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A certain man a house would build ;
The place is with materials filled ;
And every thing is ready there-
Is it a difficult affair?
Yes! till


fix the corner-stone ;
It wont erect itself alone.
Day rolls on day, and year on year,
And nothing yet is done-
There's always something to delay
The business to another day.

And thus in silent waiting stood
The piles of stone and piles of wood
Till Death, who in his vast affairs
Ne'er puts things off—as men in theirs-
And thus, if I the truth must tell,
Does his work finally and well-
Winked at our hero as he past,

Your house is finished, Sir, at last ;
A narrower house-a house of clay-
Your palace for another day !"

LESSON XXXVII. Hope triumphant in death.-CAMPBELL. UNFADING Hope! when life's last embers burn, When soul to soul, and dust to dust return, Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour ! Oh! then thy kingdom comes, Immortal Power ! What though each spark of earth-born rapture fly The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye! Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey The morning dream of life's eternal dayThen, then, the triumph and the trance begin! And all the Phænix spirit burns within!

Oh! deep-enchanting prěl'ude to repose, The dawn of bliss, the twilight of our woes ! Yet half I hear the parting spirit sigh, It is a dread and awful thing to die! Mysterious worlds, untravelld by the sun! Where Time's far-wandering tide has never run, From your

unfathom'd shades, and viewless spheres, A warning comes, unheard by other ears.

'Tis Heaven's commanding trumpet, long and loud,
Like Sinai's thunder, pealing from the cloud !
While Nature hears, with terror-mingled trust,
The shock that hurls her făbric to the dust;
And, like the trembling Hebrew, when he trod
The roaring waves, and called upon his God,
With mortal terrors clouds immortal bliss,
And shrieks, and hovers o'er the dark abyss !

Daughter of Faith, awake, arise, illume
The dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb !
Melt, and dispel, ye spectre-doubts, that roll
Cimmerian darkness on the parting soul!
Fly, like the moon-ey'd herald of Dismay,
Chas’d on his night-steed by the star of day !
The strife is o’er—the pangs of Nature close,
And life's last rapture triumphs o'er her woes.
Hark! as the spirit eyes, with eagle gaze,
The noon of Heaven, undazzled by the blaze,
On heavenly winds that waft her to the sky,
Float the sweet tones of star-born melody;
Wild as that hallowed anthem sent to hail
Bethlehem's shepherds in the lonely vale,
When Jordan hush'd his waves, and midnight still
Watch'd on the holy towers of Zion hill !

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Soul of the just! companion of the dead !
Where is thy home, and whither art thou fled ?
Back to its heavenly source thy being goes,
Swift as the comet wheels to whence he rose;
Doom'd on his airy path awhile to burn,
And doom'd, like thee, to travel, and return.-
Hark! from the world's exploding centre driven,
With sounds that shook the firmament of Heaven,
Careers the fiery giant, fast and far,
On bickering wheels, and adamantine car;
From planet whirld to planet more remote,
He visits realms beyond the reach of thought;
But, wheeling homeward, when his course is run,
Curbs the red yoke, and mingles with the sun !
So hath the traveller of earth unfurl'd
Her trembling wings, emerging from the world ;
And, o'er the path by mortal never trod,
Sprung to her source, the bosom of her God !


Lines written during a thunder storm.—DMITRIEV.*
It thunders ! Sons of dust, in reverence bow !
Ancient of days ! Thou speakest from above :
Thy right hand wields the bolt of terror now;
That hand which scatters peace and joy and love.
Almighty! trembling like a timid child,
I hear thy awful voice—alarmed-afraid-
I see the flashes of thy lightning wild,
And in the very grave would hide my head.
Lord! what is man? Up to the sun he flies
Or feebly wanders through earth’s vale of dust :
There is he lost 'midst heaven's high mysteries,
And here in error and in darkness lost :
Beneath the storm-clouds, on life's raging sea,
Like a poor sailor-by the tempest tost
In a frail bark—the sport of destiny,
He sleeps—and dashes on the rocky coast.
Thou breathest ;--and the obedient storm is still :
Thou speakest ;-silent the submissive wave :
Man's shattered ship the rushing waters fill,
And the hush'd billows roll across his

Sourceless and endless God! compared with Thee,
Life is a shadowy, momentary dream :
And time when viewed through Thy eternity,
Less than the mote of morning's golden beam.


Interview between Waverley and Fergus Mac-Ivor, at Carlisle,

previous to the execution of the latter.-Scott. AFTER a sleepless night, the first dawn of morning found Waverley on the esplanade in front of the old Gothic gate of Carlisle castle. But he paced it long in every direction before the hour when, according to the rules of the garrison, the gates were opened, and the drawbridge lowered. He produced his order to the sergeant of the guard, and was admitted. The place of Fergus's confinement was a gloomy and vaulted apartment in the central part of the castle; a huge old tower, supposed to be of great antiquity, and surrounded by outworks, seemingly of Henry VIII's time, or somewhat later. The grating of the huge old-fashioned bars and bolts, withdrawn for the purpose of admitting Edward, was answered by the clash of chains, as the unfortunate chieftain, strongly and heavily fettered, shuffled along the stone floor of his prison, to fling himself into his friend's arms.

* Bowring's Specimens of Russian Poets.

My dear Edward,” he said, in a firm and even cheerful voice, “ this is truly kind. I heard of your approaching happiness with the highest pleasure; and how does Rose? and how is our old whimsical friend the Baron? Well, I am sure, from

your looks—and how will you settle precē'. dence between the three ermines passant, and the bear and boot-jack ?” -“How, O how, my dear Fergus, can you talk of such things at such a moment ?”—“Why, we have entered Carlisle with happier auspices, to be sure—on the 16th of November last, for example, when we marched in, side by side, and hoisted the white flag on these ancient towers. But I am no boy, to sit down and weep because the luck has gone against me. I knew the stake which I risked; we played the game boldly, and the forfeit shall be paid manfully

“ You are rich,” he continued, “Waverley, and you are generous; when you hear of these poor Mac-Ivors being distressed about their miserable possessions by some harsh overseer or agent of government, remember you have worn their tartan, and are an adopted son of their race. The Baron, who knows our manners, and lives near our country, will apprize you of the time and means to be their protector. Will you promise this to the last Vich Ian Vohr ?". Edward, as may well be believed, pledged his word; which afterwards he so amply redeemed, that his memory still lives in these glens by the name of the Friend of the Sons of Ivor.—“Would to God,” continued the chieftain, “I could bequeath to you my rights to the love and obedience of this primitive and brave race: or at least, as I have strive en to do, persuade poor Evan to accept of his life upon their terms; and be to you what he has been to me, the kindest -the bravest the most devoted

The tears which his own fate could not draw forth, fell fast for that of his foster-brother. “But,” said he, drying them, " that cannot be. You cannot be to them Vich lan

Vohr; and these three magic words,” said he, half smiling, " are the only Open Sesame to their feelings and sympathies; and poor Êvan must attend his foster-brother in death, as he has done through his whole life.”—“And I am sure." said Maccombich, raising himself from the floor, on which, for fear of interrupting their conversation, he had lain so still, that in the obscurity of the apartment, Edward was not aware of his presence, “I am sure Evan never desired nor deserved a better end then just to die with his chieftain."

A tap at the door now announced the arrival of the priest; and Edward retired while he administered to both prisoners the last rites of religion, in the mode which the church of Rome prescribes. In about an hour he was readmitted. Soon after, a file of soldiers entered with a blacksmith, who struck the fetters from the legs of the prisoners. '“ You see the compliment they pay to our Highland strength and courage; we have lain chained here like wild beasts, till our legs are cramped into palsy; and when they free us, they send six soldiers with loaded muskets to prevent our taking the castle by storm.”

Shortly after, the drums of the garrison beat to arms. “This is the last turn out,” said Fergus, "that I shall hear and obey. And now, my dear, dear Edward, ere we part, let us speak of Flora,

,-a subject which awakes the tenderest feeling that yet thrills within me.”—“We part not here?” said Waverley. “O yes, we do, you must come no farther. Not that I fear what is to follow for myself,” he said proudly; “nature has her tortures as well as art, and how happy should we think the man who escapes from the throes of a mortal and painful disorder in the space of a short half hour! And this matter, spin it out as they will, cannot last longer. But what a dying man can suffer firmly, may kill a living friend to look upon.

“ This same law of high treason," he continued, with astonishing firmness and composure, “is one of the blessings, Edward, with which your free country has accommodated poor old Scotland: her own jurisprudence, as I have heard, was much milder. But I suppose, one day or other, when there are no longer any wild Highlanders to benefit by its tender mercies, they will blot it from their records, as levelling them with a nation of cannibals. The mummery too, of exposing the senseless head! they have not the wit to grace mine with a paper coronet; there would be some

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