Where the first blood was shed, That to my country's independence led; And others, on our shore,

"The battle monument," at Baltimore, And that on Bunker's Hill,

Aye, and abroad, a few more famous still.

Thy "Tomb," Themistocles,
That looks out yet upon the Grecian seas,
And which the waters kiss,

That issue from the gulf of Salamis ;—
And thine, too, have I seen,

Thy mound of earth, Patroclus, robed in green,
That, like a natural knoll,

Sheep climb, and nibble over, as they stroll,
Watched by some turban'd boy,

Upon the margin of the plain of Troy.

Such honors grace the bed,

I know, whereon the warrior lays his head,
And hears, as life ebbs out,

The conquered flying, and the conqueror's shout.
But as his eyes grow dim,

What is a colunin, or a mound, to him?
What, to the parting soul,

The mellow notes of bugles? What the roll
Of drums? No-let me die

Where the blue heaven bends o'er me lovingly,
And the soft summer air,

As it goes by me, stirs my thin, white hair,
And, from my forehead, dries

The death-damp, as it gathers, and the skies
Seem waiting to receive

My soul to their clear depths! Or, let me leave
The world, when, round my bed,

Wife, children, weeping friends are gathered,
And the calm voice of prayer

And holy hymning shall my soul prepare
To go and be at rest,

With kindred spirits who have blessed

The human brotherhood

By labors, cares, and counsels for their good.

And in my dying hour,

When riches, fame, and honor have no power
To bear the spirit up,

Or from my lips to turn aside the cup.
That all must drink at last,

O, let me draw refreshment from the past!
Then, let my soul run back,

With peace and joy, along my earthly track,
And see that all the seeds

That I have scattered there, in virtuous deeds,
Have sprung up, and have given,
Already, fruits of which to taste in heaven!

And, though no grassy mound

Or granite pile, say, 'tis heroic ground,
Where my remains repose,

Still will I hope-vain hope, perhaps that those,
Whom I have striven to bless,-

The wanderer reclaimed, the fatherless—
May stand around my grave,

With the poor prisoner and the poorer slave,-
And breathe an humble prayer,

That they may die like him whose bones are
mouldering there.

LESSON LXXXV.*

Hours of Idleness.-WORDSWORTH.

There is no remedy for time misspent,
No healing for the waste of idleness,

Whose very languor is a punishment

Heavier than active souls can feel or guess. O hours of indolence and discontent,

Not now to be redeemed! ye sting not less Because I know this span of life was lent For lofty duties, not for selfishness; Not to be whiled away in aimless dreams, But to improve ourselves and serve mankind, Life and its choicest faculties were given. Man should be ever better than he seems : And shape his acts, and discipline his mind, To walk adorning earth, with hope of heaven!

LESSON LXXXVI.

Fame.-JOANna Baillie.

OH! who shall lightly say that fame
Is nothing but an empty name!

Whilst in that sound there is a charm
The nerves to brace, the heart to warm,
As, thinking of the mighty dead,

The young from slothful couch will start,
And vow, with lifted hands upspread,
Like them to act a noble part?

Oh! who shall lightly say that fame
Is nothing but an empty name!
When, but for that, our mighty dead,
All ages past a blank would be,
Sunk in oblivion's murky bed-

A desert bare, a shipless sea?
They are the distant objects seen-
The lofty marks of what hath been.

Oh! who shall lightly say that fame
Is nothing but an empty name!
When mem 'ry of the mighty dead
To earth-worn pilgrim's wistful eye,
The brightest rays of cheering shed,
That point to immortality!

LESSON LXXXVII.

The Pauper's Death-bed.-MRS. SOUTHEY.
TREAD Softly-bow the head-
In reverent silence bow-
No passing bell doth toll-
Yet an immortal soul
Is passing now.

Stranger! however great,

With lowly reverence how;
There's one in that poor shed-
One by that paltry bed-
Greater than thou.

Beneath that beggar's roof,
Lo! Death doth keep his state:
Enter-no crowds attend,-
Enter-no guards defend
This palace gate.

That pavement, damp and cold,
No smiling courtiers tread;
One silent woman stands,
Lifting with meagre hands
A dying head.

No mingling voices sound—
An infant wail alone;
A sob suppress'd—again
That short deep gasp, and then
The parting groan.

Oh! change-Oh! wondrous change-
Burst are the prison bars—

This moment there, so low,

So agonised, and now

Beyond the stars!

Oh! change-stupendous change!

There lies the soulless clod:

The Sun eternal break

The new Immortal wate

Wakes with his God.

LESSON LXXXVIII.

Last Scene of the Tragedy of" Brutus."-J. H. PAINE.

Citizens Present. At the left of the stage a tribunal, with a consular chair upon it. Brutus eaters, followed by Valerius, and ascends the

tribunal.

Br. Romans, the blood which hath been shed this dav
Hath been shed wisely. Traitors, who conspire
Against mature societies, may urge

Their acts as bold and daring; and though villains,
Yet they are manly villains-But to stab
The cradled innocent, as these have done―
To strike their country in the mother-pangs
Of struggling child-birth, and direct the dagger
At freedom's infant throat-is a deed so black,
That my foil'd tongue refuses it a name.
There is one criminal still left for judgment.
Let him approach.

[TITUS is brought in by the LiCTORS.

Pris-on-er—

[A pause.

[The voice of BRUTUS falters, and is choked, and he exclaims, with violent emotion

Romans! forgive this agony of grief—

My heart is bursting-Nature must have way—
I will perform all that a Roman should—

I cannot feel less than a father ought!

[He becomes more calm. Gives a signal to the Lic-
TORS to fall back, and advances from the judgment-
seat to the front of the stage, on a line with his son,

Well, Titus, speak-how is it with thee now?
Tell me, my son, art thou prepar'd to die?

Ti. Father, I call the pow'rs of heaven to witness
Titus dares die, if so you have decreed.

The gods will have it so.

Br. They will, my Titus :

Nor heav'n, nor earth, can have it otherwise.

It seems as if thy fate were pre-ordain'd

To fix the reeling spirits of the people,

And settle the loose liberty of Rome.

'Tis fix'd ;-oh, therefore, let not fancy cheat thec: