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And risen, and drawn the sword, and, on the foe

Have dealt the swift and desperate blow,
And the Othman power is cloven, and the stroke

Has touched its chains, and they are broke.
Ay, we would linger till the sunset there

Should come, to purple all the air,
And thou reflect upon the sacred ground,

The ruddy radiance streaming round.
Bright meteor! for the summer noontide made!

Thy peerless beauty yet shall fade.
The sun, that fills with light each glistening fold,

Shall set, and leave thee dark and cold:
The blast shall rend thy skirts, or thou mayst frown

In the dark heaven when storms come down,
And weep in rain, till man's inquiring eye

Miss thee, forever, from the sky.

LESSON CXXXIV.

The Vulture of the Alps.-ANONYMOUS. I've been among the mighty Alps, and wandered through

their vales, And heard the honest mountaineers relate their dismal tales, As round the cottage blazing hearth, when their daily work

was o’er, They spake of those who disappeared, and ne'er were heard

of more.

And there I from a shepherd heard a narrative of fear,
A tale to rend a mortal heart, which mothers might not hear:
The tears were standing in his eyes, his voice was tremu-

lous;
But, wiping all those tears away, he told his story thus:-
It is among these barren cliffs the ravenous vulture dwells,
Who never fattens on the

prey

which from afar he smells; But, patient, watching hour on hour upon a lofty rock, He singles out some truant lamb, a victim, from the flock. One cloudless Sabbath summer morn, the sun was rising

high,

When, froin

my
children on the

green,

1 heard a fearful cry, As if some awful deed were done, a shriek of grief and pain, A cry, I humbly trust in God, I ne'er may bear again. "I hurried out to learn the cause; but, overwhelmed with

fright, The children never ceased to shriek, and from my frenzied

sight I missed the youngest of my babes, the darling of my care; But something caught my searching eyes, slow sailing

through the air. Oh! what an awful spectacle to meet a father's eye,His infant made a vulture's prey, with terror to descry; And know, with agonizing breast, and with a maniac rave, That earthly power could not avail, that innocent to save! • My infant stretched his little bands imploringly to me, And struggled with the ravenous bird, all vainly, to get free; At intervals, I heard his cries, as loud he shrieked and

screamed! Until, upon the azure sky, a lessening spot he seemed. · The vulture flapped his sail-like wings, though heavily he

flew; A mote upon the sun's broad face he seemed unto my view; But once I thought I saw him stoop, as if he would alight,’T was only a delusive thought, for all had vanished quite. * All search was vain, and years had passed; that child was

ne'er forgot, When once a daring hunter climbed unto a lofty spot, From whence, upon a rugged crag the chamois never

reached, He saw an infant's fleshless bones the elements had bleach

ed! · I clambered up that rugged cliff,—I could not stay away, I knew they were my infant's bones thus hastening to decay; A tattered garment yet remained, though torn to many a

shred; The crimson cap he wore that morn was still upon the head. • That dreary spot is pointed out to travellers passing by,

Who often stand, and, musing, gaze, nor go without a sigh.' And as I journeyed, the next morn, along my sunny way, The precipice was shown to me, whereon the infant lay.

LESSON CXXXV.

The Transport.-ANONYMOUS. The great eye of day was wide open, and a joyful light filled air, heaven, and ocean.

The marbled clouds lay motionless far and wide over the deep blue sky, and all memory of storm and hurricane had vanished from the magnificence of that immense calm. There was but a gentle fluctuation on the bosom of the deep, and the sea-birds floated steadily there, or dipped their wings for a moment in the wreathed foam, and again wheeled sportively away into the sunshine.

One ship, only one single ship, was within the encircling horizon, and she had lain there as if at anchor since the morning light; for, although all her sails were set, scarcely a wandering breeze touched her canvass, and her flags hung dead on staff and at peak, or lifted themselves uncertainly up at intervals, and then sunk again into motionless repose. The crew paced not her deck, for they knew that no breeze would come till after meridian,-and it was the Sabbath day.

A small congregation were singing praises to God in that chapel, which rested almost as quietly on the sea, as the house of worship in which they had been used to pray

then rested, far off on a foundation of rock in a green valley of their forsaken Scotland. They were emigrants-nor hoped ever again to see the mists of their native mountains.

But as they heard the voice of their psalm, each singer half forgot that it blended with the sound of the sea, and almost believed himself sitting in the kirk of his own beloved parish. But hundreds of billowy leagues intervened between them and the little tinkling bell, that was now tolling their happier friends to the quiet house of God.

And now an old gray headed man rose to pray, and held up his withered hand in fervent supplication for all around, whom, in good truth, he called his children-for three generations were with the patriarch in that tabernacle.

There in one group were husbands and wives standing

together, in awe of Him who held the deep in the hollow of his hand, -there, youths and maidens, linked together by the feeling of the same destiny, some of them perhaps hoping, when they reached the shore, to lay their heads on one pillow,—there, children hand in hand, happy in the wonders of the ocean,—and there, mere infants smiling on the sunny deck, and unconscious of the meaning of hymn or prayer.

À low, confined, growling noise was heard struggling beneath the deck, and a sailor called with a loud voice, * Fire, fire,—the ship's on fire!' Holy words died on the prayer's tongue—the congregation fell asunder—and pale faces, wild eyes, groans, shrieks, and outcries rent the silence of the lonesome sea. No one for awhile knew the other, as all were hurried as in a whirlwind up and down the ship. A dismal heat, all unlike the warmth of that beautiful sun, came stiflingly on every breath. Mothers, who in their first terror had shuddered but for themse es, now clasped their infants to their breasts, and lifted up their eyes to heaven.

Bold brave men grew white as ashes, and hands, strengthened by toil and storm, trembled like the aspen-leaf. Gone

-gone, -we are all gone!' was now the cry; yet no one knew whence that cry came; and men glared reproachfully on each other's countenances, and strove to keep down the audible beating of their own hearts. The desperate love of life drove them instinctively to their stations, and the water was poured, as by the strength of giants, down among the smouldering flames. But the devouring element roared up into the air; and deck, masts, sails, and shrouds, were one crackling and hissing sheet of fire.

· Let down the boat!' was now the yell of hoarse voices; and in an instant she was filled with life. Then there was frantic leaping into the sea; and all who were fast drowning moved convulsively towards that little ark.

Some sunk down at once into oblivion—some grasped at nothing with their disappearing hands—some seized in vain unquenched pieces of the fiery wreck-some would sain have saved a friend almost in the last agonies; and some, strong in a savage despair, tore from them the clenched fingers that would have dragged them down, and forgot in fear both love and pity.

Enveloped in flames and smoke, yet insensible as a corpse to the burning, a frantic mother flung down her baby among

the crew; and as it fell among the upward oars unharmed, she shrieked out a prayer of thanksgiving: Go, husband, go; for I am content to die.—Oh! live-live—my husband, for our darling Willy's sake.'

But in the prime of life, and with his manly bosom full of health and hope, the husband looked but for a moment till he saw his child was safe; and then, taking his young wife in his arms, sat down beneath the burning fragments of the sail, with the rest that were resigned, never more to rise up till the sound of the last trumpet, when the faithful and aillicted shall be raised to breathe for ever empyrean air.

LESSON CXXXVI.

Reflections on the Return of Spring.–Alison. The words uttered by Job are still applicable to us. Even now, the greatest and most important part of our religious knowledge, our knowledge of the nature and attributes of * Him that made us' is acquired solely by the hearing of the ear.' The early instruction of the parent, the occasional hours of reading and meditation, and the public exhortations of the pulpit, constitute all that the generality of men know upon the most momentous subject of human information.

There are few who have been taught in infancy to raise their minds to the contemplation of his works; who love to kindle their adoration at the altar of nature, or to lose themselves in astonishment amid the immensity of the universe; and who thus 'seeing him with their eyes' learn to associate the truths of religion with all the most valued emotions of their hearts. It is the natural consequence of these partial views of the Deity to narrow our conceptions of his being; to chill the native sensibility of our minds to devotion; and to render religion rather the gloomy companion of the church and the closet, than the animating friend of our ordinary hours.

Reflections of this kind seem very naturally to arise to us from the season we experience, and the scenes we at present behold. In the beautiful language of the wise man, the winter is now over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth, the time of the singing of birds is.come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land.' In these moments, we

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