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2. Good-by to flattery's fawning face;

To grandeur, with his wise grimace;
To upstart wealth's averted eye;
To supple office, low and high;
To crowded halls, to court and street;
To frozen hearts, and hasting feet;
To those who go, and those who come:

Good-by, proud world, I'm going home.
3. I go to seek my own hearthstone,

Bosom'd in yon green hills alone;
A secret lodge in a pleasant land,
Whose groves the frolic fairies plann'd,
Where arches green the livelong day
Echo the blackbird's roundelay,
And evil men have never trod,-

A spot that is sacred to thought and God.
4. Oh, when I am safe in my sylvan home,

I mock at the pride of Greece and Rome;
And when I am stretch'd beneath the pines,
Where the evening star so holy shines,
I laugh at the lore and pride of man,
At the sophists' schools and the learned clan;
For what are they all in their high conceit,
When man in the bush with God may meet?

LESSON CXIX.

DIRECTIONS TO A FIRE-COMPANY.

ANONYMOUS.

1 IT having been announced to me, my young friends, that you were about forming a fire-company, I have called you together to give you such directions as long experience in a first-quality eagine-company qualifies me to communicate. The moment you hear an alarm of fire, scream like a pair of panthers. Run any way, except the right way; for the farthest way round is the nearest way to the fire. If you happen to run on the top of a wood-pile, so much the better: you can then get a good view of the neighborhood. If a light breaks on your view, “ break” for it immediately; but be sure you don't jump into a bow window.

2. Keep yelling, all the time; and, if you can't make night hideous enough yourself, kick all the dogs you come across, and sėt them yelling too: 'twill help amazingly. A brace of cats dragged up-stairs by the tail would be a “powerful auxiliary." When you reach the scene of the fire, do all you can to convert it into a scene of destruction. Tear down all the fences in the vicinity. If it be a chimney on fire, throw salt down it; or, if you can't do that, perhaps the best plan would be to jerk off the pump-handle and pound it down." Don't forget to yell all the while, as it will have a prodigious effect in frightening off the fire.

The louder the better, of course; and the more ladies in the vicinity, the greater necessity for doing it brown.

3. Should the roof begin to smoke, get to work in good earnest, and make any man “smoke” that interrupts you. If it is summer, and there are fruit-trees in the lot, cut them down, to prevent the fire from roasting the apples. Don't forget to yell! Should the stable be threatened, carry out the cow-chains. Never mind the horse: he'll be alive and kicking; and if his legs don't do their duty, let them pay for the roast. Ditto as to the hogs: let them save their own bacon, or smoke for it. When the roof begins to burn, get a crow-bar and pry away the stone steps; or, if the steps be of wood, procure an axe and chop them up. Next, cut away the wash-boards in the basement story; and, if that don't stop the flames, let the chair-boards on the first floor share a similar fate.

4. Should the “devouring element” still pursue the “even tenor of its way,” you had better ascend to the second story. Pitch out the pitchers, and tumble out the tumblers. Yell all the time! If you find a baby a-bed, fling it into the secondstory window of the house across the way, but let the kitten carefully down in a work-basket. Then draw out the bureaudrawers and empty their contents out of the back window,-telling somebody below to upset the slop-barrel and rain-water hogshead at the same time.

5. Of course you will attend to the mirror. The farther it can be thrown, the more pieces will be made. If anybody objects, smash it over his head. Do not, under any circumstances, drop the tongs down from the second story: the fall might break its legs, and render the poor thing a cripple for life. Shoulder it, and carry it down carefully. Pile the bedclothes carefully on the floor, and throw the crockery out of the window. By the time you will have attended to all these things, the fire will certainly be arrested, or the building be burned down. In either case, your services will be no longer needed; and, of course, you require no further directions.

LESSON CXX.

SLEEP.

BY ELIZABETH B. BROWNING.

1. Of all the thoughts of God that are
Borne inward unto souls afar,

Along the Psalmist's music deep,
Now tell me if that any is
For gift or grace surpassing this ?-

"He giveth his beloved sleep."
2. What would we give to our beloved ?
The hero's heart, to be'unmoved;

The poet's star-tuned harp to sweep;
The senate's shout to patriot vows;
The monarch's crown, to light the brows!

“He giveth his beloved sleep!” 8. What do we give to our beloved ? A little faith, all undisproved;

A little dust to overweep;
And bitter memories, to make
The whole earth blasted for our sake!

“He giveth his beloved sleep!"
“Sleep soft, beloved !” we sometimes say,
But have no tune to charm away

Sad dreams, that through the eyelids creep:
But never doleful dream again
Shall break the happy slumber, when

“He giveth his beloved sleep!”
6. O earth, so full of dreary noises!
O men, with wailing in your voices!

O delvéd gold, the wailer's heap!
O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall!
God makes a silence through you all,

And “giveth his beloved sleep!”. 6. His dews drop mutely on the hill, His cloud above it saileth still;

Though on its slope men toil and reap,
More softly than the dew is shed,
Or cloud is floated overhead,

“ He giveth his beloved sloep.”

7. Yea, men may wonder, while they scan -
A living, thinking, feeling man

In such a rest his heart to keep;
But angels say,--and through the word
I ween their blessed smile is heard,

“He giveth his beloved sleep!"
8. For me, my heart, that erst did go
Most like a tired child at a show,

That sees through tears the juggler's leap,
Would now its weary

vision close,
Would, childlike, on His love repose

“Who giveth his beloved sleep!"
9. And friends! dear friends! when it shall be
That this low breath is

gone
from

me,
And round

my

bier you come to weep,
Let one most loving of you

all
Say, “Not a tear mus o'er her fall :

He giveth his beloved sleep!"

LESSON CXXI.

THE WIDOW AND HER SON.

BY W. IRVING.

1. DURING my recent residence in the country, I used fre. quently to attend the old village church. Its shadowy aisles, its moldering monuments, its dark oaken paneling, all reverend with the gloom of departed years, seemed to fit it for the haunt of solemn meditation; but, being in a wealthy, aristocratic neighborhood, the glitter of fashion penetrated even into the sanctuary, and I felt myself continually thrown back upon the world by the frigidity and pomp of the poor worms around me.

2. The only being in the whole congregation who appeared thoroughly to feel the humble and prostrate piety of a true Christian was a decrepit old woman, bending under the weight of years and infirmities. She bore the traces of something better than abject poverty, The lingerings of decent pride were visible in her appearance. Her dress, though humble in the extreme, was scrupulously clean.

3. Some trivial respect, too, had been awarded her; for she did not take her seat among the village poor, but sat alone on the steps of the altar. She seemed to have survived all love, all friendship, all society, and to have nothing left her but the hopes of heaven. When I saw her feebly rising and bending her aged form in prayer, habitually conning her prayer-book, which her palsied hand and failing eyes would not permit her to read, but which she evidently knew by heart, I felt persuaded that the faltering voice of that poor woman arose to heaven far before the responses of the clerk, the swell of the organ, or th chanting of the choir.

4. I am fond of loitering about country churches ; and this was so delightfully situated, that it frequently attracted me. It stood on a knoll around which a small stream made a beautiful bend and then wound its way through a long reach of meadowscenery. The church was surrounded with yew-trees, which seemed almost coeval with itself. Its tall gothic spire shot up lightly from among them, with rooks and crows generally wheeling about it.

5. I was seated there one still sunny morning, watching two laborers who were digging a grave. They had chosen one of the most remote and neglected corners of the churchyard,where, from the number of nameless graves around, it would appear that the indigent and friendless were huddled into the earth. I was told that the new-made grave was for the only son of a poor widow. While I was meditating on the distinctions of worldly rank, which extend thus down into the very dust, the toll of the bell announced the approach of the funeral.

6. They were the obsequies of poverty, with which pride had nothing to do. A coffin of the plainest materials, without pall or other covering, was borne by some of the villagers. The sexton walked before with an air of cold indifference. There were no mock mourners, in the trappings of affected woe; but there was one real mourner who feebly tottered after the corpse. It was the aged mother of the deceased,--the poor old woman whom I had seen seated on the steps of the altar.

7. She was supported by a humble friend, who was endeavoring to comfort her. A few of the neighboring poor had joined the train, and some children of the village were running hand in hand, now shouting with unthinking mirth, and now pausing to gaze, with childish curiosity, on the grief of the mourner. As the funeral train approached the grave, the parson issued from the church-porch, arrayed in the surplice, with prayer-book in hand, and attended by the clerk.

8. The service, however, was a mere act of charity. The deceased. had been destitute, and the survivor was penniless. It was shuffled through, therefore, in form, but coldly and unfeel

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