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And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew,
The buttercups, the little children's dower,
Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

ROBERT BROWNING.

XXXIII. THE IRISH MAIDEN'S SONG.

"THERE is, however, one man, who distinctly and audaciously tells the Irish people, that they are not entitled to the same privileges as Englishmen; and who pronounces them, in every particular which could enter his minute enumeration of the circumstances, by which fellow-citizenship is created, in race, in country and religion to be aliens;-to be aliens in race, to be aliens in country, to be aliens in religion! The Duke of Wellington is not a man of an excitable temperament. His mind is of a cast too martial to be easily moved; but notwithstanding his habitual inflexibility, I cannot help thinking that, when he heard his Roman Catholic countrymen (for we are his countrymen) designated by a phrase as offensive as the abundant vocabulary of his eloquent confederate [Lord Lyndhurst], could supply, I cannot help thinking that he ought to have recollected the many fields of fight, in which we have been contributors to his renown. [At Waterloo], the blood of England, Scotland, and of Ireland, flowed in the same stream, and drenched the same field. When the chill morning dawned, their dead lay cold and stark together; in the same deep pit, their bodies were deposited; the green corn of spring is now breaking from their commingled dust; the dew falls from Heaven upon their union in the grave. Partakers in every peril, in the glory shall we not be permitted to participate?-and shall we be told, as a requital, that we are estranged frem the noble country, for whose salvation our lifeblood was poured out?"-Sheil's Speeches.

THOUGH lofty Scotia's mountains,
Where savage grandeur reigns;
Though bright be England's fountains,
And fertile be her plains;
When 'mid their charms I wander,

Of thee I think the while,

And seem of thee the fonder,
My own green isle !

While many who have left thee,
Seem to forget thy name,
Distance hath not bereft me
Of its endearing claim:
Afar from thee sojourning,
Whether I sigh or smile,
I call thee still, "Mavourneen,"
My own green isle !

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XXXIV. GOD SAVE THE QUEEN.

"PATRIOTISM is, perhaps, not properly to be considered as a distinct principle of our nature; but rather as a result of a combination of the other affections. It leads us, by every means in our power, to promote the peace and the prosperity of our country, and to discourage, to the utmost of our ability, whatever tends to the contrary. Every member of the community has something in his power in this respect. He may set an example, in his own person, of dutiful and loyal respect to the first authority, of strict obedience to the laws, and respectful submission to the institutions of his country. He may oppose the attempts of factious individuals to sow among the ignorant the seeds of discontent, tumult, or discord. He may oppose and repress attempts to injure the revenue of the state; may aid in the preservation of public tranquillity, and in the execution of public justice. Finally, he may zealously exert himself in increasing the knowledge and improving the moral habits of the people,-two of the most important means by which the conscientious man, in any rank of life, may aid in conferring a high and permanent benefit on his country."-Abercrombie's Moral Feelings.

GOD save our gracious Queen,
Long live our noble Queen,
God save the Queen!
Send her victorious,
Happy and glorious,
Long to reign over us,

God save the Queen!

O Lord our God arise,
Scatter her enemies,

And make them fall.
Confound their politics,

Frustrate their knavish tricks;
On her our hearts we fix,
God save us all!

Thy choicest gifts in store,
On Queen Victoria pour,
Long may she reign.
May she defend our laws,
And ever give us cause,

To sing with heart and voice,
God save the Queen!

ANONYMOUS.*

Our national anthem of "God Save the King," composed in the time of George I., has always been considered of English origin; but on reading the amusing " Memoirs of Madame de Cregny," it appears to have been almost a literal translation of the cantique, which was always sung by the demoiselles de St. Cyr, when Louis XIV. entered the chapel of that establishment to hear the morning prayer. The words were by M. de Brinon, and the music by the famous Lully:

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It appears to have been translated and adapted to the House of Hanover by Handel the German composer.-Raikes' Journal.

POEMS OF WORK AND PROGRESS.

I. THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

"WORK is the mission of man in this earth. A day is ever struggling forward, a day will arrive in some approximate degree, when he who has no work to do, by whatever name he may be named, will not find it good to show himself in our quarter of the solar system, but may go and look out elsewhere, if there be any idle planet discoverable. Let the honest working man rejoice that such law, the first of nature, has been made good on him; and hope that, by and by, all else will be made good. It is the beginning of all." * * * "He that can work is a born king of something; is in communion with nature; is master of a thing or things, is a priest and king of nature so far. He that can work at nothing is but a usurping king, be his trappings what they may; he is the born slave of all things. Let a man honour his craftmanship--his can-do."—Carlyle.

Compare these adjectives:

*

*

Conjugate these verbs, and indu:ate whether they are trans. or intrans.

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Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow ;*

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,

Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;

They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a thrashing floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice
Singing in Paradise!

He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;

And with his hard rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close:

Something attempted, something done,

Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought!

1. Put these two lines in their natural order.

2. Bands, what case?

LONGFELLOW.

3. Tan, what part of speech?
4. Parse blow.

5. It, what?

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