Press on!—and we who may not share May ask, at least, in earnest prayer, 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 I steal from men-alone to muse And on those bright and burning worlds Monarch of waters,-ocean rolls Unfettered, free and wild; Majestic in his hour of calm, And gentle as a child- Yon orbs of beauty-all are wrought With most amazing skill; The power by which we count them o'er, But higher shines the attribute Mysterious power!--in thought I turn And gaze beyond, where worlds of light The INTELLECT-of deathless joys May look beyond these starry worlds, 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, No happier home was ever known He struck his wife, whom first he met. 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, The king put on his royalty, The king is on his dying bed, Ere stars are on the sky; And he who was a god, they said, He hath torture for his royal pall, Grim crimes, like spectres on the wall, 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 And the wind passed o'er with dirge and wail, With his father's sword in his red right hand, Lay a youthful chief; but his bed was the ground, A reckless rover mid death and doom, Drawn by the shine of the warrior's sword, |