shall awaken, thou wilt be sleeping the sleep of the dead. Call her, king of France, but she will not hear thee! Cite her by thy apparitors to come and receive a robe of honor, but she will not be found.

When the thunders of universal France, as even yet may happen, shall proclaim the grandeur of the poor shepherd girl that gave up all for her country, thy ear, young shepherd girl, will have been deaf for five centuries.

To suffer and to do, that was thy portion in this life; that was thy destiny ; and not for a moment was it. hidden from thyself.

Life, thou saidst, is short; and the sleep which is in the grave is long! Let me use that life, so transitory, for the glory of those heavenly dreams destined to comfort the sleep which is so long.

This pure creature — pure from every suspicion of even a visionary self-interest, even as she was pure in senses more obvious — never once did this holy child, as regarded herself, relax from her belief in the darkness that was traveling to meet her.

She might not prefigure the very manner of her death; she saw not in vision, perhaps, the aerial altitude of the fiery scaffold, the spectators without end on every country road pouring into Rouen as to a coronation, the surging smoke, the volleying flames the hostile faces all around, the pitying eye that lurked but here and there, until nature and imperishable truth broke loose from artificial restraints,

these might not be apparent through the mists of the hurrying future. But the voice that called her to death, that she heard forever.

Great was the throne of France in those days, and great was he that sat upon it: but well Joanna knew that not the throne, nor he that sat upon it, was for her; but, on the contrary, she was for them; not she by them, but they by her, should rise from the dust.

Gorgeous were the lilies of France, and for centuries had the privilege to spread their beauty over land and sea, until, in another century, the wrath of God and man combined to wither them. But well Joanna knew — early at Domrémy she had read that bitter truth — that the lilies of France would decorate no garland for her. Flower nor bud, bell nor blossom, would ever bloom for her.


They only the victory win, Who have fought the good fight and have vanquished the

demon that tempts us within; Who have held to their faith unseduced by the prize that

the world holds on high; Who have dared for a high cause to suffer, resist, fight, if need be, to die.



William WORDSWORTH was born at Cockermouth, England, April 7, 1770. At the age of eight he began study at Hawkshead. Eight years later he was at St. John's College, Cambridge. After completing his studies he spent some time in travel. Poetry had been with him almost the sole work of his early years, but it was not till he was twenty-five that he fully determined to make it the great object of his life. Having married, he settled in that lovely portion of England known as " The Lake Country," and there he thenceforward lived and wrote. His

longer poems are “ The Excursion" and “ The Prelude.” Among his ballads and other short poems many are exquisitely beautiful. Some readers regard the “Ode on the Intimations of Immortality as the noblest work of Wordsworth.

He died at his home at Rydal Mount, April 23, 1850.

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On his morning rounds the Master
Goes to learn how all things fare ;
Searches pasture after pasture,
Sheep and cattle eyes with care ;
And for silence or for talk,
He hath comrades in his walk ;
Four dogs, each pair of different breed,
Distinguished two for scent, and two for speed.

See a hare before him started !

Off they fly in earnest chase ;
Every dog is eager-hearted,
All the four are in the race :

And the hare whom they pursue,
Knows from instinct what to do ;
Her hope is near : no turn she makes ;
But, like an arrow, to the river takes.

Deep the river was, and crusted
Thinly by a one night's frost;
But the nimble hare hath trusted
To the ice, and safely crost;
She hath crost, and without heed
All are following at full speed,
When, lo! the ice, so thinly spread,
Breaks —and the greyhound, Dart, is overhead !

Better fate have Prince and Swallow
See them cleaving to the sport!
Music has no heart to follow,
Little Music she stops short.
She hath neither wish nor heart,
Hers is now another part:
A loving creature she, and brave !
And fondly strives her struggling friend to save.

From the brink her paws she stretches,
Very hands as you would say !
And afflicting moans she fetches,
As he breaks the ice away.
For herself she hath no fears, -
Him alone she sees and hears,
Makes efforts with complainings ; nor gives o'er
Until her fellow sinks to reappear no more.


Gulian C. VERPLANCK was born in New York City, in the year 1786. He was a literary man of much distinction. At one time he was associated with William Cullen Bryant in the publication of a miscellany called The Talisman. In 1846 he published an edition of Shakespeare's works. This was then regarded as among the best.

He died March, 1870.


What, it is asked, nas this nation done to repay the world for the benefits we

have received from others? Is it nothing for the universal good of mankind to have carried into successful operation a system of selfgovernment, uniting personal liberty, freedom of opinion, and equality of rights, with national power and dignity; such as had before existed only in the Utopian dreams of philosophers ? Is it nothing, in moral science, to have anticipated in sober reality numerous plans of reform in civil and criminal jurisprudence, which are, but now, received as plausible theories by the politicians and economists of Europe ?

Is it nothing to have been able to call forth, on every emergency, either in war or peace, a body of talents always equal to the difficulty ? Is it nothing to have exceedingly improved the sciences of political economy, of law, and of medicine, with all their aux

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