defied a thousand whirlwinds; in the timid warbler, that never left his native grove; in the fearless eagle, whose untired pinion was wet in clouds; in the worm that crawled at his foot; and in his own matchless form, glowing with a spark of that light, to whose mysterious source he bent, in humble, though blind adoration. And all this has passed away. Across the ocean came a pilgrim bark, bearing the seeds of life and death. The former were sown for you; the latter sprang up in the path of the simple native. Two hundred years have changed the character of a great continent, and blotted, forever, from its face a whole peculiar people. Art has usurped the bowers of nature, and the anointed children of education have been too powerful for the tribes of the ignorant. Here and there, a stricken few remain; but how unlike their bold, untamed, untameable progenitors! The Indian, of falcon glance, and lion bearing, the theme of the touching ballad, the hero of the pathetic tale, is gone! and his degraded offspring crawl upon the soil where he walked in majesty, to remind us how miserable is man, when the foot of the conqueror is on his neck. As a race, they have withered from the land. Their arrows are broken, their springs are dried up, their cabins are in the dust. Their council-fire has long since gone out on the shore, and their war-cry is fast dying to the untrodden west. Slowly and sadly they climb the distant mountains, and read their doom in the setting sun. They are shrinking before the mighty tide which is pressing them away; they must soon hear the roar of the last wave, which will settle over them forever. Ages hence, the inquisitive white man, as he stands by some growing city, will ponder on the structure of their disturbed remains, and wonder to what manner of person they belonged. They will live only in thẹ songs and chronicles of their exterminators. Let these be faithful to their rude virtues as men, and pay due tribute to their unhappy fate as a people. LESSON XXXVIII. THE CLOSING YEAR. 'Tis midnight's holy hour, and silence now Is brooding like a gentle spirit o'er The still and pulseless world. Hark! on the winds In mournful cadences, that come abroad Like the far wind-harp's wild and touching wail, Gone from the earth forever. 'Tis a time 1 For memory and for tears. Within the deep Whose tones are like the wizard voice of Time, And holy visions that have passed away, And left no shadow of their loveliness On the dead waste of life. That spectre lifts Sweet forms that slumber there, scatters dead flowers O'er what has passed to nothingness. The year Has gone, and with it many a glorious throng Of happy dreams. Its mark is on the brow, song And reckless shout resounded. It passed o'er The battle-plain, where sword, and spear, and shield It heralded its millions to their home In the dim land of dreams. Remorseless Time! Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe? what power Can stay him in his silent course, or melt And bathe his plumage in the thunder's home Time, the tomb builder, holds his fierce career, - Amid the mighty wrecks that strew his path, LESSON XXXIX. DEATH OF NAPOLEON. WILD was the night: yet a wilder night A few fond mourners were kneeling by, They knew by his awful and kingly look, That he dreamed of days when the nations shook, He dreamed that the Frenchman's sword still slew, The bearded Russian he scourged again, Again Marengo's field was won, Again the world was overrun, |