EXERCISE CXXI.

HOME.-A. Lewis.

Among the pleasures of the mind, there are few which afford more unalloyed gratification, than that which arises from the remembrance of the loved and familiar objects of home, combined with the memory of the innocent delights of our childhood. This is one of the few pleasures of which the heart cannot be deprived, — which the darkest shades of misfortune serve to bring out into fuller relief, and which the uninterrupted passage of the current of time, tends only to polish and to brighten.

When wearied with the tumult of the world, and sick of the anxieties and sorrows of life, the thoughts may return, with delight, to the pleasures of childhood, and banquet unsated on the recollections of youth. Who does not remember the companions of his early years, and the mother who watched over his dangers,— and the father who counselled him, and the teacher who instructed him, — and the sister whose sweet voice reproved his wildness? Who does not remember the tree under which he played, and the house in which he lived, and even the moonbeam that slept upon his bed? Who has not returned, in sunlight and in sleep, to the scenes of his earliest and purest joys; and to the green and humble mounds where his sorrows have gone forth over the loved and the lost, who were dear to his soul? And who does not love to indulge these remembrances, though they bring swelling tides to his heart, and tears to his eyes? And whose ideas are so limited, that he does not extend his thoughts to the days and the dwellings of his ancestors; until he seems to become a portion of the mountain and the stream, and to prolong his existence through the centuries which are passed!

Oh! the love of home! it was implanted in the breast of man as a germ of hope, that should grow up into a fragrant flower, to win his heart from the ambitions and the vanities of his life, and woo him back to the innocent delights of his morning hours! Sweet Spirit of Home! thou Guardian Angel of the Good! - thou earliest, kindest, latest friend of

man!-what tears of sorrow hast thou dried! - what tears of recollection, of anticipation, of enjoyment, hast thou caused to flow! To all bosoms thou art grateful, to all climes congenial. No heart, that is innocent, but has a temple for thee! no mind, however depraved, but acknowledges thy power!

EXERCISE CXXII.

THE SPELLS OF HOME.-Mrs. Hemans.

By the soft green light in the woody glade,
On the banks of moss where thy childhood played;
By the household tree, through which thine eye
First looked in love to the summer sky;
By the dewy gleam, by the very breath
Of the primrose tufts in the grass beneath,
Upon thy heart there is laid a spell,
Holy and precious:-Oh! guard it well!

By the sleepy ripple of the stream,
Which hath lulled thee into many a dream;
By the shiver of the ivy-leaves

To the wind of morn at thy casement-eaves,
By the bees' deep murmur in the limes,
By the music of the Sabbath-chimes,
By every sound of thy native shade,
Stronger and dearer the spell is made.

By the gathering round the winter hearth,
When twilight called into household mirth;
By the fairy tale, or the legend old,
In that ring of happy faces told;
By the quiet hour, when hearts unite

In the parting prayer and the kind 'good-night;'
By the smiling eye, and the loving tone,
Over thy life has a spell been thrown.

And bless that gift!-it hath gentle might,
A guardian power, and a guiding light.
It hath led the freeman forth to stand
In the mountain-battles of his land;

It hath brought the wanderer o'er the seas
To die on the hills of his own fresh breeze;
And back to the gates of his father's hall,
It hath led the weeping prodigal.

Yes! when thy heart in its pride would stray
From the first loves of its youth away;

pure

When the sullying breath of the world would come
O'er the flowers it brought from its childhood's home;
Think thou again of the woody glade,

And the sound by the rustling ivy made;

Think of the trees at thy father's door,
And the kindly spell shall have power once more!

EXERCISE CXXIII.

THE MOTHER OF JESUS.-Jacob Abbott.

Some centuries ago, a large, a very large company were travelling northwardly in early summer, through a lovely country, whose hills and valleys were clothed with the figtree, the olive, and the vine. They journeyed slowly, and without anxiety or care; for their route lay through a quiet land, the abode of peace and plenty. Friends and acquaintances were mingled together in groups, as accident or inclination might dictate, until the sun went down, and the approach of evening warned them to preparations for rest.

While the various families were drawing off together for this purpose, the attention and the sympathy of the multitude were excited by the anxious looks and eager inquiries of a female, who was passing from group to group, with sorrow and agitation painted on her countenance. It was a mother, who could not find her son. It was her only son, and one to whom, from peculiar circumstances, she was very strongly attached. He had never disobeyed her; he had never

given her unnecessary trouble; and the uncommon maturity of his mental and moral powers had probably led her to trust him much more to himself than in any other case would be justifiable. He was twelve years old; and she supposed that he had been safe in the company; but now night had come, and she could not find him. She went anxiously and sorrowfully from family to family, and from friend to friend, inquiring with deep solicitude 'Have you seen my son?'

He was not to be found. No one had seen him; and the anxious parents left their company, and inquiring carefully by the way, went slowly back to the city whence they had

come.

The city was in the midst of a country of mountains and valleys. Dark groves upon the summits crowned the richly cultivated fields which adorned their sides. The road wound along the glens and vales, sharing the passage with the streams, which flowed towards a neighboring sea. The city itself spread its edifices over the broad surface of a hill, one extremity of which was crowned with the spacious walls and colonnades of a temple, rising one above another, the whole pile beaming probably in the setting sun, as these anxious parents approached it, in all the dazzling whiteness of marble and splendor of gold. The parents, however, could not have thought much of the scene before them. They had lost their

son.

With what anxious and fruitless search they spent the evening and the following morning, we do not know. They at last, however, ascended to the temple itself. They passed from court to court, now going up the broad flight of steps which led from one to the other, now walking under a lofty colonnade, and now traversing a paved and ornamented area. At last, in a public part of this edifice, they found a group collected around a boy, and apparently listening to what he was saying; the feeling must have been mingled interest, curiosity, and surprise. It was their son. His uncommon mental and moral maturity had, by some means, shown itself to those around him; and they were deeply interested in his questions and replies.

His mother, – for the narrative, true to nature and to fact, makes the mother the foremost parent in every thing connected with the search for their son, - does not reproach him. She could not reproach one who had been such a son. She

asked him why he had staid behind, and gently reminded him of the sorrow and suffering he had caused them. He gave them a reply which she could not fully understand; and the feelings with which twelve years of intercourse, such as no mother ever before had with a son, had inspired her for him, forbade her pressing him for an explanation. 'She laid his words up in her heart.'

EXERCISE CXXIV.

HYMN OF PRAISE. -C. Wilcox.

Great is thy goodness, Father of all life,
Fount of all joy! Thou high and holy One,
Whom not thy glorious sanctuary, heaven,
Can e'er contain; Spirit invisible,

Whose omnipresence makes creation smile,
Great is thy goodness, worthy of all praise

From all thy works! Then let earth, air, and sea,
Nature, with every season in its turn;

The firmament, with its revolving fires;
And all things living join to give thee praise.
Thou glorious Sun, like thy Original,

A vital influence to surrounding worlds,
Forever sending forth, yet always full;

And thou, fair Queen of Night, o'er the pure sky,
Amid thy glittering company of stars,
Walking in brightness, praise the God above!
Ocean, forever rolling to and fro,

In thy vast bed, o'er half the hollowed earth;
Grand theatre of wonders to all lands,
And reservoir of blessings, sound his praise!
Break forth into a shout of grateful joy,
Ye mountains, covered with perennial green,
And pouring crystal torrents down your
Ye lofty forests, and ye humble groves;
Ye hills, and plains, and valleys, overspread
With flocks and harvests! All ye feathered tribes,

sides;