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waters were again flowing. With a choked voice he said, « Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection and the life': and whosoever liveth, and believeth in me', shall never die'. Believest thou this'? She said unto him, Yea, Lord': I believe thou art the Christ, the Son of God, which should come into the world.” “That is not an unbeliever's voice'," said the dying man, triumphantly; "nor, William, hast thou an unbeliever's heart'. Say that thou believest in what thou hast now read', and thy father will die happy.” “I do believe'; and, as thou forgivest me', so may I be forgiven by my Father who is in heaven!” .

14. The elder seemed like a man suddenly inspired with new life. His faded eyes kindled'; his pale cheeks glowed'; his palsied hands seemed to wax strong'; and his voice was clear as that of manhood in its prime' Into thy hands, O God', I commit my spirit';" and, so saying, he gently sunk back on his pillow', and I thought I heard a sigh'. There was then a long, deep silence'; and the father', the mother, and the child rose from their knees'. The eyes of us all were turned towards the white placid face of the figure now stretched in everlasting rest; and without lamentations, save the silent lamentations of the resigned soul, we stood around the Death-bed of the Elder.

LESSON XXVII.

THE VILLAGE PREACHER.

BY OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH was born in 1728, at Pallas, in the county of Longford, Ireland. He was a distinguished poet, novelist, historian, and essayist. He died at London in 1774.

1. NEAŘ yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,

And still where many a garden-flower grows wild;
There, where a few tórn shrubs the place disclose',
The village preacher's modest mansion rose':
A man he was to all the country dear',
And passing rich with forty pounds a year';
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,
Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place a
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power,
By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour;

Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.

2. His house was known to all the vagrant train';

He chid their wanderings', but relieved their pain';
The long-remember'd beggar was his guest,
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;
The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claim'd kindred there', and had his claims allow'd';
The broken soldier, kindly bid to stay,
Sat by his fire and talk'd the night away;
Wept o'er his wounds', or tales of sorrow done',
Shoulder'd his crutch', and show'd how fields were won'.
Pleased with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow,
And quite forgot their vices in their woe;
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,

His pity gave ere charity began.
3. Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,

And e'en his failings lean’d to virtue's side
But, in his duty prompt at every call,
He watch'd' and wept', he pray'd' and felt', for all;
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies',
He tried each art', reproved each dull delay',

Allured to brighter worlds', and led the way'. 4. Beside the bed where parting life was laid

And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismay'd',
The reverend champion stood. At his control,
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last faltering accents whisper'd praise.

5. At church, with meek and unaffected grace,

His looks adorn'd the venerable place';
Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway,
And fools', who came to scoff', remain’d to pray'.
The service past, around the pious man,
With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran';
E'en children follow'd with endearing wile,
And pluck'd his gown', to share the good man's smile'.

6. His ready smile a parent's warmth express'd;

Their welfare pleased him', and their cares distress'd':

To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were given,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven.
As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form',
Swells from the vale', and midway leaves the storm',
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread',
Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

LESSON XXVIII.

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THE VILLAGE SCHOOL-MASTER.

BY OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
1. BESIDE yon straggling fence that skirts the way',

With blossom’d furze unprofitably gay',
There, in his noisy mansion', skill'd to rule',
The village master taught his little school'.
A man severe he was, and stern to view :
I knew him well, and every truant knew;
Well had the boding tremblers learn’d to trace
The day's disasters in his morning face;
Full well they laugh’d, with counterfeited glee,
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he;
Full well the busy whisper, circling round',
Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd'.

2. Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught,

The love he bore to learning was bis fault:
The village all declared how much he knew,-
'Twas certain he could write', and cipher too';
Lands he could measure', times and tides presage',
And e’en the story ran' that he could gauge';
In arguing, too, the parson own’d his skill,
For e'en though vanquish'd he could argue still ;
While words of learned length and thundering sound
Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around,
And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew
That one small head could carry all he knew.

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LESSON XXIX.

OSSIAN'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN AND MOON.

BY J. MACPHERSON.

NOTE.-This lesson is taken from Ossian's poems. These poems are said to be the production of Ossian, an ancient Scotch bard who lived about the beginning of the third century. They were originally written in the Gaelic language, but translated into English, in 1762, by Mr. Macpherson.

1. O THOU that rollest above, round as the shield of my fathers ! Whence are thy beams, O sun'? thy everlasting light"? Thou comest forth in thy awful beauty; the stars hide themselves in the sky; the moon', cold and pale', sinks in the western wave'; but thou thyself movest alone'. Who can be a companion of thy course'? The oaks of the mountains fall'; the mountains themselves decay with years'; the ocean shrinks and grows again'; the moon herself is lost in heaven, but thou art forever the same, rejoicing in the brightness of thy course.

2. When the world is dark with tempests', when thunder rolls and lightning flies', thou lookest in thy beauty from the clouds' and laughest at the storm'. But to Ossian thou lookest in vain, for he beholds thy beams no more,—whether thy yellow hair flows on the eastern clouds', or thou tremblest at the gates of the west. But thou art perhaps like me for a season; thy years shall have an end. Thou shalt sleep in thy clouds, careless of the voice of the morning. Exult', then, O Sun', in the strength of thy youth'! Age is dark and unlovely: it is like the glimmering light of the • moon when it shines through broken clouds and the mist is on the hills : the blast of the north is on the plain; the traveler shrinks in the midst of his journey.

3. Daughter of heaven', fair art thou'! the silence of thy face is pleasant'! Thou comest forth in loveliness. The stars attend thy blue course in the east. The clouds rejoice in thy presence, O Moon'! they brighten their dark-brown sides. Who is like thee in heaven, light of the silent night? The stars are ashamed in thy presence. They turn away. their sparkling eyes. Whither dost thou retire from thy course', when the darkness of thy countenance grows'? Hast thou thy hall, like Ossian' ? Dwellest thou in the shadow of grief?? Have thy sisters fallen from heaven' ? Are they who rejoiced with thee at night, no more'? Yes, they have fallen, fair light! And thou dost often retire to mourn. But thou thyself shalt fail, one night, and leave thy

blue path in heaven. The stars will then lift their heads; they who were ashamed in thy presence will rejoice. Thou art now clothed with thy brightness. Look from thy gates in the sky. Burst the cloud', O wind', that the daughter of night may look forth', that the shaggy mountains may brighten', and the ocean roll its blue waves in light'.

LESSON XXX.

THE PALM-TREE.

BY MRS. HEMANS.
1. It waved not through an Eastern sky,

Beside a fount of Araby';
It was not fann'd by Southern breeze
In some green isle of Indian seas';
Nor did its graceful shadow sleep

O’er stream of Afric, lone and deep';
2 But fair the exiled palm-tree grew

Midst foliage of no kindred hue';
Through the laburnum's dropping gold
Rose the light shaft of Orient mould'; :
And Europe's violets, faintly sweet',

Purpled the moss-beds at its feet'.
3. Strange look'd it there'! The willow stream'd

Where silvery waters near it gleam'd;
The lime-bough lured the honey-bee
To murmur by the desert's tree;
And showers of sņowy roses made
A luster in its fanlike shade.

4. There came an eve of festal hours';

Rich music fill'd that garden's bowers':
Lamps that from flowering branches hung
On sparks of dew soft color flung,
And bright forms glanced'a fairy show-
Under the blossoms to and fro'.

5. But one', a lone one', midst the throng',

Seem'd reckless of all dance or song':

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