He wrenched the hand with a giant's strength, He loosed his hold, and his noble heart Took part with the dead before him ; And he honored the brave who died sword in hand, And with softened brow leaned o'er him. "A soldier's death thou hast boldly died, Before I would take that sword from thy hand, "Thou shalt not be left for the carrion crow, No coward shall insult the gallant dead, Then dug he a grave in the crimson earth, LESSON L. LINES TO A HEN. Rhetoricians have given no other name than mock-heroic to that class of compositions in which low subjects are treated in a dignified or heroic manner, but some of the prettiest poems in our language belong to this class. The Needless Alarm, by Cowper, is a beautiful specimen, (American First Class Cook, page 292,) and nothing can be more delightful than the following playful apostrophe to a bustling hen. The author is unknown to the Editor. Thou art a "bird," a pretty bird, thou amiable hen, And a "spirit," too, thou hoverest about the barns of men; A meek and quiet spirit, thou art rather seen than heard! And I love thee for thy gentleness, thou sweet domestic bird! A child of industry and peace thou dost appear to be, And scratching on the world for food, is world enough for thee; There's judgment in thy countenance, there 's shrewdness in thine air, And the innocence of chickenhood is ever lurking there. Thy voice is somewhat clamorous; but while most other birds Pipe out their soft and lovelike notes to sentimental words, I like the plain, statistical remark by thee that's made, To indicate to all around that thou an egg hast laid. Thy gentle voice, too, oft is heard, entreating from the mud, For thy chickens, some of them, to come and light upon a bug ; And at eve, thy private curfew bell, thy tongue, is oft unloosed, To bid the chicks blow out the lights, and come with thee to roost. And now, as thou to roost dost go, with all thy chicks so brave, Calm as the glorious sun doth set beneath the ocean wave, My song I cease, my harp I hang, like Jews by Babel's stream; No more thy praise to echo forth, bird of my sweetest dream! LESSON LI. THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. A simple comparison of death to a reaper-of the world to a field, where the grain and the wild flowers are intermixed, and both cut down together, would be called a Simile; but when a simile is continu ed, as in the following lines, it becomes an Allegory. The author is PROFESSOR LONGFELLOW, of Cambridge, Massachusetts. There is a reaper whose name is Death, He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, "Shall I have nought that is fair to see; Have nought but the bearded grain? Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, It was for the Lord of paradise 66 He bound them in his sheaves. My Lord has need of these flowers gay," "Dear tokens of the earth are they, "They shall all bloom in fields of light, And saints upon their garments white And the mother gave in tears and pain But she knew she should find them all again 0, not in cruelty, not in wrath, The reaper came that day; 'T was an angel visited the green earth, And took the flowers away. LESSON LII. THE ASCENT OF THE SPIRIT. The following poem is by MARY HOWITT, and is full of the pure spirit that breathes through all her poetry. The pupil will notice the change of tone and manner after the fifth stanza. She lay down in her poverty, There were palace-homes around her; She lay down in her poverty, "O, Lord, thick clouds of darkness And the waters of affliction "Yet what is life? A desert "Oh spirit, freed from bondage, The weary world is 'neath thy feet, 66 Arise, put on the garments "Awake and breathe the living air Awake! to love which knows no change, "Awake! lift up thy joyful eyes, Thou, who hast done with tears! "Awake! ascend! thou art not now LESSON LIII. THE SICK CHILD'S DREAM. The following piece appears best when recited by a young girl, although there is nothing to unfit it for a delicate boy. If too long, the four stanzas in brackets may be omitted. The word wold, in the eighth stanza, means the open field. The author of the poem is unknown to the editor. Oh! cradle me on thy knee, mamma, And sing me the holy strain |