3. No; the love which survives the tomb is one of the noblest attributes of the soul. If it has its woes, it has likewise its delights; and when the overwhelming burst of grief is calmed into the gentle tear of recol lection, when the sudden anguish and the convulsive agony over the present ruins of all that we most loved is softened away into pensive meditation on all that it was in the days of its loveliness,-who would root out such a sorrow from the heart?

4. Though it may sometimes throw a passing cloud even over the bright hour of gayety, or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of gloom, yet who would exchange it even for the song of pleasure or the burst of revelry? No; there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song: there is a recollection of the dead to which we turn even from the charms of the living.

5. O, the grave! the grave! It buries every error, covers every defect, extinguishes every resentment. From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can look down upon the grave even of an enemy, and not feel a compunctious throb, that ever he should have warred with the poor handful of earth that lies moldering before him?

6. But the grave of those we loved - what a place for meditation! There it is that we call up in long review the whole history of virtue and gentleness, and the thousand endearments lavished upon us almost unheeded in the daily intercourse of intimacy.

7. There it is that we dwell upon the tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness, of the parting scene: the bed of death, with all its stifled griefs; its noiseless attendance, its mute, watchful assiduities; the last testimonies of expiring love, the feeble, fluttering, thrilling (O, how thrilling!) pressure of the hand; the last fond look of the glazing eye, turning upon us even from the threshold

of existence: the faint, faltering accents struggling in death to give one more assurance of affection!

8. Aye, to go to the grave of buried love, and meditate! There settle the account with thy conscience for every past benefit unrequited, every past endearment unregarded, of that being, who can never, never, never return to be soothed by thy contrition!

9. If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent; if thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms, to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth; if thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged, in thought, word or deed, the spirit that generously confided in thee; if thou art a lover, and hast ever given one unmerited pang to that true heart that now lies cold and still beneath thy feet;-then be sure that every unkind look, every ungracious word, every ungentle action, will come thronging back upon thy memory, and knocking dolefully at thy soul; then be sure that thou wilt lie down sorrowing and repentant on the grave, and utter the unheard groan, and pour the unavailing tear,more deep, more bitter, because unheard and unavailing.

10. Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the beauties of nature about the grave; console thy broken spirit, if thou canst, with these tender, yet futile tributes of regret; but take warning by the bitterness of this thy contrite affliction over the dead, and be more faithful and affectionate in the discharge of thy duties to the living.

WASHINGTON IRVING.

THE heart is the workshop in which are forged secret slanders, and all evil speaking. The mouth is only the outer shop or salesroom, where all the goods that are made within are sold. The tongue is the salesman.

LXXXII.-HYMN OF THE CHURCH-YARD.

1. Ah me! this is a sad and silent city;
Let me walk softly o'er it, and survey
Its grassy streets with melancholy pity!
Where are its children? where their gleesome play?
Alas! their cradled rest is cold and deep-
Their playthings are thrown by, and they asleep.

2. This is pale beauty's bourn; but where the beautiful,
Whom I have seen come forth at evening's hours,
Leading their aged friends with feelings dutiful
Amid the wreaths of spring, to gather flowers?
Alas! no flowers are here but flowers of death,
And those who once were sweetest sleep beneath.

3. This is a populous place; but where the bustling,
The crowded buyers of the noisy mart-
The lookers-on-the snowy garments rustling-
The money-changers, and the men of art?
Business, alas! hath stopped in mid career,
And none are anxious to resume it here.

4. This is the home of grandeur; where are they

-

The rich, the great, the glorious, and the wise?
Where are the trappings of the proud, the gay-
The gaudy guise of human butterflies?
Alas! all lowly lies each lofty brow,
And the green sod dizens their beauty now.

5. This is the place of refuge and repose;

Where are the poor, the old, the weary wight, The scorned, the humble, and the man of woes, Who wept for morn, and sighed again for night? Their sighs at last have ceased, and here they sleep Beside their scorners, and forget to weep.

6. This is a place of gloom; where are the gloomy? The gloomy are not citizens of death;

Approach and look, where the long grass is plumy;

See them above! they are not found beneath;
For these low denizens, with artful wiles,
Nature, in flowers, contrives her mimic smiles.

7. This is a place of sorrow! friends have met

And mingled tears o'er those who answered not;
And where are they whose eyelids then were wet?
Alas! their griefs, their tears, are all forgot:
They, too, are landed in the silent city,
Where there is neither love, nor tears, nor pity.
8. This is a place of fear; the firmest eye

Hath quailed to see its shadowy dreariness;
But Christian hope, and heavenly prospects high,
And earthly cares, and nature's weariness,
Have made the timid pilgrim cease to fear,
And long to end his painful journey here.

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

LXXXIII. THE SOLILOQUY OF KING RICH-
ARD III.

bind up my wounds:

Have mercy, Jesu! Soft: I did but dream!

O coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me!
The lights burn blue! It is now dead midnight!
What do I fear? Myself? There's none else by.
Richard loves Richard; that is, I am I.

Is there a murderer here? No-yes, I am.

2. Then fly. What! From myself? Great reason! why?

Lest I revenge. What? Myself on myself?

I love myself. Wherefore? For any good
That I myself have done unto myself?
O, no, alas! I rather hate myself,
For hateful deeds committed by myself.
I am a villain: yet I lie; I am not.

3. Fool, of thyself speak well: - fool, do not flatter:
My conscience hath a thousand several tongues,
And every tongue brings in a several tale,
And every tale condemns me for a villain.
Perjury, perjury, in the highest degree,
Murder, stern murder, in the direst degree,
Throng to the bar, crying all, Guilty! guilty!

4. I shall despair! There is no creature loves me, And, if I die, no soul will pity me:

Nay; wherefore should they, since that I myself
Find in myself no pity to myself?

Methought the souls of all that I had murdered
Came to my tent, and every one did threat
To-morrow's vengeance on the head of Richard.
SHAKESPEARE.

LXXXIV. ORIGIN OF YANKEE DOODLE.

1. In 1755 simultaneous attacks were made upon the French posts in America. That against the fort on the Ohio, where the city of Pittsburgh now stands, was conducted by General Braddock; and those against Niagara and Frontenac by Governor Shirley, of Massachusetts, and General Johnson, of New York. The army of Shirley and Johnson, during the summer of 1755, lay on the eastern bank of the Hudson, a little south of the city of Albany.

2. In the early part of June the troops of the eastern