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2. My native country, thee -
Land of the noble free -

Thy name — I love;
I love thy rocks and rills,
Thy woods and templed hills;
My heart with rapture thrills

Like that above.

3. Let music swell the breeze,
And ring from all the trees

Sweet freedom's song:
Let mortal tongues awake;
Let all that breathe partake;
Let rocks their silence break-

The sound prolong.

4. Our fathers' God, to thee,
Author of liberty,

To thee we sing :
Long may our land be bright,
With freedom's holy light,
Protect us by thy might,

Great God, our King.


Swain. [The following extract is a portion of a sermon of striking eloquence and beauty, by the Rev. Leonard Swain, of Providence, Rhode Island, published in the “ Bibliotheca Sacra.”]

1. Man's dominion is the solid land. If the Old World speaks of man, to tell where he has been, so the New World seems to speak of him, and to tell where he shall be. In the forests of the Mississippi, a thousand miles beyond the outmost cities, the sound of the axe and the gun declares that the all-conquering wave of civilization is coming; and a thousand miles farther on, where even these prophetic sounds have not been heard, there is that which speaks of human approach.

2. The stillness which is there is the stillness of fear and not of security. It tells that man is coming. The very silence is full of his name. The trees whisper it to one another. The fox and the panther utter it in their cry. The winds take up the secret, and give it to the hills, and these to the echoing vales. The fountains publish it to the brooks, and the brooks to the rivers, and the rivers spread it a thousand miles along their banks, and proclaim it at last to the northern seas — that man, the conqueror and king, is coming; that his footstep has been heard on the Atlantic shore; that the hills await him; that the vales expect him; that the forests bend their tremulous tops to listen for him; that the fear of him is upon the beasts of the wood, the fowl of the mountain, the cattle of a thousand hills; upon all rivers and plains, upon all quarries of rock and mines of precious ore'; for all that is within the compass of land is given to his dominion, and he shall subdue its strength and appropriate its treasures, and scatter the refuse of it as the dust beneath his feet.

3. There man's empire stops. God has given the land to man, but the sea he has reserved to himself. “ The sea is his, and he made it.” He has given man "no inheritance in it; no, not so much as to set his foot on.” If he enters its domain, he enters it as a pilgrim and a stranger. He may pass over it, but he can have no abiding place upon it. He cannot build his house, nor so much as pitch his tent, within it. He cannot mark it with his lines, nor subdue it to his uses, nor rear his monuments upon it. It steadfastly refuses to own him as its lord and master. Its depths do not tremble at his coming. Its waters do not flee when he appeareth. All the strength of all his generations is to it as a feather before the whirlwind; and all the noise of his commerce, and all the thunder of his pavies, it can hush in a moment within the silence of its impenetrable abysses.

4. Whole armies have gone down into that unfathom. able darkness, and not a floating bubble marks the place of their disappearing. If all the populations of the world, from the beginning of time, were cast into its depths, the smooth surface of its oblivion would close over them in an hour; and if all the cities of the earth, and all the structures and monuments ever reared by man, were heaped together over that grave for a tombstone, it would not break the surface of the deep, or lift back their memory to the light of the sun and the breath of the upper air. The sea would roll its billows in derision, a thousand fathoms deep, above the topmost stone of that mighty sepulchre.

5. The patient earth submits to the rule of man, and the mountains bow their rocky heads before the hammer of his power and the blast of his terrible enginery. The sea cares not for him; not so much as a single hair's breadth can its level be lowered or lifted by all the art, and all the effort, and all the enginery of all the generations of time. He comes and goes upon it, and a moment after it is as if he had never been there. He may engrave his titles upon the mountain top, and quarry his signature into the foundations of the globe, but he cannot write his name on the sca.

6. And thus, by its material uses and its spiritual voices, does the sea ever speak to us, to tell us that its builder and maker is God. He hewed its channels in the deep, and drew its barriers upon the sand, and cast its belted waters around the world. He fitted it to the earth and the sky, and poised“ them skilfully, the one against the other,

when he “measured the waters in the hollow of his hand, and meted out heaven with the span, and comprehended the dust of the earth in a measure, and weighed the mountains in scales, and the hills in a balance.” He gave the sea its wonderful laws, and armed it with its wonderful powers, and set it upon its wonderful work.

“O’er all its breadth his wisdom walks,

On all its waves his goodness shines.” 7. Let us give thanks, therefore, for the sea. Let us remember him that gave it such vast dominion, and made it to be not only the dwelling-place of his awful presence, but the beautiful garment of his love and the mighty instrument of his goodness. Let it speak to us of his unfathomable fulness. Let it teach us that he has made nothing in vain. Let it remind us that the powers of destruction and death are under his control, and that behind the cloud of darkness and terror that often invests them, they are working out immeasurable results of blessing and life for the future time, for distant regions, and for coming generations. Let it lead us to confide in Him who “ruleth the raging of the seas, who stilleth the noise of their waves, and the tumult of the people ;” who has all the forces of the world at his control, and all the ages of time at his command; who knows how to build his kingdom beneath the sea of human opposition, as he built the continents beneath the ocean waters; who makes all the powers of dislocations and decay yield to that kingdom some element of strength or richness; and who, when the appointed hour shall come, will lift it irresistibly above the waves, and set its finished beauty beneath the heavens with the spoils of all time gathered upon its walls. 1 ORE. Ai mineral body which is , 3 BELT'ED. Clasped round like a belt; LXVIII. – A MOSQUITO HUNT.

changed to the metallic state by the also, encircled by a belt. action of fire.

4 Pöişe. Balance; weigh. : OB-LİV'I-ON. Forgetfulness ; cessa- | 6 DYS'LO-CA'TIỌN. Derangement of tion of remembrance.

position ; displacement.

BASIL HALL. (Basil Hall was born in Edinburgh, in 1788, and died in 1844. He was a post. captain in the British navy at the time of his death. He was a vigorous and entertaining writer, especially on subjects connected with his own profession. The following extract is from the third series of his Fragments of Voyages and Travels.]

1. In the sleeping apartments of India, great care is taken to secure coolness. The beds, which are always large and hard, are generally placed as nearly as may be in the very middle of the apartment, in the line of the freest thorough draught which open doors and windows can command. Round each bed is suspended a gauze' curtain, without which sleep would be as effectually murdered as ever it was by any tragedy king. For, if even one mosquito contrives to gain admission into your fortress?, you may, for that night, bid good-by not only to sleep, but to temper, and almost to health. I defy the most resolute, the most serene, or the most robust person that ever lived between the tropics, to pass the whole night in bed, within the curtains of which a single invader has entered, and not to be found, when the morning comes, in a high fever, with every atom of his patience exhausted.

2. The process of getting into bed, in India, is one requiring great dexterity, and not a little scientific engineering. As the curtains are carefully tucked in close under the mattress, all round, you must decide at once at what part of the bed you choose to make your entry. Having surveyed the ground, and clearly made up your mind on this point, you take in your right hand a kind of brush, or switch, made of a horse's tail; or, if you be tolerably expert, a towel may answer the purpose. With your left hand you then seize that part of the skirt of the curtain which is thrust under the bedding at the place you

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