shall lie in rubbish beneath the feet; when, instead of the sound of melody and praise, the wind shall whistle through the broken arches, and the owl hoot from the shattered tower; when the garish sunbeam shall break into these gloomy mansions of death; and the ivy twine around the fallen columns; and the fox-glove hang its blossoms about the nameless urn, as if in mockery of the dead. Thus man passes away; his name perishes from record and from recollection; his history is a tale that is told, and his very monument becomes a ruin. W. IRVING. LESSON CCXXIV. TO THE ROSEMARY. SWEET-Scented flower! who art wont to bloom On January's front severe, To waft thy waste perfume! Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now, And, as I twine the mournful wreath, I'll weave a melancholy song: And sweet the strain shall be and long, Come, funeral flower! who lov'st to dwell Come, press my lips, and lie with me And we will sleep a pleasant sleep, So peaceful and so deep. And, hark! the wind-god, as he flies, Sweet flower! that requiem wild is mine, It warns me to the lonely shrine, The cold turf-altar of the dead; My grave shall be in yon lone spot, Where as I lie, by all forgot, A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed. H. K. WHITE. LESSON CCXXV. SPIRITS OF THE DEAD. That ever round our head It is a beautiful belief, When finished our career, To watch o'er others here; To lend a moral to the flower, To bid the erring cease to err, Ah, when delight was found in life, And joy in every breath, I cannot tell how terrible The mystery of death. But now, the past is bright to me, And all the future clear, For 't is my faith, that after death We still shall linger here. J. H. PERKINS. LESSON CCXXVII. NIGHT. NIGHT is the time for rest: How sweet, when labors close, To gather round an aching breast The curtain of repose! Stretch the tired limbs and lay the head Upon our own delightful bed! Night is the time for dreams, The gay romance of life; When truth that is, and truth that seems, Blend in fantastic strife; Ah! visions less beguiling far, Than waking dreams by daylight are! Night is the time for toil; To plow the classic field, Its wealthy furrows yield; Night is the time to weep; To wet with unseen tears Those graves of memory, where sleep Hopes that were angels in their birth, Night is the time to watch; On ocean's dark expanse, To hail the Pleiades, or catch The full moon's earliest glance, That brings unto the homesick mind All we have loved and left behind. Night is the time for care; Brooding on hours misspent, Like Brutus 'mid his slumbering host, Night is the time to muse; Then from the eye the soul Takes flight, and, with expanding views, Beyond the starry pole, Descries, athwart the abyss of night, The dawn of uncreated light. Night is the time to pray; Our Savior oft withdrew Steal from the throng to haunts untrod, Night is the time for death; When all around is peace, Calmly to yield the weary breath, Think of Heaven's bliss, and give the sign To parting friends :-such death be mine! J. MONTGOMERY. LESSON CCXXVIII. SLEEP.DEATH.-ETERNITY. SLEEP, gentle sleep! Sleep. Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, And steep my senses in forgetfulness? Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs, Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee, And hushed with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber, Than in the perfumed chambers of the great, Under the canopies of costly state, And lulled with sounds of sweetest melody? O thou dull god, why liest thou with the vile, In loathsome beds; and leav'st the kingly couch, And in the visitation of the winds, |