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The gentle offices of patient love,

Beyond al. flattery, and all price above;
The mild forbearance at a brother's fault,
The angry word suppress'd, the taunting thought:
Subduing and subdued the petty strife,
Which clouds the color of domestic life;
The sober comfort, all the peace which springs
From the large aggregate' of little things;

On these small cares of daughter, wife, and friend,
The almost sacred joys of Home depend:
There, Sensibility, thou best mayst reign,
Home is thy true, legitimate domain."

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HANNAH MORE.

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66. THE STORY OF PARNELL'S HERMIT.

DEVOUT hermit lived in a cave, near which a shepherd folded his flock. Many of the sheep being stolen, the shepherd was unjustly killed by his master, as being concerned in the theft. The hermit, seeing an innocent man put to death, began to suspects the existence of a Divine Providence, and resolved no longer to perplex himself with the useless severities of religion, but to mix in the world.

2. In traveling from his retirement, he was met by an angel in the figure of a man, who said, "I am an angel, and am sent by God to be your companion on the road." They entered a city, and begged for lodging at the house of a knight, who entertained them at a splendid supper. In the night, the angel rose from his bed and strangled the knight's only child, who was asleep in the cradle. The hermit was astonished at this barbarous return for so much hospitality, but was afraid to make any remonstrance1o to his companion. Next morning they went

1 Ag'gre gåte, the sum or amount.-2 Sen si bil' i ty, that feeling which leads us to perceive and feel the troubles and misfortunes of others.'Le ġit' i mate, rightful; lawful.-* Do main', dominion; empire; territory over which one's authority extends. De vout', pious; prayerful. — Hår' mit, one who lives alone in a retired place. Mås' ter.-- Sus pect', doubt. Hos pi tål' i ty, kindness to guests or strangers.—1o Remon' strance, reason against a thing.

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THE STORY OF PARNELL'S HERMIT.

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to another city. Here they were liberally received in the house of an opulent' citizen; but in the night the angel rose, and stole a golden cup of inestimable value. The hermit now concluded that his companion was a bad angel.

3. In traveling forward the next morning, they passed over a bridge, about the middle of which they met a poor man, of whom the angel asked the way to the next city. Having received the desired information, the angel pushed the poor man into the water, where he was immediately drowned. In the evening they arrived at the house of a rich man, and begging for a lodging, were ordered to sleep in a shed with the cattle. In the morning the angel gave the rich man the cup which he had stolen.

4. The hermit, amazed that the cup which was stolen from their friend and benefactor3 should be given to one who refused them a lodging, began to be now convinced that his companion was a devil; and begged to go on alone. But the angel said, “Hear me, and depart. When you lived in your hermitage, a shepherd was killed by his master. He was innocent of the supposed offense; but had he not been then killed, he would have committed crimes in which he would have died impenitent." His master endeavors to atone for the murder, by dedicating the remainder of his days to alms and deeds of charity.

5. “I strangled the child of the knight. But know, that the father was so intent on heaping up riches for his child, as to neglect those acts of public munificence for which he was before so distinguished, and to which he has now returned. I stole the golden cup of the hospitable citizen. But know, that from a life of the strictest temperance, he became, in consequence of possessing this cup, a perpetual drunkard, and is now the most abstemious' of men.

6. "I threw the poor man into the water. He was then honest and religious. But know, had he walked one half of a mile

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'Op'u lent, rich.—2 In ês' ti ma ble, that can not be estimated or valued; beyond price. Ben e fåc' tor, one who shows kindness, or does good to another. Im pên' i tent, without sorrow for crime. A tòne', to make amends.—* Mu nif' i cence, generosity; giving largely.—' Ab stẻ’mi ous, sparing in food or strong drink.

further, he would have murdered a man in a state of mortal sın. I gave the golden cup to the rich man, who refused to take us within his roof. He has therefore received his reward in this world, and in the next will suffer for his inhospitality." The hermit fell prostrate at the angel's feet, and, requesting forgiveness, returned to his hermitage, fully convinced of the wisdom and justice of God's government. WARTON.

67. To A WATERFOWL.

1. WHITHER, 'midst falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,'
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue
Thy solitary way?

2. Vainly the fowler's eye

Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,

Thy figure floats along.

3. Seek'st thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
On the chafed ocean-side?

4. There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,The desert and illimitable2 air,—

Lone wandering, but not lost.

'The poet has sacrificed rhetorical rule to poetical beauty in the second line of this exquisitely beautiful piece. Rhetoricians might, perhaps, ask how the "heavens" could glow with a step. But the true poet (and if ever there was a true poet, William Cullen Bryant is one) looks deeper than rhetorical rule. The picture here presented of Day impressing his gorgeous colors, even with his very footsteps, on the heavens, is more grand and suggestive than any other expression he could have used. Il lin 'it a ble, without limit; boundless.

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THE POTOMAC AND THE BLUE RIDGE.

5. All day thy wings have fanned
At that far height, the cold thin atmosphere;
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
Though the dark night is near.

6. And soon that toil shall end:
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,
And scream among thy fellows: reeds shall bend
Soon o'er thy shelter'd nest.

7. Thou'rt gone! the abyss of heaven
Hath swallow'd up thy form; yet, on my heart
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,
And shall not soon depart.

8. He who, from zone to zone,'

Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone,

Will lead my steps aright.

W. C. BRYANT.

68. PASSAGE OF THE POTOMAC THROUGH THE BLUE RIDGE.

THE passage of the Potomac through the Blue Ridge, is, per

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haps, one of the most stupendous2 scenes in nature. You stand on a very high point of land. On your right comes up the Shenandoah, having ranged along the foot of the mountain a hundred miles to seek a vent. On your left approaches the Potomac, seeking a passage also. In the moment of their junction, they rush together against the mountain, rend it asunder, and pass off to the sea.

2. The first glance at this scene hurries our senses into the opinion that this earth has been created in time; that the mountains were formed first; that the rivers began to flow afterward; that, in this place, particularly, they have been dammed up by the Blue Ridge of mountains, and have formed an ocean

'Zone to zone, from one part of the earth to another.-2 Stu pên dous, grand; amazing.-'Shen an do' ah, a river in Virginia, which unites with the Potomac at Harpers Ferry, just above its passage through the mountain.- Jůnc' tion, joining; union.

which filled the whole valley; that, continuing to rise, they have at length broken over at this spot, and have torn the mountain down from its summit to its base. The piles of rock on each hand, but particularly on the Shenandoah, the evident marks of their disrupture' and avulsion2 from their beds by the most pow erful agents of nature, corroborate3 the impression.

3. But the distant finishing which nature has given to the picture is of a different character. It is a true contrast to the foreground. It is as placid and delightful as that is wild and tremendous. For, the mountain being cloven' asunder, she presents to your eye, through the cleft, a small catch of smooth blue horizon, at an infinite distance in the plain country, inviting you, as it were, from the riot and tumult roaring round, to pass through the breach, and participate of the caìm below.

4. Here the eye ultimately composes itself; and that way, too, the road happens actually to lead. You cross the Potomac above its junction, pass along its side through the base of the mountain for three miles, its terrible precipices' hanging in frag ments8 over you, and within about twenty miles reach Fredericktown, and the fine country round that. This scene is worth a voyage across the Atlantic. Yet here, as in the neighborhood of the Natural Bridge, are people who have passed their lives within half a dozen miles, and have never been to survey these monuments of a war between rivers and mountains, which must have shaken the earth itself to its center. THOMAS JEFFERSON.

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69. PERPETUAL ADORATION.

HE turf shall be my fragrant snrine;"
My temple, Lord, that arch of thine
My censer s11 breath the mountain airs,

And silent thoughts my only prayers.

Disrup' ture, a preaking asunder.-' A vůl sion, tearing away.

Cor rob o rate, strengthen.- Fore ground, the front part, or mos conspicuous part of a picture or painting.— Cloven (klò' vn), divided; split. Ul' ti mate ly, finally; at last.—' Prẻc' i pic es, steep descents of rock or land. Fråg' ments, pieces broke off.-"Turf (tårf).—” Shrine, altar; a case or box in which sacred things are kept." Cèn' ser, a vessel in which incense is burnt.

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