The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch,
And the swallow sings sweet from her nest in the wall;
All trembling with transport he raises the latch,
And the voices of loved ones reply to his call.

A father bends o'er him with looks of delight,
His cheek is impearled with a mother's warm tear;
And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite

With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear.

The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast,

Joy quickens his pulse-all his hardships seem o'er; And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest— "Oh God! thou hast blest me, I ask for no more.'

Ah! whence is that flame which now bursts on his eye!
Ah! what is that sound that now 'larums his ear?
'Tis the lightning's red glare painting hell on the sky!
'Tis the crashing of thunders, the groan of the sphere!
He springs from his hammock-he flies to the deck;
Amazement confronts him with images dire;-
Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a wreck,
The masts fly in splinters—the shrouds are on fire!

Like mountains the billows tumultuously swell,
In vain the lost wretch calls on mercy to save;—
Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell,

And the death-angel flaps his broad wings o'er the wave.

Oh, sailor boy! woe to thy dream of delight!

In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss ;— Where now is the picture that fancy touched bright, Thy parent's fond pressure, and love's honeyed kiss?

Oh, sailor boy! sailor boy! never again

Shall home, love, or kindred, thy wishes repay;
Unbless'd and unhonour'd, down deep in the main
Full many a score fathom thy frame shall decay.

No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee,
Or redeem form or frame from the merciless surge;
But the white foam of waves shall thy winding sheet be,
And winds in the midnight of winter thy dirge.

On beds of green sea-flower thy limbs shall be laid,
Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow;
Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made,
And every part suit to thy mansion below.

Days, months, years, and ages, shall circle away,
And still the vast waters above thee shall roll;
Earth loses thy pattern for ever and aye—
Oh, sailor boy! sailor boy! peace to thy soul!

LESSON CII.

Rainy Weather.-W. H. SIMMONS.

GRACIOUS Rain! how long wilt thou vouchsafe thyself to us, thankless groundlings? Wilt thou never tire, serviceable priestess, of thy great lustrations? From a thousand mountain-torrents, and emerald meads, and imperial rivers -from those pleasant homes of thine, the great lakes of the wilderness from thy palace of Ocean-painfully art thou ever ascending-suffering the intolerable sun-stroke, and expanding to bodiless vapour that thou mayest climb the air, and re-gather thy weary atoms-not to sail off, in thy gorgeous cloud-squadron, to a better world, or to live in soft dalliance forever with the blue heaven and the silver star-but to hang anxiously over our unworthy heads, and descend seasonably upon city or field, without a murmur, from thy hard-earned elevation.

Ay! and during that aerial watch of thine, heavenly benefactress! while thou art waiting to be gracious-tempering the meridian and unutterably decorating sunset and the dawn-art thou not exposed to the rude and wanton winds, who rend thy skirts, and hurry thee shivering about the inhospitable skies? And dost thou not entertain, perforce, the lightning-fearful guest!-deafened with his monstrous music, the thunder-peal, and scorched and riven with his fierce love? Yet wherefore that toilsome ascent-that dread sojourn-but to descend at last, purified by the sublime ordeal, in beneficent cadence, upon an oft ungrateful world? Oh! our offence is rank! One heart, at least,

hereafter shall humbly and thankfully welcome thee, when ever thou fallest" sweet rain from heaven, upon the place beneath." Whether in the genial infusion of thy fitful April favours, or in the copious and renovating magnificence of the summer shower, or under thy heavy equinoctial dominion, or in the loud, black storm-wintry or autumnal; welcome-ever welcome-in all thy seasons and in all thy moods!

For in none, fair minister, art thou not benignant; in the least amiable of them, most singularly dost thou deserve our love. Well would it please thee, doubtless, to usher in perpetual May-mornings with a soft suffusion-to fall never but when fanned by zephyrs and the sweetest southwestor from the breathless skies of June, when a verdant world pants for thy bountiful down-coming! And do we upbraid thee, in our heartless stupidity, because, rather than withhold thy life-giving dispensations, thou allayest thy gentle nature with thy opposites, and comest in unwelcome company-in chilly league with Eurus, or riding on the stormy wings of night-confounding Aquilo-subduing him to thy soft purpose, and charming away his rage-daring all things, so thou mayst reach and nourish the bosom of thine ancient Mother? Pious child-dear invader-forgive us !

LESSON CIII.

Hannibal to His Soldiers.-Livy.

ON what side soever I turn my eyes, I behold all full of courage and strength; a veteran infantry, a most gallant cavalry; you, my allies, most faithful and valiant; you, Carthaginians, whom not only your country's cause, but the justest anger, impels to battle. The hope, the courage of assailants, is always greater than of those who act upon the defensive. With hostile banners displayed, you are come down upon Italy; you bring the war.-Grief, injuries, indignities, fire your minds, and spur you forward

to revenge.

First, they demand me-that, I, your general, should be delivered up to them; next, all of you who had fought at the siege of Saguntum; and we were to be put to death by the extremest tortures. Proud and cruel nation! every thing must be yours, and at your disposal! You are to prescribe to us with whom we shall make war, with whom we shall make peace! You are to set us bounds; to shut us up within hills and rivers; but you-you are not to observe the limits which yourselves have fixed.

Pass not the Iberus. What next? Touch not the Saguntines; is Saguntum upon the Iberus? move not a step towards that city. Is it a small matter, then, that you have deprived us of our ancient possessions, Sicily and Sardinia? you would have Spain too? Well, we shall yield Spain; and then-you will pass into Africa! Will pass, did I say -this very year they ordered one of their consuls into Africa, the other into Spain.

No, soldiers, there is nothing left for us but what we can vindicate with our swords. Come on, then-be men.The Romans may with more safety be cowards; they have their own country behind them, have places of refuge to flee to, and are secure from danger in the roads thither; but for you, there is no middle fortune between death and victory. Let this be but well fixed in your minds, and once again, I say, you are conquerors.

LESSON CIV.

Marco Bozzaris.-HALLECK.

Ar midnight, in his guarded tent,
The Turk was dreaming of the hour
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,
Should tremble at his power:

In dreams, through camp and court, he bore
The trophies of a conqueror:

In dreams his song of triumph heard;
Then wore his monarch's signet-ring;
Then press'd that monarch's throne---a king;
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,
As Eden's garden-bird.

At midnight, in the forest shades,
BOZZARIS ranged his Suliote band,
True as the steel of their tried blades,
Heroes in heart and hand.

There had the Persian's thousands stood,
There had the glad earth drunk their blood
On old Platæa's day;

And now there breathed that haunted air
The sons of sires who conquer'd there,
With arm to strike, and soul to dare,
As quick, as far as they.

An hour pass'd on-the Turk awoke;
That bright dream was his last;

He woke to hear his sentries shriek,
"To arms! they come ! the Greek! the Greek!”
He woke to die midst flame and smoke,
And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke,
And death-shots falling thick and fast
As lightnings from the mountain-cloud;
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud,
BOZZARIS cheer his band:

"Strike-till the last arm'd foe expires;
Strike---for your altars and your fires;
Strike---for the green graves of your sires;
God---and your native land!"

They fought---like brave men, long and well;
They piled that ground with Moslem slain;
They conquer'd-but Bozzaris fell,

Bleeding at every vein.

His few surviving comrades saw

His smile, when rang their proud hurrah,
And the red field was won :

Then saw in death his eyelids close
Calmly, as to a night's repose,

Like flowers at set of sun.

BOZZARIS! with the storied brave

Greece nurtured in her glory's time, Rest thee-there is no prouder grave, Even in her own proud clime!