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And a window with two feminine men's heads, and two masculine ladies in false curls.

And Mrs. Brown, in domestic economy not to be a bit behind her betters,

Lets her house to a milliner, a watchmaker, a ratcatcher, a cobler, lives in it herself, and it's the post-office for letters.

Now I've gone through all the village-ay, from end to end, save and except one more house, But I hav'nt come to that—and I hope I never shall--and that's the village poor-house!

LESSON XXXVIII.

TIME AND THE VILLAGE BELLS.

The young pupil may not know that in England the village churches are furnished with several bells of different tones, so that they play tunes when properly struck. Such chimes of bells are as yet quite rare, though not unknown, in these United States. The following Fable was taken from an English paper, but its author is unknown.

Time chanced one night to rub his wheels
Against a steeple-tower, whose bells

Oft from their ivy roost sublime,

Gave funeral toll or marriage chime,
And now sang out in solemn tone
The twelfth hour to the listening moon.

"Hang thee, (quoth Time,) thy tumult cease, And bid thy clappers keep the peace;

Through day man has enough of woes,
Then why at night break his repose,
And as my rapid axles fly,

Officious tell I'm going by?"

The bells, though fraught with pertinacity,
And now and then too with loquacity,

Were silent for about an hour,

But then each wide mouth gave a roar

And with a deep and solemn sound,
Which made the ancient walls rebound,
Thus to old Father Time replied:
"Ungrateful dotard, wherefore chide?
Parading with thy scythe and glass,
How sadly treated would'st thou pass,
And oft have need to mend thy pace,
But for the brethren of our race,
Who with a stroke, a toll, or chime,
Warn heedless folk 'gainst killing Time."

LESSON XXXIX.

HOW OLD ART THOU?

The following piece is almost a paraphrase of a beautiful expression of scripture. The Sibyl alluded to in the fourth stanza, was a sort of prophetess, who is said to have offered nine volumes of her prophecies to the king of Rome at a very high price. When he refused to purchase, she burned three volumes, but asked the same price for the remaining six. It being still refused, she burned three more. This strange conduct induced the king to pay the full price for the remaining three. The piece is taken from the Guardian.

Count not thy days that have idly flown,

The years that were vainly spent,

Nor speak of the hours thou must blush to own,
When thy spirit stands before the throne,
To account for the talents lent.

But number the hours redeemed from sin,
The moments employed for Heaven;
Oh! few and evil thy days have been,
Thy life a toilsome and worthless scene,
For a nobler purpose given.

Will the shade go back on thy dial-plate?
Will thy sun stand still on his way?

Both hasten on, and thy spirit's fate
Rests on the point of life's little date:
Then live while it's called to-day!

Life's waning hours, like the Sibyl's page,
As they lessen, in value rise;

Oh, arouse thee and live; nor deem that man's age
Stands in the length of his pilgrimage,
But in days that are truly wise.

LESSON XL.

OLD IRONSIDES,

Old Ironsides was a sort of nickname given to the United States frigate CONSTITUTION, which, after being successful in many combats, became the favorite ship of the American navy. When about forty years old, she was condemned to be taken to pieces, and this intention of government gave rise to the following poem. Public sentiment, however, was so opposed to this destruction of the noble vessel, that she was only repaired, but it is said that hardly one of the original timbers was retained. The old wood was wrought into thousands of vases, boxes, canes, and ornamental articles, which are cherished as relics of no ordinary value. Dr. HOLMES, of Boston, is the author of the patriotic lines. Would that the time had arrived when all weapons of war were only valuable as relics!

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!
Long has it waved on high,
And many an eye has danced to see
That banner in the sky;

Beneath it rung the battle shout,

And burst the cannon's roar;

The meteor of the ocean air

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Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,
Where knelt the vanquished foe,

When winds were hurrying o'er the flood,
And waves were white below,

No more shall feel the victor's tread,
Or feel the conquered knee;
The harpies of the shore shall pluck
The eagle of the sea!

Oh! better that her shattered hulk
Should sink beneath the wave;—
Her thunders shook the mighty deep,
And there should be her grave.
Nail to the mast her holy flag,
Set every threadbare sail,
And give her to the god of storms,
The lightning, and the gale!

LESSON XLI.

THE SUMMONS.

The following poem affords the pupil a good opportunity to vary his voice to suit the nature of the summons, martial in the first stanza, gentle in the second, affectionate in the third, serious and sad in the fourth, and solemn in the last. The author of the poem is unknown to the Editor.

Hark! there's a summons- -the bugle horn

And the trumpet's note on the light wind borne— "T is echoed back by a thousand hills,

Its voice is swept o'er the distant rills,

And shakes at that summons the river flood,
As if it knew 't would be stained with blood,
For 't is the summons to come from afar
And join in the tumult and din of war.

Another summons-a lowly voice,
Yet it makes an innocent heart rejoice;
A red lip at that sound has smiled-
'Tis a mother calling her only child;
Her child who was laughing the sunny hours
Away, in the shadow of leaves and flowers,

And it tottereth away from its verdant screen,
To tell her the wonders its eyes have seen.

Another summons-a voice of love
As well as the last-from a window above
That fragrant garden, a bright eye beams,
Bright from the spirit's happy dreams;

There's a bridegroom calling his promised bride-
She points to the west, where the stars still ride,
With a blush and a smile, and then to her dress,
Which hath yet no gem save her loveliness.

A summons again, a voiceless one,
Yet by the mortal it calleth, well known;
A written summons, written on all
The summer flowers before they fall.
Written on the fading brow and eye,
Dimmed by the touch of mortality,-
Fluttering the pulses,-shortening the breath;-
All feel the summons-the summons of death.

Know ye another summons shall come,-
Piercing the ear in the silent tomb,

Rolling through heaven, sweeping o'er earth,
And bidding the dead and the living-stand forth;
Forget it not! ye shall hear its sound

When death your limbs in his chains has bound,
And forget not, when ye shall hear that call,-
By your deeds on earth ye shall stand or fall.

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