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Alone, (how glorious to be free!)
My good dog at my side,
My rifle hanging in my arm,
I range the forests wide.
And now the regal buffalo
Across the plains I chase;

Now track the mountain stream to find
The beaver's lurking place.

I stand upon the mountain's top,
And (solitude profound!)

Not even a woodman's smoke curls up
Within the horizon's bound.
Below, as o'er its ocean breadth

The air's light currents run,
The wilderness of moving leaves
Is glancing in the sun.

I look around to where the sky
Meets the far forest line,
And this imperial domain,

This kingdom, all is mine.

This bending heaven, these floating clouds, Waters that ever roll,

And wilderness of glory, bring

Their offerings to my soul.

My palace, built by God's own hand,
The world's fresh prime hath seen;
Wide stretch its living halls away,
Pillared and roofed with green;
My music is the wind that now
Pours loud its swelling bars,
Now lulls in dying cadences;
My festal lamps are stars.

Though, when in this, my lonely home,
My star-watched couch I press,

I hear no fond "good night," think not
1 am companionless.

O, no! I see my father's house,

The hill, the tree, the stream,

And the looks and voices of my home
Come gently to my dream.

And in these solitary haunts,

While slumbers every tree

In night and silence, GoD himself
Seems nearer unto me.

I feel His presence in these shades,
Like the embracing air;

And, as my eyelids close in sleep,
My heart is hushed in prayer.

E. PEABODY.

LESSON CXLVIII.

THE SETTLER.

His echoing ax the settler swung
Amid the sea-like solitude,

And rushing, thundering, down were flung
The Titans of the wood;

Loud shrieked the eagle as he dashed
From out his mossy nest, which crashed
With its supporting bough,

And the first sunlight, leaping, flashed
On the wolf's haunt below.

Rude was the garb, and strong the frame,
Of him who plied his ceaseless toil:
To form that garb, the wild-wood game
Contributed their spoil;

The soul that warmed that frame, disdained
The tinsel, gaud, and glare, that reigned
Where men their crowds collect;
The simple fur, untrimmed, unstained,
This forest tamer decked.

The paths which wound 'mid gorgeous trees,

The stream whose bright lips kissed their flowers,

The winds that swelled their harmonies

Through these sun-hiding bowers,

The temple vast, the green arcade,
The nestling vale, the grassy glade,
Dark cave, and swampy lair;

These scenes and sounds majestic, made
His world, his pleasures, there.

His roof adorned a pleasant spot,

'Mid the black logs green glowed the grain, And herbs and plants the woods knew not, Thrived in the sun and rain.

The smoke-wreath curling o'er the dell,
The low, the bleat, the tinkling bell,
All made a landscape strange,
Which was the living chronicle

Of deeds that wrought the change.

The violet sprung at Spring's first tinge,
The rose of summer spread its glow,
The maize hung out its Autumn fringe,
Rude Winter brought his snow;
And still the lone one labored there,
His shout and whistle woke the air,
As cheerily he plied

His garden spade, or drove his share
Along the hillock's side.

He marked the fire-storm's blazing flood
Roaring and crackling on its path,
And scorching earth and melting wood,
Beneath its greedy wrath;

He marked the rapid whirlwind shoot,
Trampling the pine tree with its foot,
And darkening thick the day

With streaming bough and severed root,
Hurled whizzing on its way.

His gaunt hound yelled, his rifle flashed,
The grim bear hushed his savage growl
In blood and foam the panther gnashed
His fangs with dying howl;

The fleet deer ceased its flying bound,
Its snarling wolf-foe bit the ground,
And with its moaning cry,
'The beaver sank beneath the wound,
Its pond-built Venice by.

Humble the lot, yet his the race,

When liberty sent forth her cry,

Who thronged in conflict's deadliest place,
To fight, to bleed, to die;

Who cumbered Bunker's hight of red,

By hope through weary years were led,
And witnessed Yorktown's sun
Blaze on a nation's banner spread,
A nation's freedom won.

A. B. STREET.

THANKSGIVING!

LESSON CXLIX.

THANKSGIVING.

There is a magic in the sound of the word, which calls up from the grave of years the shadows of departed pleasures, breathes upon them the breath of life, fills them with their original attributes, decorates them again with the freshness of reality, and bids them move before the enraptured imagination, a long and gay procession of images, reflecting the innocence of childhood, the generous affection of youth, and the fervency and faithfulness of that unsophisticated and momentary interval, which precedes the entrance on the scenes of business and bustle, of anxiety and calculation, of coldhearted indifference, of selfish distrust, and, perhaps, of treacherous friendship and insidious hypocrisy.

First in the smiling pageant approaches the child, rich—O how rich, beyond the wealth of princes!-in the possession of its primers and playthings, wondering at all the bustle of preparation for the feast, and inquiring, with characteristic simplicity, the meaning of the unusual prodigality and ceremony which every where meet and enchant its unaccustomed eye. Next, comes the troop of schoolboys, with limbs all life and elasticity, and hearts all harmony and gladness, drunk with their dream of liberty and release from study; and mingled with these are the less happy, but, perhaps, more fortunate boys, whose lot compels them to labor for their bread, with well-strung nerves and bodies invigorated by health and exercise, bounding, to find their homes, over fields and meadows, over brook and path, with hearts as unconcerned and steps as light as those of the roe or the young hart on the mountains of spices. The apprentice, the implements of his handcraft laid by, and the stinted portion of his daily simple subsistence forgotten, his eyes glistening with exultation, and his breast heaving with the

fullness of anticipation, rushes along to meet at home the anxious parent, proud of the boy's advance in a trade, that will make him independent, and the younger child, who wonders if a year can have wrought so astonishing a transformation, and almost doubts his identity.

Now approach the brother and the sister, whom a few months of separation have rendered more affectionate; the friends, whom difference of employment or variety of pursuit had partially estranged; the lovers, whose impatient hearts, though blessed with frequent and delightful intercourse, welcome the return of Thanksgiving as the day when hope and love are to find their consummation, the day which is forever after to be more sacred in their calendar than all the days of the year besides. But the images too thickly throng, "too fast they crowd," for the powers of description. In the midst of the gay and glorious assembly are the father, the mother, the patriarch bowed with years, and she who has been the nurse of generations, partaking of the general joy and congratulation, nor murmuring that, while such a scene engages and employs their faculties, the wheels of time do not more rapidly bring on the promised period of translation to another and more enduring heaven.

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An anonymous modern writer has beautifully said, "There are moments in existence which comprise the power of years; as thousands of roses are contained in a few drops of their essence. The remark is no more beautiful than just. I once witnessed an incident, which made me feel its truth, though long before the sentiment itself was written. In one of the largest villages in the eastern part of Connecticut, a woman was left a widow with ten children, all but one of whom were under twenty years of age. The family had once enjoyed a competence, and looked forward to years of ease and plenty. Toward the close of the revolutionary war, the father, thinking to make a profitable speculation, disposed of a large and profitable stock in trade, and received in payment what, at the time, was called cash, but which turned out shortly after to be worthless paper; bills of the old "Continental currency." These bills were laid up in his desk, and soon began to depreciate in value. The deterioration went on from day to day, and in a few months the bubble burst; and

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