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waters were again flowing. With a choked voice he said, « Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection and the life': and whosoever liveth, and believeth in me', shall never die'. Believesti thou this'? She said unto him, Yea, Lord': I believe thou art the Christ, the Son of God, which should come into the world.” “That is not an unbeliever's voice'," said the dying man, triumphantly; "nor, William, hast thou an unbeliever's heart Say that thou believest in what thou hast now read', and thy father will die happy!” “I do believe'; and, as thou forgivest me', so may I be forgiven by my Father who is in heaven
14. The elder seemed like a man suddenly inspired with new life. His faded eyes kindled'; his pale cheeks glowed'; his palsied hands seemed to wax strong'; and his voice was clear as that of manhood in its prime'. "Into thy hands, O God', I commit my spirit';" and, so saying, he gently sunk back on his pillow, and I thought I heard a sigh'. There was then a long, deep silence'; and the father', the mother', and the child' rose from their knees'. The eyes of us all were turned towards the white placid face of the figure now stretched in everlasting rest; and without lamentations, save the silent lamentations of the resigned soul, we stood around the Death-bed of the Elder.
THE VILLAGE PREACHER.
BY OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
OLIVER GOLDSMITH was born in 1728, at Pallas, in the county of Longford, Ireland. He was a distinguished poet, novelist, historian, and essayist. He died at London in 1774.
1. NEAR yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,
And still where many a garden-flower grows wild';
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,
2. His house was known to all the vagrant train';
He chid their wanderings', but relieved their pain';
His pity gave ere charity began.
And e’en his failings lean’d to virtue's side
Allured to brighter worlds', and led the way'. 4. Beside the bed where parting life was laid
And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismay'd',
5. At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorn'd the venerable place';
6. His ready smile a parent's warmth express'd ;
Their welfare pleased him', and their cares distress'd':
To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were given,
THE VILLAGE SCHOOL-MASTER.
BY OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
1. BESIDE yon straggling fence that skirts the way',
With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay',
Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown’d'. 2. Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught,
The love he bore to learning was his fault:
OSSIAN'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN AND MOON.
BY J. MACPHERSON.
NOTE.—This lesson is taken from Ossian's poems. These poems are said to be the production of Ossian, an ancient Scotch bard who lived about the beginning of the third century. They were originally written in the Gaelic language, but translated into English, in 1762, by Mr. Macpherson.
1. O thou that rollest above, round as the shield of my fathers ! Whence are thy beams, O sun' ? thy everlasting light'? Thou comest forth in thy awful beauty; the stars hide themselves in the sky; the moon', cold and pale', sinks in the western wave'; but thou thyself movest alone! Who can be a companion of thy course'? The oaks of the mountains fall'; the mountains themselves decay with years'; the ocean shrinks and grows again'; the moon herself is lost in heaven, but thou art forever the same, rejoicing in the brightness of thy course.
2. When the world is dark with tempests', when thunder rolls and lightning flies', thou lookest in thy beauty from the clouds' and laughest at the storm'. But to Ossian thou lookest in vain, for he beholds thy beams no more,—whether thy yellow hair flows on the eastern clouds', or thou tremblest at the gates of the west. But thou art perhaps like me for a season; thy years shall have an end.
Thou shalt sleep in thy clouds, careless of the voice of the morning. Exult', then, O Sun', in the strength of thy youth'! Age is dark and unlovely: it is like the glimmering light of the moon when it shines through broken clouds and the mist is on the hills: the blast of the north is on the plain; the traveler shrinks in the midst of his journey.
3. Daughter of heaven', fair art thou'! the silence of thy face is pleasant'! Thou comest forth in loveliness. The stars attend thy blue course in the east. The clouds rejoice in thy presence, O Moon'! they brighten their dark-brown sides. Who is like thee in heaven, light of the silent night? The stars are ashamed in thy presence. They turn away. their sparkling eyes. Whither dost thou retire from thy course', when the darkness of thy countenance grows'? Hast thou thy hall, like Ossian' ? Dwellest thou in the shadow of grief' ? Have thy sisters fallen from heaven' ? Are they who rejoiced with thee at night, no more'? Yes, they have fallen, fair light! And thou dost often retire to mourn. But thou thyself shalt fail, one night, and leave thy blue path in heaven. The stars will then lift their heads; they who were ashamed in thy presence will rejoice. Thou art now clothed with thy brightness. Look from thy gates in the sky. Burst the cloud', O wind', that the daughter of night may look forth', that the shaggy mountains may brighten', and the ocean roll its blue waves in light'.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
1. It waved not through an Eastern sky,
Beside a fount of Araby';
isle of Indian seas';
O’er stream of Afric, lone and deep';
Midst foliage of no kindred hue';
Purpled the moss-beds at its feet!
Where silvery waters near it gleam'd;
4. There came an eve of festal hours';
Rich music fill'd that garden's bowers':
5. But one', a lone one', midst the throng',
Seem'd reckless of all dance or song':