I saw huge fishes, boiled to rags,
Bob through the bubbling brine;

And thoughts of supper crossed my soul:
I had been rash at mine.

Strange sights! strange sounds! O fearful dream!
Its memory haunts me still:

The steaming sea, the crimson glare,
That wreathed each wooded hill;
Stranger! if through thy reeling brain
Such midnight visions sweep,

Spare, spare, O spare thine evening meal,
And sweet shall be thy sleep!

Ex. XXIX.-BINGEN ON THE RHINE.

MRS. NORTON.

A SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Algiers,-
There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of wo-

man's tears;

But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed

away,

And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say. The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand, And he said: "I never more shall see my own, my native

land;

Take a message, and a token, to some distant friends of mine, For I was born at Bingen,—at Bingen on the Rhine.

"Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around,

To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground, That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was

done,

Full many a corse lay ghastly pale, beneath the setting sun. And midst the dead and dying, were some grown old in

wars,

The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many

scars;

But some were young,—and suddenly beheld life's morn de

cline,

And one had come from Bingen,--fair Bingen on the Rhine!

"Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age, And I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home a cage: For my father was a soldier, and, even as a child,

My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild;

And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, I let them take whate'er they would-but kept my father's sword;

And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine,

On the cottage-wall at Bingen,-calm Bingen on the Rhine!

"Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head,

When the troops are marching home again, with glad and gallant tread;

But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye,
For her brother was a soldier, too, and not afraid to die.
And, if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name
To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame;

And to hang the old sword in its place, (my father's sword and mine,)

For the honor of old Bingen,-dear Bingen on the Rhine!

"There's another-not a sister;-in the happy days gone by, You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her

eye;

Too innocent for coquetry,-too fond for idle scorning;-
Oh! friend, I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heav-
iest mourning!

Tell her the last night of my life--(for ere this moon be risen
My body will be out of pain-my soul be out of prison,)
I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight

shine,

On the vine-clad hills of Bingen,-fair Bingen on the Rhine!

"I saw the blue Rhine sweep along---I heard, or seemed tɔ hear,

The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear;
And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill,
That echoing chorus sounded, through the evening cair and

still;.

And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed with friendly talk,

Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk;

And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine,

But we'll meet no more at Bingen,--loved Bingen on the Rhine!"

His voice grew faint and hoarser, his grasp was childish weak,―

His eyes put on a dying look,-he sighed and ceased to speak:

His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled,-
The soldier of the Legion, in a foreign land-was dead!
And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked

down,

On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corpses strown;

Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to

shine,

As it shone on distant Bingen,-fair Bingen on the Rhine!

Ex. XXX.-NEW ENGLAND.

ANON.

THE hills of New England-how proudly they rise,
In the wildness of grandeur, to blend with the skies!
With their fair azure outline, and tall, ancient trees,
New England, my country, I love thee for these!

The vales of New England, that cradle her streams—
That smile in their greenness, like land in our dreams;
All sunny with pleasure, embosomed in ease-
New England, my country, I love thee for these!

The woods of New England, still verdant and high,
Though rocked by the tempests of ages gone by;
Romance dims their arches, and speaks in the breeze-
New England, my country, I love thee for these!
The streams of New England, that roar as they go,
Or seem in their stillness but dreaming to flow;
O bright gilds the sunbeam their march to the seas→
New England, my country, I love thee for these!

God shield thee, New England, dear land of my birth! And thy children that wander afar o'er the earth; Thou 'rt my country-wherever my lot shall be cast, Take thou to thy bosom my ashes at last!

Ex. XXXI.—THE TRUE GREATNESS OF OUR COUNTRY

SEWARD.

BEHOLD here, then, the philosophy of all our studies on this grateful theme. We see only the rising of the sun of empire-only the fair seeds and beginnings of a great nation. Whether that glowing orb shall attain to a meridian height, or fall suddenly from its glorious sphere-whether those prolific seeds shall mature into autumnal ripeness, or shall perish yielding no harvest-depends on God's will and providence. But God's will and providence operate not by casualty or caprice, but by fixed and revealed laws.

If we would secure the greatness set before us, we must find the way which those laws indicate, and keep within it. That way is new and all untried. We departed early-we departed at the beginning-from the beaten track of national ambition. Our lot was cast in an age of revolution—a revolution which was to bring all mankind from a state of servitude to the exercise of self-government—from under the tyranny of physical force to the gentle sway of opinionfrom under subjection to matter to dominion over nature. It was ours to lead the way, to take up the cross of republicanism, and bear it before the nations, to fight its earliest battles, to enjoy its earliest triumphs, to illustrate its purifying and elevating virtues, and by our courage and resolution, our moderation and our magnanimity, to cheer and sustain its future followers through the baptism of blood and the martyrdom of fire.

A mission so noble and benevolent demands a generous and self-denying enthusiasm. Our greatness is to be won by beneficence without ambition. We are in danger of losing that holy zeal. We are surrounded by temptations. Our dwellings become palaces, and our villages are transformed, as if by magic, into great cities. Fugitives from famine and oppression and the sword crowd our shores, and proclaim to ns that we alone are free, and great, and happy. Ambition for martial fame and the lust of conquest have entered the warm,

living, youthful heart of the republic. Our empire enlarges. The castles of enemies fall before our advancing armies; the gates of cities open to receive them. The continent and its islands seem ready to fall within our grasp, and more than even fabulous wealth opens under our feet. No public virtue can withstand, none ever encountered, such seductions as these. Our own virtue and moderation must be renewed and fortified under circumstances so new and peculiar.

Where shall we seek the influence adequate to a task so arduous as this? Shall we invoke the press and the desk? They only reflect the actual condition of the public morals, and can not change them. Shall we resort to the executive authority? The time has passed when it could compose and modify the political elements around it. Shall we go to the senate? Conspiracies, seditions, and corruptions, in all free countries, have begun there. Where, then, shall we go, to find an agency that can uphold and renovate declining public virtue? Where should we go, but there, where all republican virtue begins and must end-where the Promethean fire is ever to be rekindled, until it shall finally expirewhere motives are formed and passions disciplined? To the domestic fireside and humble school, where the American citizen is trained.

Ex. XXXII.-CASA BIANCA.

THE boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but him had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck,
Shone round him o'er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;-

A creature of heroic blood,
A proud, though childlike form.

MRS. HEMANS.

The flames rolled on--he would not go
Without his father's word;—

That father, faint in death, below,
His voice no longer heard.