier, his plunder seeking,
Careless he stepped where friend and foe
Lay alike in their life-blood reeking.

Drawn by the shine of the warrior's sword,
The soldier paused beside it;

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