side. O scene of beauty, such as, to him, no other land can show! There is the church, here a school-house, and the homes of those whom he knew in childhood. He can see the places where he used to watch the golden sunset, not, as now, with a heart full of penitence, and fear, and sorrow for wasted years, but in the innocent days of youth. There are the pastures and the woods where he wandered, full of the dreams and hopes of childhood, -fond hopes and dreams that have issued in such sad realities.

11. The scene to others would be but an ordinary one; but, to him, the spirit gives it life. It is covered all over with the golden hues of memory. His heart leaps forward to his home; but his feet linger. May not death have been there'? May not those lips be hushed in the silence of the grave from which he hoped to hear the words of love and forgiveness'? He pauses on the way, and does not approach till he beholds a light shining through the uncurtained windows of the humble dwelling. And even now his hand is drawn back, which was raised to lift the latch. He would see if all are there. With a trembling heart, he looks into the window; and there-blessed sight!-he beholds his mother, busy as was her wont, and his father, only grown more reverend with increasing age, reading that holy book which he had taught his son to revere, but which that son had so forgotten!

ter,

12. But there were others; and, lo! one by one they enyoung sisters, who, when he last saw them, were but children that sat on the knee, but have now grown up almost to womanly years. And now another fear seizes him. How shall they receive him? May not he be forgotten'? May they not reject him'? But he will, at least, enter. He raises the latch; with a heart too full for utterance, he stands, silent and timid, in the doorway.

The father raises his head, the mother pauses and turns to look at the guest who enters. It is but a moment, when burst from their lips the fond words of recognition,"My son! my son!”

13. Blessed words, which have told, so fully that nothing remains to be told, the undying strength of parental love! To a traveler who might that night have passed this cottage among the hills, if he had observed it at all, it would have spoken of nothing but daily toil, of decent comfort, of obscure fortunes. Yet, at that very hour, it was filled with thanksgivings, which rose like incense to the heavens, because that "he who was lost was found, and he that was dead was alive again."

14. Thus ever under the visible is the invisible. Through dead material forms circulate the currents of spiritual life. Desert rocks, and seas, and shores, are humanized by the presence of man, and become alive with memories and affections. There is a life which appears, and under it, in every heart, is a life which does not appear, which is to the former as the depths of the sea to the waves, and the bubbles, and the spray on its surface. There is not an obscure house among the mountains, where the whole romance of life, from its dawn to its setting, through its brightness and through its gloom, is not lived through.

15. The commonest events of the day are products of the same passions and affections, which, in other spheres, decide the fate of kingdoms. Outwardly, the ongoings of ordinary life are like the movements of machinery, lifeless, mechanical, commonplace repetitions of the same trifling events. But they are neither lifeless, nor old, nor trifling. The passions and affections make them ever new and original, and the most unimportant acts of the day reach forward, in their results, into the shadows of eternity.

LESSON XXXVIII.

1LU'NA CY, a species of insanity or madness; properly, the kind of insanity which is broken by intervals of reason, formerly supposed to have been influenced by the moon, (luna,) from which lunacy is derived.

1.

W1

WHEN I AM OLD.

CAROLINE A. BRIGGS.

HEN I am old, (and, oh! how soon
Will life's sweet morning yield to noon,
And noon's broad, fervid, earnest light
Be shaded in the solemn night,
Till, like a story well-nigh told,
Will seem my life when I am old!)

2. When I am old, this breezy earth
Will lose for me its voice of mirth;
The streams will have an undertone
Of sadness not by right their own;
And Spring's sweet power in vain unfold
In rosy charms, when I am old.

3. When I am old, I shall not care
To deck with flowers my faded hair;
'Twill be no vain desire of mine
In rich and costly dress to shine;
Bright jewels and the brightest gold

Will charm me naught, — when I am old.

4. When I am old, my friends will be
Old and infirm and bowed like me;

Or else (their bodies 'neath the sod,
Their spirits dwelling safe with God)
The old church-bell will long have tolled
Above the rest, when I am old.

5. When I am old, I'd rather bend
Thus sadly o'er each buried friend
Than see them lose the earnest truth
That marks the friendship of our youth:
"Twill be so sad to have them cold
Or strange to me, - when I am old!

6. When I am old, -oh! how it seems
Like the wild lunacy1 of dreams
To picture in prophetic rhyme
That dim, far-distant, shadowy time,
So distant that it seems o'er-bold

7. When I am old? Perhaps ere then
I shall be missed from haunts of men;
Perhaps my dwelling will be found
Beneath the green and quiet mound;
My name by stranger hands enrolled
Among the dead, -ere I am old.

8. Ere I am old?

That time is now;

For youth sits lightly on my brow;
My limbs are firm, and strong, and free;
Life hath a thousand charms for me,

Charms that will long their influence hold

9. Ere I am old, oh! let me give

My life to learning how to live:
Then shall I meet, with willing heart,
An early summons to depart,

Or find my lengthened days consoled
By God's sweet peace, - when I am old.

LESSON XXXIX.

1FRANK' LIN, BENJAMIN, was born in Boston, Mass., Jan. 6, 1706; and

died in Philadelphia, April 17, 1790.
hold word in America. He was her

His name has long been a housemoralist, statesman, and philoso

pher. His discovery of the identity of lightning with electricity has obtained for him a lasting and world-renowned reputation.

1.

A RETROSPECTIVE REVIEW.

THOMAS HOOD.

WHEN I was a tiny boy,

My days and nights were full of joy,
My mates were blithe and kind!

No wonder that I sometimes sigh,
And dash the tear-drop from my eye,
To cast a look behind!

2. A hoop was an eternal round
Of pleasure. In those days I found
A top a joyous thing;

But now those past delights I drop;
My head, alas! is all my top,

And careful thoughts the string!

3. My kite, how fast and far it flew !
While I, a sort of Franklin,' drew
My pleasure from the sky!

'Twas papered o'er with studious themes,
The tasks I wrote,—my present dreams
Will never soar so high !

4. My joys are wingless all, and dead;
My dumps are made of more than lead;
My flights soon find a fall;