The herd's low bleat, and the sick man's pant,
Are mournfully telling the boon we want.
Let Heaven this one rich gift withhold,
How soon we find it better than gold!
And water, I say, hath a right to claim
The minstrel's song and a tithe of fame.

LESSON XII.

THE PAUPER'S DEATH BED.

The following poem was written by MRS. SOUTHEY, wife of one of the greatest English poets of modern times. She is also distinguished for her prose writings, amongst which are Tales of the Churchyard. Tread softly-bow the head

In reverent silence bow-
No passing bell doth toll,

Yet an immortal soul

Is passing now.

Stranger! however great,

With lowly reverence bow;

There's one in that poor

One by that paltry bed,

shed

Greater than thou.

Beneath that beggar's roof,

Lo! Death doth keep his state :
Enter-no crowds attend-

Enter-no guards defend

This palace gate.

That pavement damp and cold
No smiling courtiers tread;

One silent woman stands,
Lifting with meagre hands
A dying head.

No mingling voices sound-
One infant wail alone;
A sob suppressed—again
That short, deep gasp, and then
The parting groan.

O! change-O! wondrous change—
Burst are the prison bars—
This moment there, so low,

So agonized, and now

Beyond the stars!

O! change-stupendous change!

There lies the soulless clod!

The sun eternal breaks

The Immortal wakes

Wakes with his God.

LESSON XIII.

THE LITTLE MAID.

The following little poem appears best when spoken by a very girl. The witty author is unknown to the Editor.

There was a little maid,

Who wore a little bonnet;

She had a little finger,

With a little ring upon it.
She screwed her little waist,
To such a little size,
That it made her little blood
Rush to her little eyes.

This pretty little maid

Had a pretty little beau,

Who wore a little hat,

And gloves as white as snow;

little

He said his little heart

Was in a little flutter,—

That he loved the little maid,

And no one else but her.

He smiled a little smile

When he breathed his little vows; And he kissed her little hand, With many little bows. By little and by little,

Her little heart did yield, Till little tears and sighs, Her little heart revealed.

A little while-alas!

And her little beau departed, With all his little vows,

And left her broken-hearted.
Now all ye little maids,

A moral I will give you,—
Don't trust to little men,
They surely will deceive you.

LESSON XIV.

CHILDHOOD AND HIS VISITORS.

The following piece was extracted from a Liverpool paper, but the author is unknown. Pindus, a mountain in what is now part of Turkey in Europe, was sacred to Apollo, the fabulous god of Music and Poetry, and to the Muses, nine sister goddesses, who presided over music, dancing, and all the liberal arts.

Once on a time, when sunny May
Was kissing at the April showers,
I saw fair Childhood hard at play
Upon a bank, of blushing flowers;

Happy, he knew not whence or how;
And smiling,-who could choose but love him?
For not more glad than Childhood's brow,
Was the blue Heaven that breathed above him,

Old Time, in most appalling wrath,
That valley's green repose invaded;
The brooks grew dry upon his path,
The birds grew mute, the lilies faded;
But Time so swiftly winged his flight,
In haste a Grecian tomb to batter,

That Childhood watched his paper kite,
And knew just nothing of the matter.

Then stepped a gloomy phantom up,
Pale, cypress-crowned, Night's awful daughter,
And proffered him a fearful cup,

Full to the brim of bitter water;

Poor Childhood bade her tell her name, And when the beldame muttered "Sorrow," He said "Don't interrupt my game,

I'll taste it, if I must, to-morrow."

The muse of Pindus, thither came,
And wooed him with the softest numbers
That ever scattered wealth and fame
Upon a youthful poet's slumbers;

Though sweet the music of the lay,
To Childhood it was all a riddle,
And-"Oh," he cried, "do send away
That noisy woman with the fiddle."

Then wisdom stole his bat and ball,
And taught him with most sage endeavor,
Why bubbles rise and acorns fall,
And why no toy may last forever:

She talked of all the wondrous laws
Which Nature's open book discloses,
And Childhood, ere she made a pause,
Was fast asleep among the roses.

LESSON XV.

MY FIRST NEW HAT.

The following poem, which ridicules the too common propensity of boys and men to value themselves upon what is no merit of their own, and to contend about trifles, was written by J. N. M'JILTON, whose poems were published in Boston, in 1840. It may be spoken by a large boy, although it appears best, coming from a small one who tries to appear large.

O! I remember well the day,-
"Tis like a dream just passed away-
When my first hat was bought;

I laid it on the chair and stood,
With folded arms in pompous mood,
Wrapt up in glorious thought.