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hberty in the ancient world, by destroying herself. Sword, in modern times, annihilated the Republics of Italy, the atic towns, and the primitive independence of Ireland, Wa. Scotland ? What but the Sword partitioned Poland, assassinati rising liberty of Spain, banished the Huguenots from France, made Cromwell the master, not the servant, of the People ? And what but the Sword of Republican France destroyed the Independence of half of Europe, deluged the continent with tears, devoured its nullions upon millions, and closed the long catalogue of guilt, by founding and defending to the last the most powerful, selfish, and insatiable of military despotisms?

The Sword, indeed, delivered Greece from the Persian invaders, expelled the Tarquins from Rome, emancipated Switzerland and Holland, restored the Bruce to his Throne, and brought Charles to the scaffold. And the Sword redeemed the pledge of the Congress of '76, when they plighted to each other "their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor.” And yet, what would the redemption of that pledge have availed towards the establishment of our present Government, if the spirit of American institutions bad not been both the birthright and the birth-blessing of the Colonies? The Indians, the French, the Spaniards, and even England herself, warred in vain against a People, born and bred in the household, at the domestic altar, of Liberty herself. They had never been slaves, for they were born free. The Sword was a herald to proclaim their freedom, but it neither created nor preserved it. A century and a half had already beheld them free in infancy, free in youth, free in early manhood. Theirs was already the spirit of American institutions; the spirit of Christian freedom, of a temperate, regulated freedom, of a rational civil obedience. For such a People, the Sword, the law of violence, did and could do nothing, but sever the bonds which bound her colonial wards to their unnatural guardian. They redeemed their pledge, Sword in hand; but the Sword left them as it found them, unchanged in character, - freemen in thought and in deed, instinct with the immortal spirit of American institutions !

70. ABOU BEN ADHEM.-Leigh Hunt
ABOU BEx ADHEM (may his tribe increase !)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw within the moonlight of his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold.
Exceeding peace

had made Ben Adhem bold,
And, to the presence in the room, he said,
" What writest thou ?” The vision raised its head,
And, with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered, The names of those who love the Lord !"

“ And is mine one ?” asked Abou. Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel. Abou spake more low,
But cheerly still ; and said "I pray thee. then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men.”
The angel wrote and vanished. The next night
It came again, with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blest •
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest!

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71 POLONIUS TO LAERTES. - - William Shakspeare. Born, 1564 ; died, 1616.

My blessing with you !
And these few precepts in thy memory
Look thou charac'ter. Give thy thoughts no tongue,
Nor any unproportioned thought his act.
Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar :
The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,
Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel;
But do not dull thy palm with entertainment
Of each new-hatched, unfledged comrade. Beware
Of entrance to a quarrel ; but, being in,
Bear it that the opposer may beware of thee.
Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice ;
Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment.
Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,
But not expressed in fancy; rich, not gaudy:
For the apparel oft proclaims the man ;
And they in France, of the best rank and station,
Are most select and generous chief in that.
Neither a borrower nor a lender be;
For loan oft loses both itself and friend,
And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.
This above all, - to thine own self be trur,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.

72 WHERE IS HE? – Henry Neele. Born, 1798 ; died, 182

“Man giveth up the ghost, and where is he?"
* And where is he?” Not by the side

Of her whose wants he loved to tend ;
Not o'er those valleys wandering wide,

Where, sweetly lost, he oft would wend.
That form beloved he marks no more ;

Those scenes admired no more shall see ;
Those scenes are lovely as beforc,

And she as frir, - but where is he?

No, no! the radiance is not dim,

That used to gild his favorite hill •
The pleasures that were dear to him

Are dear to life and nature still
But, ah! his home is not as fair

Neglected must his garden be
The lilies droop and wither there

And seem to whisper, Where is he?
His was the pomp, the crowded hall

But where is now his proud display?
His riches, honors, pleasures, - all,

Desire could frame; but where are they?
And be, as some tall rock that stands,

Protected by the circling sca,
Surrounded by admiring bands,

Seemed proudly strong, - and where is he?
The church-yard bears an added stone ;

The fire-side shows a vacant chair ;
Here Sadness dwells, and weeps alone;

And Death displays his banner there !
The life has gone; the breath has fled ;

And what has been no more shall be ;
The well-known form, the welcome treau,

0! where are they? And where is he ?

73. GROWTH OF INTERNATIONAL SYMPATHIES. - President Wayland. In many respects, the Nations of Christendom_collectively are becoming somewhat analogous to our own Federal Republic. Antiquated distinctions are breaking away, and local animosities are subsiding. The common people of different countries are knowing each other better, esteeming each other more, and attaching themselves to each other by various manifestations of reciprocal good will. It is true, every nation has still its separate boundaries and its individual interests ; but the freedom of commercial intercourse is allowing those interests to adjust themselves to each other, and thus rendering the causes of collision of vastly less frequent occurrence. Local questions are becoming of less, and general questions of greater importance. Thanks be to God, men have at last begun to understand the rights and fcel for the wrongs of each other! Mountains interposed do not so much make enemies of nations. Let the trumpet of alarm be sounded, and its notes are now heard by every nation, whether of Europe or America. Let a voice borne on the feeblest breeze tell that the rights of man are in danger, and it floats over valley and mountain, across continent and ocean, until it has vibrated on the ear of the remotest dweller in Christendom. Let the arm of ("ppression oe raised to crush the feeblest nation on earth, and there will be heard everywhere, if not the shout of defiance, at least the deep-toned mur mur of implacable displeasure. It is the cry of aggrieved, insulted, much-abused man. It is human nature waking in her might from the slumber of ages, shaking herself from the dust of antiquated institutions, girding herself for the combat, and going forth conquering and to conquer; and woe unto the man, woe unto the dynasty, woe unto

ihe party, and woe unto the policy, on whom shall fall the scathe of • her blighting indignation !

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74 THE WORTH OF FAME. - Joanna Baillie. Born, 1765; died, 1860.

0! who shall lightly say that Fame
Is nothing but an empty name,
Whilst in that sound there is a charm
The nerves to brace, the heart to warm,
As, thinking of the mighty dead,

The young from slothful couch will start,
And vow, with lifted hands outspread,

Like them to act a noble part!
O! who shall lightly say that Fame
Is nothing but an empty name,
When, but for those, our mighty dead, -

All ages past, a blank would be,
Sunk in oblivion's murky bed, -

A desert bare, a shipless sea ?
They are the distant objects seen,
The lofty marks of what hath been.
0! who shall lightly say that Fame
Is nothing but an empty name,
When memory of the mighty dead

To earth-worn pilgrim's wistful eye
The brightest rays of cheering shed,

That point to immortality?
A twinkling speck, but fixed and bright,
To guide us through the dreary night,
Each hero shines, and lures the soul

To gain the distant, happy goal.
For is there one who, musing o'er the grave
Where lies interred the good, the wise, the brave,
Can poorly think, beneath the mouldering heap.
That noble being shall forever sleep?
No, saith the generous heart, and proudly swells,
“Though his ccred corse lies here, with God his spirit dwells."

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75. THE PURSUIT OF FRIVOLOUS PLEASURES. - Young

O, THE dark days of vanity! while here
How tasteless, and how terrible when gone!
Gone! they ne'er go; when past, they haunt us still ;
The spirit walks of every day deceased,
And smiles an angel, or a fury frowns.
Nor death nor life delights us.

If time past
And tiine possest both pain us, what can please ?
That which the Deity to please ordained,
TIME USED! The man who consecrates his houre
By vigorous effort and an honest aim,
At once he draws the sting of life and death ;
He walks with Nature, and her paths are peace.

Ye well arrayed ! ye lilies of our land !
Ye lilies male! who neither toil nor spin
(As sister lilies might), if not so wise
As Solomon, more sumptuous to the sight!
Ye delicate! who nothing can support,
Yourselves most insupportable ! for whom
The winter rose must blow, the Sun put on
A brighter beam in Leo; silky-soft
Favonius breathe still softer, or be chid ;
And other worlds send odors, sauce, and song,
And robes, and notions, framed in foreign looms,-
0 Lorenzos of our age! who deem
One moment unamused a misery
Not made for feeble man; who call aloud
For every bauble drivelled o'er by sense
For rattles and conceits of every cast,
For change of follies and relays of joy,
To drag your patient through the tedious length
Of a short winter's day, - say, Sages, say!
Wit's oracles ! say, dreamers of gay dreams !
How will ye weather AN ETERNAL NIGHT,
Where such expedients fail ?

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76. FORGIVE. Bishop Heber. Born, 1783; died, 1826. O Gop! my sins are manifold; against my life they cry, And all my guilty deeds foregone up to Thy temple fly. Wilt this release my trembling soul, that to despair is driven? * Forgive!” a blesséd voice replied, “and thou shalt be forgiven.” My foemen, Lord, are fierce and fell; they spurn me in their pride They render evil for my good; my patience they deride; Arise! my King! and be the proud in righteous ruin driven! * Forgive !” the awful answer came, “as thou wouldst be forgiven '*

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