God shield thee, New England, dear land of my birth!
And thy children that wander afar o'er the earth;
Thou 'rt my country:-wherever my lot shall be cast,
Take thou to thy bosom my ashes at last!

Ex. XXXI.—THE TRUE GREATNESS OF OUR COUNTRY.

SEWARD.

BEHOLD here, then, the philosophy of all our studies on this grateful theme. We see only the rising of the sun of empire-only the fair seeds and beginnings of a great nation. Whether that glowing orb shall attain to a meridian height, or fall suddenly from its glorious sphere-whether those prolific seeds shall mature into autumnal ripeness, or shall perish yielding no harvest-depends on God's will and providence. But God's will and providence operate not by casualty or caprice, but by fixed and revealed laws.

If we would secure the greatness set before us, we must find the way which those laws indicate, and keep within it. That way is new and all untried. We departed early-we departed at the beginning-from the beaten track of national ambition. Our lot was cast in an age of revolution-a revolution which was to bring all mankind from a state of servitude to the exercise of self-government-from under the tyranny of physical force to the gentle sway of opinion— from under subjection to matter to dominion over nature. It was ours to lead the way, to take up the cross of republicanism, and bear it before the nations, to fight its earliest battles, to enjoy its earliest triumphs, to illustrate its purifying and elevating virtues, and by our courage and resolution, our moderation and our magnanimity, to cheer and sustain its future followers through the baptism of blood and the martyrdom of fire.

A mission so noble and benevolent demands a generous and self-denying enthusiasm. Our greatness is to be won by beneficence without ambition. We are in danger of losing that holy zeal. We are surrounded by temptations. Our dwellings become palaces, and our villages are transformed, as if by magic, into great cities. Fugitives from famine and oppression and the sword crowd our shores, and proclaim to ns that we alone are free, and great, and happy. Ambition for martial fame and the lust of conquest have entered the warm,

living, youthful heart of the republic. Our empire enlarges. The castles of enemies fall before our advancing armies; the gates of cities open to receive them. The continent and its islands seem ready to fall within our grasp, and more than even fabulous wealth opens under our feet. No public virtue can withstand, none ever encountered, such seductions as these. Our own virtue and moderation must be renewed and fortified under circumstances so new and peculiar.

Where shall we seek the influence adequate to a task so arduous as this? Shall we invoke the press and the desk? They only reflect the actual condition of the public morals, and can not change them. Shall we resort to the executive authority? The time has passed when it could compose and modify the political elements around it. Shall we go to the senate? Conspiracies, seditions, and corruptions, in all free countries, have begun there. Where, then, shall we go, to find an agency that can uphold and renovate declining public virtue? Where should we go, but there, where all republican virtue begins and must end-where the Promethean fire is ever to be rekindled, until it shall finally expirewhere motives are formed and passions disciplined? To the domestic fireside and humble school, where the American citizen is trained.

Ex. XXXII.-CASABIANCA.

THE boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but him had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck,
Shone round him o'er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;-

A creature of heroic blood,

A proud, though childlike form.

MRS. HEMANS.

The flames rolled on-he would not go
Without his father's word ;-

That father, faint in death, below,
His voice no longer heard.

He called aloud, "Say, father, say
If yet my task is done!"-

He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.

"Speak, father!" once again he cried,
"If I may yet be gone!"-
And but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames rolled on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair,

And looked from that lone post of death,

In still, yet brave despair.

And shouted but once more aloud,

"My father! must I stay?"

While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,

The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapped the ship in splendor wild;

They caught the flag on high,

And streamed above the gallant child,
Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder sound;—
The boy-oh! where was he?
Ask of the winds, that far around
With fragments strewed the sea,-

With mast and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part ;
But the noblest thing that perished there
Was that young, faithful heart.

Ex. XXXIII.-LOVE AND MURDER.

IN Manchester a maiden dwelt,

ANON.

Her name was Phoebe Brown;

Her cheeks were red, her hair was black,

And she was considered by good judges to be by

all odds the best looking girl in town.

Her age was nearly seventeen,

Her eyes were sparkling bright;

A very lovely girl she was,

And for about a year and a half there had been a young man paying his attention to her, by the name of Reuben Wright.

Now Reuben was a nice young man

As any in the town,

And Phoebe loved him very dear,

But, on account of his being obliged to work for

a living, he never could make himself agreeable to old Mr. and Mrs. Brown.

Her parents were resolved

Another she should wed,

A rich old miser in the place,

And old Brown frequently declared, that rather than have his daughter marry Reuben Wright, he'd sooner knock him in the head.

But Phoebe's heart was brave and strong,

She feared not her parent's frowns;

And as for Reuben Wright so bold,

I've heard him say more than fifty times that,

(with the exception of Phœbe) he did n't care a cent for the whole race of Browns.

So Phoebe Brown and Reuben Wright
Determined they would marry;
Three weeks ago last Tuesday night,

They started for old Parson Webster's, determined

to be united in the holy bonds of matrimony, though it was tremendous dark, and rained like the old Harry.

But Captain Brown was wide awake,

He loaded up his gun,

And then pursued the loving pair;

He overtook 'em when they'd got about half way

to the Parson's, and then Reuben and Phoebe started off upon

the run.

Old Brown then took a deadly aim

Toward young Reuben's head,

But, oh! it was a bleeding shame,

He made a mistake, and shot his only daughter,

and had the unspeakable anguish of seeing her drop right down stone dead.

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Then anguish filled young Reuben's heart,
And vengeance crazed his brain,

He drew an awful jack-knife out,

And plunged it into old Brown about fifty or sixty

times, so that it's very doubtful about his ever coming to again.

The briny drops from Reuben's eyes

In torrents pouréd down,

And in this melancholy and heart-rending manner terminates the history of Reuben and Phoebe, and likewise old Captain Brown.

Ex. XXXIV.-LOCHIN VAR.

O, YOUNG Lochinvar is come out of the west,-
Through all the wide border his steed was the best;
And save his good broadsword he weapon
had none,-
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He staid not for brake, and he stopped not for stone,
He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,

The bride had consented, the gallant came late:
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he entered the Netherby hall,

SCOTT.

'Mong bridesmen and kinsmen, and brothers, and all:
Then spoke the bride's father,-―his hand on his sword,—
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,)
"O, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,

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Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar ?"

"I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied:
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide,
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine :-
There be maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar !"