Ex. LII.-ELIOT AND THE INDIAN.

Ir was an autumn morning fair,

Ere yet the sun was high;

But the early mists were passed away,
And placid was the sky,

When on the turf, beside the wood,
Five hundred Indian warriors stood,
And keenly turned the listening ear,
The white man's coming step to hear.

He came, but not with sword or plume,
Bright helm, or glance of pride:
His robe was of the forest woof;
A cap of wild deer hide

Above his parted locks he wore;

And in his hand a scroll he bore.

ANON.

They gathering, thronged,-the wild, the free,Around that lonely man;

And many a piercing eye was bent

His face and form to scan;
But on his mild and open brow,
No trace of terror did he show;
And backward, silent and amazed,

They drew, yet still in wonder gazed.

The stranger kneeled ;—and toward his God
He raised his forehead bare,
And in his earnest native tongue

He poured a rapid prayer.

Perchance his prayer he could not frame,

Those rugged Indian words to name;
The warriors silent stood and near,

That noble foreign speech to hear.

Then to the listening chiefs he turned,
And in their language spoke;
His kindling words with fervor burned,
His voice like music broke

Upon a stillness so profound,

You started from the lightest sound.

Oh! it were worth ten years of life,
That forest church to see,—
Its pillars of the living pine,

Its dome, the arching tree!
While round and round, in circling band,
The savage Indian hunters stand;
And in the center,—all alone,-
The fearless and devoted one!

He told of mercy,-full and deep,
And boundless as the sea;
And of a bright One who was slain,
To set his children free;

And of a glorious world on high,
For those who faithful be!

And ever as his theme grew higher,
His pale cheek flushed with living fire;
His sweet low voice rang proudly out,
And rose to an exulting shout!

Then with the pleading tones of love,
He sought their hearts to win;

He told them of his holy book,

And all that lay within;

And when he marked their bosoms swell,

He spoke his blessing and farewell!

Full many an outstretched hand sprang forth,
Their passing friend to greet;

For they wist not that upon this earth,
They ever more might meet;
And kindly wish and kindlier word,
From many a swarthy lip was heard;
But there was one apart who crept,
And turned his face away-and wept.

Aye, wept!-The haughty Indian chief
Even to the dust was bowed,-

The strong man's soul was touched with grief,
And he must weep aloud!

But none may

hear an Indian's moan,

He rushed into the woods alone:

Yet not unmarked, his gentle friend
Upon his footsteps trod;

And, kneeling down beside him, there,
He prayed for him to God!
Then went rejoicing on his way,
O'er all the blessings of that day!

Ex. LIII.—CHARACTER OF TRUE ELOQUENCE.

WEBSTER.

WHEN public bodies are to be addressed on momentous occasions, when great interests are at stake, and strong passions excited, nothing is valuable, in speech, further than it is connected with high intellectual and moral endowments. Clearness, force, and earnestness, are the qualities which produce conviction. True eloquence, indeed, does not consist in speech. It can not be brought from far. Labor and learning may toil for it, but they will toil in vain. Words and phrases may be marshaled in every way,-they can not compass it. It must exist in the man, in the subject, and in the occasion. Affected passion, intense expression, the pomp of declamation, all may aspire after it,-they can not reach it. It comes, if it come at all, like the outbreaking of a fountain from the earth, or the bursting forth of volcanic fires, with spontaneous, original, native force.

The graces taught in the schools, the costly ornaments, and studied contrivances of speech, shock and disgust men, when their own lives, and the fate of their wives, their children, and ther country, hang on the decision of the hour. Then, words have lost their power, rhetoric is vain, and all elaborate oratory contemptible. Even genius itself then feels rebuked and subdued, as in the presence of higher qualities. Then, patriotism is eloquent: then, self-devotion is eloquent. The clear conception, outrunning the deductions of logic, the high purpose, the firm resolve, the dauntless spirit, speaking on the tongue, beaming from the eye, informing every feature, and urging the whole man onward, right onward to his object.this, this is eloquence: or rather it is something greater and higher than all eloquence, it is action, noble, sublime, godlik action.

Ex. LIV.-THE BELL OF THE ATLANTIC.*

TOLL, toll, toll,

MRS. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.

Thou Bell by billows swung;

And, night and day, thy warning words
Repeat with mournful tongue!
Toll for the queenly boat,

Wrecked on yon rocky shore;
Sea-weed is in her palace halls,
She rides the surge no more!

Toll for the master bold,

The high-souled and the brave,
Who ruled her like a thing of life,
Amid the crested wave!

Toll for the hardy crew,

Sons of the storm and blast,
Who long the tyrant ocean dared;
But it vanquished them at last!

Toll for the man of God,

Whose hallowed voice of prayer
Rose calm above the stifled groan
Of that intense despair!
How precious were those tones
On that sad verge of life,

Amid the fierce and freezing storm,
And the mountain billows' strife!

Toll for the lover lost

--

To the summoned bridal train!
Bright glows a picture on his breast,
Beneath the unfathomed main :-
One from her casement gazeth,
Long o'er the misty sea;
He cometh not, pale maiden,-
His heart is cold to thee!

Toll for the absent sire,

Who to his home drew near,

*It is a touching and remarkable fact, that the bell of the Atlantic supported by some portions of the wreck and the contiguous rock, continued, for days after the melancholy wreck of the vessel,-swept by heavy surges,- to toll the requiem of the dead.

To bless a glad expecting group,-
Fond wife and children dear!
They heap the blazing hearth;
The festal board is spread;

But a fearful guest is at the gate :-
Room for the sheeted dead!

Toll for the loved and fair,

The whelmed beneath the tide,—
The broken harps around whose strings
The dull sea-monsters glide!
Mother and nursling sweet,

Reft from the household throng;
There's bitter weeping in the nest
Where breathed their soul of song.

Toll for the hearts that bleed
'Neath misery's furrowing trace!
Toll for the hapless orphan left
The last of all his race!
Yea, with thy heaviest knell,
From surge to rocky shore,
Toll for the living,-not the dead,
Whose mortal woes are o'er!

Toll, toll, toll,

O'er breeze and billow free,

And with thy startling lore instruct

Each rover of the sea:

Tell how o'er proudest joys

May swift destruction sweep,

And bid him build his hopes on high,—
Lone teacher of the deep!

Ex. LV.-NUMBER ONE.

HOOD.

Ir's very hard!—and so it is, to live in such a row,-
And witness this that every miss but me has got a beau.—
For love goes calling up and down, but here he seems to

shun;

I'm sure he has been asked enough to call at Number One'