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I know not, that I now could bear
Forever from thy side to part,
And live without a friend to share
The treasured sadness of my heart.
2. I did not love, in former years,
To leave thee solitary: now,
When sorrow dims thine eyes with tears,
And shades the beauty of thy brow,
I'll share the trial and the pain;

And strong the furnace fires must be,
To melt away the willing chain
That binds a daughter's heart to thee.

3. I will not boast a martyr's might,

To leave my home without a sigh;
The dwelling of my past delight,
The shelter where I hoped to die.
In such a duty, such an hour,

The weak are strong, the timid, brave,
For love puts on an angel's power,

And faith grows mightier than the grave.

4. It was not so, ere he we loved,

And vainly strove with Heaven to save,
Heard the low call of death, and moved
With holy calmness to the grave,
Just at that brightest hour of youth
When life, spread out, before us lay,
And charmed us with its tones of truth,
And colors radiant as the day.

5. When morning's tears of joy were shed,
Or nature's evening incense rose,
We thought upon the grave with dread,
And shuddered at its dark repose.
But all is altered now: of death

The morning echoes sweetly speak,
And like my loved one's dying breath,
The evening breezes fan my cheek.

6. For rays of heaven, serenely bright,
Have gilt the caverns of the tomb;
And I can ponder with delight,
On all its gathering thoughts of gloom.
Then, mother, let us haste away

To that blessed land to Israel given,
Where faith, unsaddened by decay,

Dwells nearest to its native heaven.

7. We'll stand within the temple's bound,
In courts by kings and prophets trod;
We'll bless, with tears, the sacred ground,
And there be earnest with our God,

Where peace and praise forever reign,
And glorious anthems duly flow,
Till seraphs learn to catch the strain
Of heaven's devotions, here below.
8. But where thou goest, I will

go;
With thine, my earthly lot is cast;
In pain and pleasure, joy and woe,
Will I attend thee to the last.
That hour shall find me by thy side;

Ard where thy grave is, mine shall be;
Death can but for a time divide

My firm and faithful heart from thee.

CHRIST. EXAMINER.

LESSON CCI.

LAMENT FOR THE DEAD.

1. Reyno. THE wind and rain are over; calm is the noon of day. The clouds are divided in heaven; over the green hill flies the inconstant sun; red, through the stony vale, comes down the stream of the hill. Sweet are thy murmurs, O stream! But more sweet is the voice I hear. It is the voice of Alpin, the son of song, mourning for the dead. Bent is his head of age, and red his tearful eye. Alpin, thou son of song, why alone on the silent hill? Why complainest thou as a blast in the wood, as a wave on the lonely shore?

2. Alpin. My tears, O Reyno! are for the dead; my voice for the inhabitants of the grave. Tall thou art on the hill; fair among the sons of the plain. But thou shalt fall like Morar; and the mourners shall sit on thy tomb. The hills shall know thee no more, thy bow shall lie in the halls, unstrung.

3. Thou wert swift, O Morar! as a roe on the hill; terrible as a meteor of fire. Thy wrath was as the storm; thy sword in battle, as lightning in the field. Thy voice was like a stream after rain; like thunder, on distant hills. Many fell by thy arm; they were consumed in the flames of thy wrath. But when thou didst return from war, how peaceful was thy brow! Thy face was like the sun, after rain; like the moon, in the silence of night; calm as the breast of the lake, when the loud wind is hushed into repose. Narrow is thy dwelling, now; dark the place of thine abode. With three steps, I compass thy grave, O thou, who wast so great before! Four stones, with their heads of moss, are the only memorial of thee. A tree with scarce a leaf,

long grass whistling in the wind, mark to the hunter's eye, the grave of mighty Morar.

4. Morar! thou art low indeed: thou hast no mother to mourn thee; no maid with her tears of love. Dead is she that brought thee forth; fallen is the daughter of Morglan. Who, on his staff, is this? Who this, whose head is white with age, whose eyes are galled with tears, who quakes at every step? It is thy father, O Morar! the father of no son but thee. Weep, thou father of Morar, weep; but thy son heareth thee not. Deep is the sleep of the dead, low their pillow of dust. No more shall he hear thy voice, no more awake at thy call. When shall it be morn in the grave, to bid the slumberer awake? Farewell, thou bravest of men; thou conqueror of the field; but the field shall see thee no more, nor the gloomy wood be lightened by the splendor of thy steel. Thou hast left no son,-but the song shall preserve thy

name.

OSSIAN.

LESSON CCII.

A REPUBLIC OF PRAIRIE-DOGS.

The

1. On returning from our excursion, I learned that a burrow, or village, as it is termed, of prairie-dogs had been discovered upon the level summit of a hill, about a mile from the camp. Having heard much of the habits and peculiarities of these little animals, I determined to pay a visit to the community. prairie-dog is, in fact, one of the curiosities of the Far West, about which travelers delight to tell marvelous tales, endowing him, at times, with something of the political and social habits of a rational being, and giving him systems of civil government and domestic economy, almost equal to what they used to bestow upon the beaver.

2. The prairie-dog is an animal of the cony kind, about the size of a rabbit. He is of a very sprightly, mercurial nature; quick, sensitive, and somewhat petulant. He is very gregarious, living in large communities, sometimes of several acres in extent, where innumerable little heaps of earth, show the entrances to the subterranean cells of the inhabitants, and the well-beaten tracks, like lanes and streets, show their mobility and restlessness. According to the accounts given of them, they would seem to be continually full of sport, business, and public affairs; whisking about hither and thither, as if on gossiping visits to each other's houses, or congregating in the cool of the evening, or after a shower, and gamboling together in the open air.

3. Sometimes, especially when the moon shines, they pass half the night in revelry, barking or yelping with short, quick, yet weak tones, like those of very young puppies. While in the hight of their playfulness and clamor, however, should there be the least alarm, they all vanish into their cells in an instant, and the village remains blank and silent. In case they are hard pressed

by their pursuers, without any hope of escape, they will assume a pugnacious air, and a most whimsical look of impotent wrath and defiance. Such are a few of the particulars that I could gather about the habits of this little inhabitant of the prairies, who, with his pigmy republic, appears to be a subject of much whimsical speculation and burlesque remarks, among the hunters of the Far West.

4. It was toward evening that I set out, with a companion, to visit the village in question. Unluckily, it had been invaded in the course of the day by some of the rangers, who had shot two or three of its inhabitants, and thrown the whole sensitive community into confusion. As we approached, we could perceive numbers of the inhabitants seated at the entrance of their cells, while sentinels seemed to have been posted on the out-skirts, to keep a look out. At sight of us, the picket-guards scampered in and gave the alarm; whereupon, every inhabitant gave a short yelp or bark, and dived into his hole, his heels twinkling in the air, as if he had thrown a somerset.

5. We traversed the whole village, or republic, which covered an area of about thirty acres; but not a whisker of an inhabitant was to be seen. We probed their cells as far as the ramrods of our rifles would reach, but in vain. Moving quietly to a little distance, we lay down upon the ground, and watched for a long time, silent and motionless. By and by, a cautious old burgher would slowly put forth the end of his nose, but instantly draw it in again. Another, at a greater distance, would emerge entirely; but, catching a glance of us, would throw a somerset and plunge back again into his hole. At length, some who resided on the opposite side of the village, taking courage from the continued stillness, would steal forth, and hurry off to a distant hole, the residence, possibly, of some family connection or gossiping friend, about whose safety they were solicitous, or with whom they wished to compare notes about the late occurrences. Others, still more bold, assembled in little knots in the streets and public places, as if to discuss the recent outrages offered to the commonwealth, and the atrocious murders of their fellow burghers.

6. We rose from the ground, and moved forward to take a nearer view of these public proceedings, when, yelp! yelp! yelp!there was a shrill alarm passed from mouth to mouth; the meet

ing suddenly dispersed; feet twinkled in the air in every direction, and, in an instant, all had vanished into the earth.

7. The dusk of the evening put an end to our observations, but the train of whimsical comparisons produced in my brain, by the moral attributes which I had heard given to these little, politic animals, still continued after my return to camp; and, late in the night, as I lay awake after all the camp was asleep, and heard, in the stillness of the hour, a faint clamor of shrill voices from the distant village, I could not help picturing to myself the inhabitants gathered together in noisy assembly and windy debate, to devise plans for the public safety, and to vindicate the invaded rights and insulted dignity of the republic.

W. IRVING.

LESSON CCIII.

PRINCE HENRY AND FALSTAFF.

PRINCE HENRY and POINS, in a back room, in a tavern.
FALSTAFF, GADSHILL, BARDOLPH, ana PETO.

Enter

Poins. WELCOME, Jack. Where hast thou been? Falstaff. A plague of all cowards, I say, and a vengeance too! marry and amen! Give me a cup of sack, boy. Ere I lead this life long, I'll sew nether-socks,* and mend them, and foot them too. A plague of all cowards! Give me a cup of sack, rogue. Is there no virtue extant? [He drinks, and then continues.] You rogue, here's lime in this sack: there's nothing but roguery to be found in villainous man: yet a coward is worse than a cup of sack, with lime in it; a villainous coward. Go thy ways, old Jack; die when thou wilt: if manhood, good manhood, be not forgot upon the face of the earth, then am I a shotten herring. There live not three good men unhanged, in England; and one of them is fat and grows old; a bad world, I say! I would I were a weaver; I could sing psalms, or any thing; a plague of all cowards, I say still.

Prince Henry. How now, wool-sack? What mutter you?

Fal. Thou art a king's son. Now, if I do not beat thee out of thy kingdom with a dagger of lath, and drive all thy subjects afore thee like a flock of wild geese, I'll never wear hair on my face more. prince of Wales!

You

P. Henry. Why, you base-born dog! What's the matter? Fal. Are you not a coward? Answer me to that; and Poins there? Poins. Ye fat paunch, an ye call me coward, I'll stab thee. Fal. I call thee coward? I'll see thee gibbeted, ere I call thee coward: but I would give a thousand pounds I could run as fast as

* Boots.

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