3. He should know That Time must conquer; that the loudest blast Reared its huge walls? Oblivion laughs, and says, "The prey is mine! They sleep, and never more Their names shall strike upon the ear of man!" WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. 4. What is glory? What is fame? A breath; an idle hour's brief talk; A stream that hurries on its way, The last drop of a bootless shower, 5. What is fame? and what is glory? A theme for second infancy; A joke scrawled on an epitaph; A rainbow, substanceless as bright, O'er hill-top to more distant hight, A bubble blown by fond conceit, LESSON CI 1 CO RIN' THI AN, pertaining to the Corinthian order of architecture, characterized by a profusion of ornamentation. "THIS, TOO, MUST PASS AWAY." MRS. E. C. HOWARTH. An old baron gave a grand banquet. In the midst of the festivities, he requested the seer to write some inscription on the wall in memory of the occasion. The seer wrote, "This, too, must pass away." 1. a banquet-hall, ONCE in a band music, wine and garlands gay, These words were written on the garnished wall, - And eyes that sparkled when the wine was poured 2. 3. And where are they to-night, The gay retainers of that festive hall? Long since the banners crumbled into dust, Yet Genius seeks the crown, And Art builds stately homes for wealth and pride, Yet, 'midst our loves, ambitions, pleasures, all, Each eye beholds the writing on the wall,- LESSON CII. GOD, THE TRUE OBJECT OF CONFIDENCE. WE GREENWOOD. E receive such repeated intimations of decay in the world,―decline, change, and loss follow in such rapid succession, that we can almost catch the sound of universal wasting, and hear the work of desolation going on busily around us. "The mountain falling cometh to naught, and the rock is removed out of his place. The waters wear the stones. Thou washest away the things which grow out of the dust of the earth, and Thou destroyest the hope of man.* 2. Conscious of our own instability, we look about for something on which to rest, but we look in vain. The heavens and the earth had a beginning, and they will have an end. The face of the world is changing daily and hourly. All animated things grow old, and die. The rocks crumble, the trees fall, the leaves fade, - the grass withers. The clouds are flying, and the waters are flowing away from us. 3. The firmest works of man, too, are gradually giving way. The ivy clings to the moldering tower,—the brier hangs out from the shattered window, and the wall-flower springs from the disjointed stones. In the spacious domes which once held our fathers, the serpent hisses, and the wild bird screams. The halls which were once crowded with all that taste, and science, and labor could procure,—which resounded with melody, and were lighted with beauty, are buried by their own ruins,—mocked by their own desolation. The voice of merriment or of wailing, the steps of the busy or the idle,—have ceased up in the deserted courts. 4. While we thus walk among the ruins of the past, a sad feeling of insecurity comes over us; and that feeling is by no means diminished when we arrive at home. If we turn to our friends, we can hardly speak to them, before they bid us farewell. We see them for a few moments; and, in a few moments more, their countenances are changed, and they are sent away. The ties which bind us together, are never too close to be parted, or too strong to be broken. We gain no confidence, then, no feeling of *Job, 14th chap., 18th and 19th verses. security, by turning to our contemporaries and kindred. We know that the forms that are breathing around us, are as short-lived and fleeting as those were which have been dust for centuries. 5. If every thing which comes under our notice has endured for so short a time, and in so short a time will be no more, we can not say that we receive the least assurance by thinking on ourselves. When a few more friends have left, a few more hopes deceived, and a few more changes mocked us, "we shall be brought to the grave, and shall remain in the tomb. The clods of the valley shall be sweet unto us." 6. When we ourselves have gone, even the remembrance of us will not long remain. A few of the near and dear will bear our likenesses in their bosoms, till they, too, have arrived at the end of their journey, and entered the dark dwelling of unconsciousness. In the thoughts of others, we shall live only till the last sound of the bell, which informs them of our departure, has ceased to vibrate in their ears. 7. A stone, perhaps, may tell some wanderer where we lie, when we came here, when we went away; but even that will soon refuse to bear us record. Time's "effacing fingers" will be busy on its surface, and will, at length, wear it smooth. The stone itself will sink, or crumble; and the wanderer of another age will pass, without a single call upon his sympathy, over our unheeded graves. 8. Is there nothing to counteract the sinking of the heart, which must be the effect of observations like these'? Is there no substance among all these shadows'? Can no support be offered, can no source of confidence be named'? Yes! There is a Being, to whom we can look with a perfect conviction of finding that security which nothing about us can give, -nothing can take away. To |