Now toiled the Bruce, the battle done,
To use his conquest boldly won;

And gave command for horse and spear
To press the southron's scattered rear,
Nor let his broken force combine,
-When the war-cry of Argentine

Fell faintly on his ear!

Save, save his life," he cried, "Oh! save
The kind, the noble, and the brave!"
The squadrons round free passage gave;
The wounded knight drew near.

He raised his red-cross shield no more;
Helm, cuish, and breast-plate, streamed with gore;
Yet, as he saw the king advance,

He strove, even then, to couch his lance:

The effort was in vain!

The spur-stroke failed to rouse the horse;
Wounded and weary, in mid course
He stumbled on the plain.

Then foremost was the generous Bruce,
To raise his head, his helm to loose.
"Lord, earl, the day is thine!

My sovereign's charge, and adverse fate,
Have made our meeting all too late:
Yet this may Argentine,

As boon from ancient comrade, crave,—
A Christian's mass, a soldier's grave."-

Bruce pressed his dying hand :-its grasp
Kindly replied; but, in his clasp,

It stiffened and grew cold;

And, "O! farewell!" the victor cried,
"Of chivalry the flower and pride,
The arm in battle bold,

The courteous mien, the noble race,
The stainless faith, the manly face!—
Bid Ninian's convent light their shrine,
For late-wake of De Argentine.
O'er better knight, on death-bier laid,
Torch never gleamed, nor mass was said!"

Ex. CXXXV.-THE INQUIRY.

TELL me, ye wingéd winds,
That round my pathway roar,
Do ye not know some spot
Where mortals weep no more;
Some lone and pleasant dell
Some valley in the west,
Where, free from toil and pain,
The weary soul may rest?-
The loud wind dwindled to a whisper low,
And sighed for pity, as it answered, "No."
Tell me, thou mighty deep,
Whose billows round me play,
Knowest thou some favored spot,
Some island far away,
Where weary man may find

The bliss for which he sighs,
Where sorrow never lives,

And friendship never dies?

J. MONTGOMERY.

The loud waves, roaring in perpetual flow,
Stopped for awhile, and sighed, to answer, "No."
And thou, serenest moon,
That, with so holy face,
Dost look upon the world
Asleep in night's embrace;-

Tell me, in all thy round,

Hast thou not seen some spot
Where miserable man

Might find a happier lot?

Behind a cloud the moon withdrew in woe;
And a voice, sweet but sad, responded, "No."
Tell me, immortal soul,

Oh! tell me, Hope and Faith,

Is there no resting-place
From sorrow, sin, and death?

Is there no happy spot,

Where mortals may be blessed,
Where grief may find a balm,

And weariness a rest ?

Faith, Hope, and Love,-best boons to mortals given,Waved their bright wings, and whispered, "Yes, in heaven!"

Ex. CXXXVI.—ANCIENT AND MODERN PRODUCTIONS.

C. SUMNER.

THE classics possess a peculiar charm, from the circum, stance that they have been the models, I might almost say the masters, of composition and thought, in all ages. In the contemplation of these august teachers of mankind, we are filled with conflicting emotions. They are the early voice of the world, better remembered and more cherished still than all the intermediate words that have been uttered, as the lessons of childhood still haunt us when the impressions of later years have been effaced from the mind. But they show with most unwelcome frequency the tokens of the world's childhood, before passion had yielded to the sway of reason and the affections. They want the highest charm of purity, of righteousness, of elevated sentiments, of love to God and man. It is not in the frigid philosophy of the porch and academy that we are to seek these; not in the marvellous teachings of Socrates, as they come mended by the mellifluous words of Plato; not in the resounding line of Homer, on whose inspiring tale of blood Alexander pillowed his head; not in the animated strain of Pindar, where virtue is pictured in the successful strife of an athlete at the Isthmian games; not in the torrent of Demosthenes, dark with self-love and the spirit of vengeance; not in the fitful philosophy and intemperate eloquence of Tully; not in the genial libertinism of Horace, or the stately atheism of Lucretius. No! these must not be our masters; in none of these are we to seek the way of life. For eighteen hundred years the spirit of these writers has been engaged in weaponless contest with the Sermon on the Mount, and those two sublime commandments on which hang all the law and the prophets. The strife is still pending. Heathenism, which has possessed itself of such siren forms, is not yet exorcised. It still tempts the young, controls the affairs of active life, and haunts the meditations of age.

Our own productions, though they may yield to those of the ancients in the arrangement of ideas, in method, in beauty of form, and in freshness of illustration, are immeasurably superior in the truth, delicacy, and elevation of their sentiments, above all, in the benign recognition of that great Christian revelation, the brotherhood of man. How vain are eloquence and poetry, compared with this heaven-descended truth! Put in one scale that simple utterance, and in the

other the lore of antiquity, with its accumulating glosses and commentaries, and the last will be light and trivial in the balance. Greek poetry has been likened to the song of the nightingale as she sits in the rich, symmetrical crown of the palm-tree, trilling her thick-warbled notes; but even this is less sweet and tender than the music of the human heart.

Ex. CXXXVII.—THANATOPSIS.

W. C. BRYANT.

To him who, in the love of Nature, holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language;-for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty; and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And gentle sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images

Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart,-
Go forth under the open sky, and list

To Nature's teachings, while from all around-
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air-
Comes a still voice--Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more

In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist

Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again;
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix for ever with the elements;
To be a brother to the insensible rock,
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold.
Yet not to thy eternal resting-place

Shalt thou retire alone-nor couldst thou wish

Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world-with kings,
The powerful of the earth-the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulcher. The hills
Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun; the vales,
Stretching in pensive quietness between ;
The venerable woods; rivers, that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks,

That make the meadows green; and poured round all, Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,―

Are but the solemn decorations all

Of the great tomb of man! The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings
Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound,
Save his own dashings-yet the dead are there!
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep-the dead reign there alone!-
So shalt thou rest; and what if thou shalt fall
Unnoticed by the living, and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glide away, the sons of men-

The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron, and maid,
The bowed with age, the infant in the smiles
And beauty of its innocent age cut off—
Shall, one by one, be gathered to thy side,
By those who in their turn shall follow them.

So live, that when thy summons comes, to join The innumerable caravan, that moves