heavy burden splashed in the dark-blue waters of the lake, and the Highlanders, with their pole-axes and swords, watched an instant, to guard, lest, extricating himself from the load to which he was attached, he might have struggled to regain the shore. But the knot had been securely bound; the victim sunk without effort; the waters, which his fall had disturbed, settled calmly over him, and the unit of that life for which he had pleaded so strongly, was for ever withdrawn from the sum of human existence.

LESSON XLVIII.

April Day.-ANONYMOUS.*

ALL day the low-hung clouds have dropt
Their garnered fulness down;
All day that soft, gray mist hath wrapt
Hill, valley, grove, and town.
There has not been a sound to-day
To break the calm of nature;
Nor motion, I might almost say,
Of life, or living creature ;-
Of waving bough, or warbling bird,
Or cattle faintly lowing ;-

I could have half believed I heard
The leaves and blossoms growing.
I stood to hear-I love it well-
The rain's continuous sound;
Small drops, but thick and fast they fell,

Down straight into the ground.

For leafy thickness is not yet

Earth's naked breast to screen,

'Though every dripping branch is set

With shoots of tender green.

Sure, since I looked at early morn,

Those honey-suckle buds

Have swelled to double growth: that thorn

Hath put forth larger studs.

* Extracted from the Review of "The Widow's Tale, and other poems, by the author of Ellen Fitzarthur," in Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, 1822.

That lilach's cleaving cones have burst,
The milk-white flowers revealing;
Even now, upon my senses first
Methinks their sweets are stealing.
The very earth, the steamy air,
Is all with fragrance rife!
And grace and beauty every where
Are flushing into life.

Down, down they come-those fruitful stores. Those earth-rejoicing drops!

A momentary deluge pours,

Then thins, decreases, stops.

And ere the dimples on the stream

Have circled out of sight,

Lo! from the west, a parting gleam
Breaks forth of amber light.

LESSON XLIX.

The dead Lamb.-ANONYMOUS.

THE shepherd saunters last:--but why
Comes with him, pace for pace,
That ewe? and why, so piteously,
Looks up the creature's face?-
Swung in his careless hand, she sees
(Poor ewe!) a dead, cold weight,
The little one her soft, warm fleece
So fondly cherished late.

But yesterday, no happier dam

Ranged o'er those pastures wide

Than she, fond creature! when the lamb

Was sporting by her side.

It was a new-born thing:--the rain

Pour'd down all night—its bed

Was drenched and cold. Morn came again,

But the young lamb was dead.

Yet the poor mother's fond distress

Its every art had tried,

* Author of "The Widow's Tale and other poems."

To shield, with sleepless tenderness,

The weak one at her side.

Round it, all night, she gathered warm
Her woolly limbs-her head
Close curved across its feeble form;
Day dawned, and it was dead.
She saw it dead :-she felt, she knew
It had 1 strength, no breath-
Yet, how could she conceive, poor ewe!
The mystery of death?

It lay before her stiff and cold-
Yet fondly she essayed

To cherish it in love's warm fold:
Then restless trial made,
Moving, with still reverted face,
And low, complaining bleat,
To entice from their damp resting place
Those little stiffening feet.

AH would not do, when all was tried:
Love's last fond lure was vain:

So, quietly by its dead side,

She laid her down again.

LESSON L.

The White Bear. PERCIVAL.

THE white bear of Greenland and Spitzbergen is considerably larger than the brown near of Europe or the black bear of North America. This animal lives upon fish and seals, and is seen not only upon land in the countries bordering on the North Pole, but often upon floats of ice several leagues at sea. The following relation is extracted from the Journal of a Voyage for making discoveries towards the North Pole."

Early in the morning, the man at the mast-head gave · notice that three bears were making their way very fast over the ice, and that they were directing their course towards the ship. They had, without question, been in vited by the scent of the blubber of a sea-horse, killed a few days before, which the men had set on fire, and which: was burning on the ice at the time of their approach.

They proved to be a she-bear and her two cubs; but the cubs were nearly as large as the dam. They ran eagerly to the fire, and drew out from the flames part of the flesh of the sea-horse that remained unconsumed, and ate it voraciously. The crew from the ship threw great lumps of the flesh of the sea-horse, which they had still left, upon the ice. These the old bear carried away singly; laid every lump before her cubs as she brought it, and dividing it, gave each a share, reserving but a small portion to herself. As she was taking away the last piece, they levelled their muskets at the cubs, and shot them both dead; and in her retreat, they wounded the dam, but not mortally.

It would have drawn tears of pity from any but unfeeling minds to mark the affectionate concern expressed by this poor beast, in the last moments of her expiring young. Though she was sorely wounded, and could but just crawl to the place where they lay, she carried the lump of flesh which she had fetched away, and placed it before them. Seeing that they refused to eat, she laid her paws first upon one and then upon the other, and endeavoured to raise them up. It was pitiful to hear her moan. When she found she could not stir them, she went off; and, stopping when she had gotten to some distance, she looked back and moaned. When she found that she could not entice them away, she returned, and smelling around them, began to lick their wounds. She went off a second time as before and having crawled a few paces, looked again behind her, and for some time stood moaning. But still her cubs not rising to follow her, she returned to them again, and, with signs of inexpressible fondness, went round one and round the other, pawing them and moaning. Finding at last that they were cold and lifeless, she raised her head towards the ship and growled at the murderers, who then shot her with a volley of musket balls. She fell between her cubs and died licking their wounds.

:

LESSON LI.

The Miseries of War.-ROBERT Hall.

THOUGH the whole race of man is doomed to dissolution, and we arc all hastening to our long home; yet at each suc

cessive moment, life and death seem to divide between them the dominion of mankind, and life to have the larger share. It is otherwise in war: death reigns there without a rival, and without control. War is the work, the element, or rather the sport and triumph of Death, who glories not only in the extent of his conquest, but in the richness of his spoil. In the other methods of attack, in the other forms which death assumes, the feeble and the aged, who at the best can live but a short time, are usually the victims; here they are the vigorous and the strong.

It is remarked by the most ancient of poets, that in peace children bury their parents, in war parents bury their children nor is the difference small. Children lament their parents, sincerely, indeed, but with that moderate and tranquil sorrow, which it is natural for those to feel who are conscious of retaining many tender ties, many animating prospects. Parents mourn for their children with the bit. terness of despair; the aged parent, the widowed mother, loses, when she is deprived of her children, every thing but the capacity of suffering; her heart, withered and desolate, admits no other object, cherishes no other hope. It is Rachel, weeping for her children, and refusing to be comfort ed, because they are not.

But, to confine our attention to the number of the slain would give us a very inadequate idea of the ravages of the sword. The lot of those who perish instantaneously may be considered, apart from religious prospects, as comparatively happy, since they are exempt from those lingering diseases and slow torments to which others are liable. We cannot see an individual expire, though a stranger, or an enemy, without being sensibly moved, and prompted by compassion to lend him every assistance in our power. Every trace of resentment vanishes in a moment: every other emotion gives way to pity and terrour.

In these last extremities we remember nothing but the respect and tenderness due to our common nature. What a scene then must a field of battle present, where thousands are left without assistance, and without pity, with their wounds exposed to the piercing air, while the blood, freezing as it flows, binds them to the earth, amidst the trampling of horses, and the insults of an enraged foe! If they are spared by the humanity of the enemy, and carried from the field, it is but a prolongation of torment. Conveyed in uneasy vehicles, often to a remote distance, through roads [] *