thought, which are requisite to the plotting and framing of a long poem in blank verse.

Whatever reviewers may say, or have said of this writer, there has ever, to me, been a charm, both in his subject and manner; and, although he sometimes condescends to play too long with the baby-tools of his art, it is obvious that his mind is adequate to the most correct and elevated conceptions of human passion. If there is less of "fine frenzy" in his thoughts and descriptions, than in those of some of his cotemporaries, there is enough of the sublime and the tender, the pathetick and the moral, of the power of imagination and the force of language, to establish his claim to the merit of genuine poetry; and while the scope of his writings remains true to the best principles of humanity, he can scarcely fail, I think, to have an admirer in every reader of taste and feeling.

He expressed regret that the society of Friends were so generally inclined, as they are in England, to`resort to cities and engage in trade; for he thinks their doctrines and manners are much more congenial with the simplicity of rural occupations; and that in a country life, there is much less danger of their being betrayed into a dereliction of principle, than in the contests and competitions of mercantile pursuits.

In common with most of the philanthropists I have fallen in with, he is anxious that our government should pursue a course that will give permanency to the institutions on which it is founded; but he entertains apprehensions of its stability, in a great measure, from the presumption, that men, who, under the garb of patriotism, have performed acts of service to the country, and conciliated the feelings of the nation, will, from the thirst of ambition and the pride of power, strike at the root of liberty, and introduce disorder and confusion.

The little stories of Barbara Lethwaite and Harry Gill,Wordsworth informed me, are founded on fact; and the incident of "We are seven," occurred to him in Wales. As an agent of the government, in the local concerns of the country, this gentleman receives an income, as I have been informed, of £500 a year,

LESSON CXXXIX.

Mount Washington.*-MELLEN.

MOUNT of the clouds; on whose Olympian height
The tall rocks brighten in the ether air,

And spirits from the skies come down at night,
To chant immortal songs to Freedom there!
Thine is the rock of other regions; where
The world of life which blooms so far below
Sweeps a wide waste: no gladdening scenes appear,
Save where with silvery flash the waters flow
Beneath the far off mountain, distant, calm, and slow.

Thine is the summit where the clouds repose, Or eddying wildly round thy cliffs are borne; When Tempest mounts his rushing car, and throws His billowy mist amid the thunder's home! Far down the deep ravines the whirlwinds come, And bow the forests as they sweep along; While roaring deeply from their rocky womb The storms come forth-and hurrying darkly on, Amid the echoing peaks the revelry prolong !

And when the tumult of the air is fled,

And quenched in silence all the tempest flame,
There come the dim forms of the mighty dead,
Around the steep which bears the hero's name.
The stars look down upon them—and the same
Pale orb that glistens o'er his distant grave,

Gleams on the summit that enshrines his fame,
And lights the cold tear of the glorious brave-
The richest, purest tear, that memory ever gave!

Mount of the clouds! when winter round thee throws
The hoary mantle of the dying year,
Sublime amid thy canopy of snows,

Thy towers in bright magnificence appear!
"Tis then we view thee with a chilling fear,
Till summer robes thee in her tints of blue;
When lo! in softened grandeur, far, yet clear,
Thy battlements stand clothed in Heaven's own hue,
To swell as Freedom's home on man's unbounded view!

* The loftiest peak of the White Mountains, N. H.

LESSON CXL

Extract from a Disomerse delivered before the Society for commemorating the Landing of William Penn, Oct. 24th 1925.—J. H. LvGERSOLL

Is the crucible of liberty, all the languages of Europe have been melted into one. In the temple of toleration, all religions have been sanctified. The forests of a continent have been weeded with sturdy hands, till its wilds have become the ways of pleasantness, and the paths of peace. With stout hearts and apt genius, the ocean has been tamed till it is part of the domain.

Plenty empties her fuil horn into the lap of tranquillity. Commerce fetches riches from every latitude. The earth and mountains are quick with inexhaustible productions. Domestick industry contributes its infinite creations. Poetry, history, architecture, sculpture, painting, and musick, daily add their memorials. Yet these are as nothing. Enjoyments scarcely acknowledged-all local advantages would be disregarded, if they were not recommended by the religious. social, and political principles we enjoy with them.

Let us cultivate, and vindicate, and perpetuate this country, not only by the power and sympathies of heroick exploits, but by the nobler attractions of all the arts of peace. Ours is the country of principles, not place; where the domestick virtues reign, in union with the rights of man; where intense patriotism is the natural offspring of those virtues and rights; where love of country is a triple tie, to birthplace, to state, and to union, spun in the magick woof that binds calcula

tion to instinct.

Aloof, erect, unmeddling, undaunted, it neither envies nor fears, while justly estimating, the splendid and imposing ascendency of the continent it sprung from. It sends on every gale to Europe the voice, not of defiance or hostility, but of an independent hemisphere of freemen. It sends to Asia the riches of commerce, and the Gospel with healing on its wings. It sends to Africa the banner spangled with stars, to awe the tyrant and protect the slave. It sends to all benighted quarters of the globe, the mild but divine radiance of an irresistible example. It invites the oppressed of all nations and degrees, from dethroned monarchs and banished princes, to fugitive peasants and destitute labourers, to come and rest within these borders,

May the sciences and refinements which embellish and enlighten, the charities that endear, and the loyalty that ennobles, forever flourish here on the broad foundations of peace, liberty, and intelligence. And among increasing millions of educated, moral, and contented people, may the disciples of Penn, Franklin, and Washington, meet together in frequent and grateful concourse, to render thanksgivings to the Almighty for the blessings we enjoy by his dispensation.

LESSON CXLI.

Burial of the Minnisink.-LONGFELLOW.

ON sunny slope and beechen swell,
The shadowed light of evening fell;
And when the maple's leaf was brown,
With soft and silent lapse came down,
The glory that the wood receives
At sunset, in its golden leaves.

Far upward, in the mellow light,

Rose the blue hills-one cloud of white;

Around a far uplifted coné

In the warm blush of evening shone:

An image of the silver lakes

By which the Indian soul awakes.

But soon a funeral hymn was heard,
Where the soft breath of evening stirred
The tall gray forest-and a band
Of stern in heart and strong in hand,
Came winding down beside the wave
To lay the red chief in his grave.

They sung-that by his native bowers
He stood, in the last moon of flowers,
And thirty snows had not yet shed
Their glory on the warriour's head:-
But as the summer fruit decays-
So died he in those naked days.

Before, a dark-haired virgin train
Chanted the death dirge of the slain :
Behind, the long procession came
Of hoary men and chiefs of fame-
With heavy hearts--and eyes of grief--
Leading the war-horse of their chief.

Stript of his proud and martial dress,
Uncurbed, unreined, and riderless--
With darting eye, and nostril spread--
And heavy and impatient tread,
He came--and oft that eye so proud
Asked for his rider in the crowd.

They buried the dark chief-they freed
Beside the grave his battle steed-
And swift an arrow cleaved its way
To his stern heart :-One piercing neigh
Arose-and on the dead man's plain,
The rider grasps his steed again.*

My country-at the sound of that dear name The wanderer's heart awakens, nerved and bold; Before him stands the deeds and days of old, The tombs of ages, and the rolls of fame Sculptured on columns, where the living flame Of Freedom lights anew its fading ray,

And glows in emulation of that day,