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Intelligently listened; and gazed far back
In the awful depths of Deity;
Did all that mind assisted most could do;
And yet in misery lived, in misery died,
Because he wanted holiness of heart.

EXERCISE LIX.

THE DEAD MOTHER.

ANCA.

Father. Touch not thy mother, boy. Thou canst not wako

her.
Child. Why, father? She still wakens at this hour.
F. Your mother's dead, my child.
C.

And what is dead ?
If she be dead, why, then, 'tis only sleeping;
For I am sure she sleeps. Come, mother,-rise :-
Her hand is very cold !

Her heart is cold.'
Her limbs are bloodless; would that mine were so !

C. If she would waken, she would soon be warm.
Why is she wrapped in this thin sheet? If I,
This winter morning, were not covered better,
I should be cold like her.

No, not like her:
The fire might warm you, or thick clothes; but her-
Nothing can warm again!
C.

If I could wake her,
She would smile on me, as she always does,
And kiss me.-Mother, you have slept too long.
Her face is pale; and it would frighten me,
But that I know she loves me.
F.

Come, my child.
C. Once, when I sat upon her lap, I felt
A beating at her side, and then she said

It was her heart that beat, and bade me feel
For my own heart, and they both beat alike,
Only mine was the quickest. And I feel
My own heart yet; but hers I cannot feel.

F. Child, child, you drive me mad. Come hence, I say.

C. Nay, father, be not angry; let me stay here
Till my mother wakens.
F.

I have told you,
Your mother cannot wake-not in this world;
But in another she will wake for us.
When we have slept like her, then we shall see her.

C. Would it were night then!
F.

No, unhappy child;
Full any a night shall pass, ere thou canst sleep
That last, long sleep. Thy father soon shall sleep it;
Then wilt thou be deserted upon earth :
None will regard thee; thou wilt soon forget
That thou hadst natural ties,--an orphan, lone,
Abandoned to the wiles of wicked men,
And women still more wicked.
C.

Father, father,
Why do you look so terribly upon me?
You will not hurt me?

Hurt thee, darling ? no!
Has sorrow's violence so much of anger,
That it should fright my boy? Come, dearest, come.
C. You are not angry,

then ? F.

Too well I love you. C. All

you

have said I can not now remember,
Nor what it meant, you terrified me so;
But this, I know, you told me,- I must sleep
Before my mother wakens; so, to-morrow-
Oh! father, that to-morrow were but come!

F.

EXERCISE LX.

CAARLES G. Eastman, an American poet and journalist, was born in Fryeburg, Maine, in the year 1816. He has been a large contributor to various periodicals, and his poems have gained him no small reputation.

A DIRGE is a hymn for the dead, or a funeral song. The word is most probably a contraction from DIRIGE, which is the first word in the line Dirige, Domine Deus ! (Direct us, O Lord God !) which forms part of an old Latin funeral service.

DIRGE.

OHARLES G. ZASTUAJ

I.

Softly!
She is lying
With her lips apart.

Softly!
She is dying
Of a broken heart.

II.

Whisper !
She is going
To her final rest.

Whisper !
Life is growing
Dim within her breast.

III.

Gently!
She is sleeping;
She has breathed her last.

Gently!
While you are weeping,
She to Heaven has passed !

EXERCISE LXI,

BELSHAZZAR is the name given in the Book of Daniel to the last king of the Chaldees, during whose reign Babylon was taken by the Medes and Persians. Out of the striking account of his impious feast, found in the fifth chapter of that Book, Procter has made the following spirited piece. For a Note on Procter, better known as Barry Corn. wall, see Exercise XXXVIII.

OVERTHROW OF BELSHAZZAR.

BARRY CORNWALL

I.

Belshazzar is king! Belshazzar is lord !
And a thousand dark nobles all bend at his board ;-
Fruits glisten, flowers blossom, meats steam, and a flood
Of the wine that man loveth, runs redder than blood :
Wild dancers are there, and a riot of mirth,
And the beauty that maddens the passions of earth;

And the crowds all shout,

Till the vast roofs ring,
“All praise to Belshazzar, Belshazzar the king !”

II.

“Bring forth,” cries the monarch, "the vessels of gold, Which

my father tore down from the temples of old : Bring forth; and we'll drink, while the trumpets are blown, To the gods of bright silver, of gold, and of stone: Bring forth !”—and before him the vessels all shine, And he bows unto Baal, and he drinks the dark wine;

While the trumpets bray,

And the cymbals ring, “Praise, praise to Belshazzar, Belshazzar the king !"

III.

Now, what cometh ?-look, look !-Without menace, or call,
Who writes, with the lightning's bright hand, on the wall ?
What pierceth the king, like the point of a dart?
What drives the bold blood from his cheek to his heart?

“ Chaldeans ! magicians! the letters expound !"
They are read ;-and Belshazzar is dead on the ground!

Hark !-the Persian is come,

On a conqueror's wing;
And a Mede's on the throne of Belshazzar the king!

EXERCISE LXII.

OLIVER WENDELL Holmes was born in Cambridge, Mass., August 29tn, 1809. In 1832 he went to Europe to pursue the study of medicine, where he spent some years in attendance on the great hospitals. In 1838 he was appointed Professor of Anatomy and Physiology in Dartmouth College, and, in 1847, he was chosen to fill the same office in the medical college of Harvard University. His chief distinction, however, is that of an author. his productions, both in prose and poetry, having given him a very elevated rank in the world of letters. As a writer of songs and lyric poems, he has few superiors. His papers, first published in The Atlantic Monthly" under the title—“THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST TABLE,” furnish some very rare and racy reading: mingling, in pleasant proportions, wit, humor, pathos, fancy, fact, keen discernment, large information, and great felicity of style and diction. The following excerpts are from several of these papers.

EXCERPTS (Ex, out, and CERPT, plucked) are pieces plucked out of their proper places in an author's work, and presented separately; extracts.

EXCERPTS

FROM THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST TABLE.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

I.

I really believe some people save their bright thoughts as being too precious for conversation. What do you think an admiring friend said the other day to one that was talking good things,—good enough to print? “Why,” said he, "you are wasting merchantable literature, a cash article, at the rate is nearly as I can tell, of fifty dollars an hour !" The talker took him to the window, and asked him to look out and tell him what he saw.

“ Nothing but a very dusty street,” he said. “and a man driving a sprinkling machine through it."

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