He wrenched the hand with a giant's strength,
But the grasp of the dead defied it.

He loosed his hold, and his noble heart

Took part with the dead before him ;

And he honored the brave who died sword in hand, And with softened brow leaned o'er him.

"A soldier's death thou hast boldly died,
A soldier's grave won by it;

Before I would take that sword from thy hand,
My own life's blood should dye it.

"Thou shalt not be left for the carrion crow,
Or the wolf to batten o'er thee;

No coward shall insult the gallant dead,
Who in life had trembled before thee."

Then dug he a grave in the crimson earth,
Where his warrior foe was sleeping;
And he laid him there, in honor and rest,
With his sword in his own brave keeping.

LESSON L.

LINES TO A HEN.

Rhetoricians have given no other name than mock-heroic to that class of compositions in which low subjects are treated in a dignified or heroic manner, but some of the prettiest poems in our language belong to this class. The Needless Alarm, by Cowper, is a beautiful specimen, (American First Class Cook, page 292,) and nothing can be more delightful than the following playful apostrophe to a bustling hen. The author is unknown to the Editor.

Thou art a "bird," a pretty bird, thou amiable hen, And a "spirit," too, thou hoverest about the barns of men;

A meek and quiet spirit, thou art rather seen than

heard!

And I love thee for thy gentleness, thou sweet domestic bird!

A child of industry and peace thou dost appear to be, And scratching on the world for food, is world enough for thee;

There's judgment in thy countenance, there 's shrewdness in thine air,

And the innocence of chickenhood is ever lurking there.

Thy voice is somewhat clamorous; but while most other birds

Pipe out their soft and lovelike notes to sentimental words,

I like the plain, statistical remark by thee that's made, To indicate to all around that thou an egg hast laid.

Thy gentle voice, too, oft is heard, entreating from the mud,

For thy chickens, some of them, to come and light upon a bug ;

And at eve, thy private curfew bell, thy tongue, is oft unloosed,

To bid the chicks blow out the lights, and come with thee to roost.

And now, as thou to roost dost go, with all thy chicks so brave,

Calm as the glorious sun doth set beneath the ocean

wave,

My song I cease, my harp I hang, like Jews by Babel's

stream;

No more thy praise to echo forth, bird of my sweetest

dream!

LESSON LI.

THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS.

A simple comparison of death to a reaper-of the world to a field, where the grain and the wild flowers are intermixed, and both cut down together, would be called a Simile; but when a simile is continu ed, as in the following lines, it becomes an Allegory. The author is PROFESSOR LONGFELLOW, of Cambridge, Massachusetts.

There is a reaper whose name is Death,
And with his sickle keen,

He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grow between.

"Shall I have nought that is fair to see; Have nought but the bearded grain?

Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,
I will give them all back again."

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,
And kissed their tremulous leaves;

It was for the Lord of paradise

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He bound them in his sheaves.

My Lord has need of these flowers gay,"
The reaper said, and smiled;

"Dear tokens of the earth are they,
Where He was once a child.

"They shall all bloom in fields of light,
Transplanted by my care,

And saints upon their garments white
These sacred blossoms wear."

And the mother gave in tears and pain
The flowers she most did love;

But she knew she should find them all again
In the fields of light above.

0, not in cruelty, not in wrath, The reaper came that day;

'T was an angel visited the green earth, And took the flowers away.

LESSON LII.

THE ASCENT OF THE SPIRIT.

The following poem is by MARY HOWITT, and is full of the pure spirit that breathes through all her poetry. The pupil will notice the change of tone and manner after the fifth stanza.

She lay down in her poverty,
Toil-stricken, though so young;
And the words of human sorrow
Fell trembling from her tongue.

There were palace-homes around her;
And pomp and pride swept by
The walls of that poor chamber,
Where she lay down to die.

She lay down in her poverty,
Toil-stricken, though so young;
And the words of human sorrow
Fell from her trembling tongue.

"O, Lord, thick clouds of darkness
About my soul are spread,

And the waters of affliction
Have gathered o'er my head!

"Yet what is life? A desert
Whose cheering springs are dry,-
A weary, barren wilderness!-
Still it is hard to die!

"Oh spirit, freed from bondage,
Rejoice, thy work is done!

The weary world is 'neath thy feet,
Thou brighter than the sun!

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Arise, put on the garments
Which the redeemed win!
Now sorrow hath no part in thee,
Thou sanctified from sin!

"Awake and breathe the living air
Of our celestial clime!

Awake! to love which knows no change,
Thou, who hast done with time!

"Awake! lift up thy joyful eyes,
See, all Heaven's host appears;
And be thou glad exceedingly,

Thou, who hast done with tears!

"Awake! ascend! thou art not now
With those of mortal birth,-
The living God hath touched thy lips,
Thou, who hast done with earth!"

LESSON LIII.

THE SICK CHILD'S DREAM.

The following piece appears best when recited by a young girl, although there is nothing to unfit it for a delicate boy. If too long, the four stanzas in brackets may be omitted. The word wold, in the eighth stanza, means the open field. The author of the poem is unknown to the editor.

Oh! cradle me on thy knee, mamma,

And sing me the holy strain