is no duty, but where it is necessary to avoid guilt, or to do good; nor pleasure a crime, but where it strengthens the influence of bad inclinations, or lessens the generous activity of virtue. The happiness allotted to man in his present state, is indeed faint and low, compared with his immortal prospects, and noble capacities: but yet whatever portion of it the distributing hand of heaven offers to each individual is a needful support and refreshment for the present mo ment, so far as it may not hinder the attaining of his final destination.

"Return then with me from continual misery, to moderate enjoyment, and grateful alacrity: return from the contracted views of solitude, to the proper duties of a relative and dependent being. Religion is not confined to cells and closets, nor restrained to sullen retirement. These are the gloomy doctrines of Superstition, by which she endeavors to break those chains of benevolence and social affection, that link the welfare of every particular with that of the whole. Remember that the greatest honor you can pay the Author of your being, is a behavior so cheerful as discovers a mind satisfied with his dispensations."

Here my preceptress paused; and I was going to express my acknowledgments for her discourse, when a ring of bells from the neighboring village, and the new risen sun darting his beams through my windows, awoke me.

LESSON CLXII.

The Waterfall.-DERZHAVIN.

Lo! like a glorious pile of diamonds bright,
Built on the steadfast cliffs, the waterfall
Pours forth its gems of pearl and silver light:
They sink, they rise, and sparkling, cover all
With infinite refulgence; while its song,
Sublime as thunder, rolls the woods along-

Rolls through the woods-they send its accents back,
Whose lăst vibration in the desert dies:
Its radiance glances o'er the watery track,
Till the soft wave, as wrapt in slumber, lies
Beneath the forest-shade; then sweetly flows
A milky stream, all silent as it goes.

Its foam is scattered on the margent bound,
Skirting the darksome wood. But list! the hum
Of industry, the rattling hammer's sound,
Files whizzing, creaking sluices, echoed come
On the fast-travelling breeze! O no! no noise
Is heard around, but thy majestic voice!
When the mad storm-wind tears the oak asunder,
In thee its shivered fragments find their tomb;
When rocks are riven by the bolt of thunder,
As sands they sink into thy mighty womb:
The ice that would imprison thy proud tide,
Like bits of broken glass is scattered wide.
The fierce wolf prowls around thee-there he stands
Listening-not fearful, for he nothing fears:
His red eyes burn like fury-kindled brands,
Like bristles o'er him his coarse fur he rears;
Howling, thy dreadful roar he oft repeats,
And, more ferocious, hastes to bloodier feats.

The wild stag hears thy falling waters' sound,
And tremblingly flies forward-o'er his back
He bends his stately horns-the noiseless ground
His hurried feet impress not-and his track
Is lost amidst the tumult of the breeze,
And the leaves falling from the rustling trees.
The wild horse thee approaches in his turn:
He changes not his proudly rapid stride,
His mane stands up erect-his nostrils burn-
He snorts-he pricks his ears-and starts aside;
Then madly rushing forward to thy steep,
He dashes down into thy torrents deep.

Beneath the cedar, in abstraction sunk,
Close to thine awful pile of majesty,

On yonder old and mouldering moss-bound trunk,
That hangs upon the cliff's rude edge, I see
An old man, on whose forehead* winter's snow
Is scattered, and his hand supports his brow

The lănce, the sword, the ample shield beneath,
Lie at his feet obscured by spreading rust;
His căsque is circled by an ivy wreath-

Those arms were once his country's pride and trust:

*Pron. for'-hěd.

And yet upon his golden breast-plate plays
The gentle brightness of the sunset rays.

He sits, and muses on the rapid stream,

While deep thoughts struggling from his bosom rise:
"Emblem of man! here brightly pictured seem
The world's gay scenery and its pageantries;
Which, as delusive as thy shining wave,
Glow for the proud, the coward and the slave.

So is our little stream of life poured out
In the wild turbulence of passion: so,
Midst glory's glance and victory's thunder-shout
The joys of life in hurried exile

go

Till hope's fair smile, and beauty's ray of light,
Are shrouded in the griefs and storms of night.
Day after day prepares the funeral shroud;
The world is gray with age :-the striking hour
Is but an echo of death's summons loud-
The jarring of the dark grave's prison-door:
Into its deep abyss-devouring all-

Kings and the friends of kings alike must fall."

O glory! glory! mighty one on earth!
How justly imaged in this waterfall!
So wild and furious in thy sparkling birth,
Dashing thy torrents down, and dazzling all;
Sublimely breaking from thy glorious height,
Majestic, thundering, beautiful and bright.
How many a wondering eye is turned to thee,
In admiration lost;-shortsighted men!
Thy furious wave gives no fertility;

Thy waters, hurrying fiercely through the plain,
Bring nought but devastation and distress,
And leave the flowery vale a wilderness.

O fairer, lovelier is the modest rill,
Watering with steps serene the field, the
grove-
Its gentle voice as sweet and soft and still,
As shepherd's pipe, or song of youthful love.
It has no thundering torrent, but it flows
Unwearied, scattering blessings as it goes.
To the wild mountain let the wanderer come,
And, resting on the turf, look round and see,

With saddened eye, the green and grassy tomb,
And hear its monitory language: he-

He sleeps below, not famed in war alone;

The great, the good, the generous minded one.

O! what is human glory, human pride?

What are man's triumphs when they brightest seem?
What art thou, mighty one! though deified?
Methuselah's long pilgrimage, a dream;

Our age is but a shade, our life a tale,
A vacant fancy, or a păssing gale,

Or nothing! 'Tis a heavy hollow ball,
Suspended on a slender, subtile* hair,

And filled with storm-winds, thunders, passions, all
Struggling within in furious tumult there.

Strange mystery! man's gentlest breath can shake it,
And the light zephyrs are enough to break it.
But a few hours, or moments, and beneath
Empires are buried in a night of gloom:
The very elements are leagued with death,
A breath sends giants to their lonely tomb.
Where is the mighty one? He is not found,
His dust lies trampled in the noiseless ground!

But gratitude still lives, and loves to cherish
The patriot's virtues, while the soul of song
In sacred tones, that never, never perish,
Fame's everlasting thunder bears along.
The lyre has an eternal voice-of all
That's holy, holiest is the good man's pall.

List then, ye worldly waterfalls! Vain men,
Whose brains are dizzy with ambition, bright
Your swords-your garments flowery like a plain
In the spring time-if truth be your delight,
And virtue your devotion, let your sword
Be bared alone at wisdom's sacred word.

Roar, roar, thou waterfall! lift up thy voice
Even to the clouded regions of the skies:
Thy brightness and thy beauty may rejoice.
Thy music charms the cars, thy light the eyes,
Joy-giving torrent! sweetest memory

Receives a freshness and a strength from thee.

*Pron, sub'til.

Roll on! no clouds shall on thy waters lie
Darkling: no gloomy thunder-tempest break
Over thy face let the black night-dews fly
Thy smiles, and sweetly let thy murmurs speak
In distance and in nearness: be it thine
To bless with usefulness, with beauty shine,
Thou parent of the waterfall! proud river!
Thou northern thunderer, Suna! hurrying on
In mighty torrent from the heights, and ever
Sparkling with glory in the gladdened sun,
Now dashing from the mountain to the plain,
And scattering purple fire and sapphire rain.
'Tis momentary vehemence; thy course
Is calm and soft and silent: clear and deep
Thy stately waters roll: in the proud force
Of unpretending majesty, they sweep
The sideless marge, and brightly, tranquilly
Bear their rich tributes to the grateful sea.

Thy stream, by baser waters unalloyed,
Washes the golden banks that o'er thee smile;
Until the clear Onega drinks its tide,

And swells while welcoming the glorious spoil :
O what a sweet and soul-composing scene,
Clear as the cloudless heavens, and as serene!

LESSON CLXIII.

Scene from Percy's Masque.-HILLHOUSE.

SCENE.-A high-wood walk in a park. The towers of Warkworth castle, in Northumberland, seen over the trees.

Enter ARTHUR, in a huntsman's dress.

Arthur. HERE let me pause, and breathe awhile, and wipe These servile drops from off my burning brow.

Amidst these venerable trees, the air

Seems hallowed by the breath of other times.—
Companions of my fathers! ye have marked
Their generations pass. Your giant arms
Shadowed their youth, and proudly canopied
Their silver hairs, when, ripe in years and glory,