And pause at times, and feel that we are safe;
Then listen to the perilous tale again,
And with an eager and suspended soul,
Woo terror to delight us. But to hear
The roaring of the raging elements,—
To know all human skill, all human strength,
Avail not, to look around, and only see
The mountain-wave incumbent, with its weight
Of bursting waters, o'er the reeling bark,—
Ah, me! this is indeed a dreadful thing;
And he who hath endured the horror once
Of such an hour, doth never hear the storm
Howl round his home but he remembers it,
And thinks upon the suffering mariner.

THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS.

LONGFELLOW.

L'éternité est une pendule, dont de balancier dit et redit sans ces cesse deux mots seulement, dans le silence des tombeaux: "Toujours! jamais! Jamais! toujours!"Jaques Bridaine.

SOMEWHAT back from the village street
Stands the old-fashion'd country-seat.
Across its antique portico

Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw;
And from its station in the hall

An ancient timepiece says to all,

"Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

Halfway up the stair it stands,

And points and beckons with its hands,
From its case of massive oak,

Like a monk, who, under his cloak,

Crosses himself, and sighs, alas!
With sorrowful voice to all who pass,-
66 Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

By day its voice is low and light;
But in the silent dead of night,
Distinct as a passing footstep's fall,
It echoes along the vacant hall,
Along the ceiling, along the floor,
And seems to say, at each chamber-door,
"Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

Through days of sorrow and of mirth,
Through days of death and days of birth,

Through every swift vicissitude

Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood,
And as if, like God, it all things saw,
It calmly repeats those words of awe,-
"Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

In that mansion used to be
Free-hearted Hospitality;

His great fires up the chimney roar'd;
The stranger feasted at his board:
But, like the skeletons at the feast,
That warning timepiece never ceased,
"Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

There groups of merry children play'd,
There youths and maidens dreaming stray'd;
O precious hours! O golden prime,
And affluence of love and time!
Even as a miser counts his gold,

Those hours the ancient timepiece told,

"Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

From that chamber, clothed in white,
The bride came forth on her wedding night;
There, in that silent room below,

The dead lay in his shroud of snow!

And in the hush that follow'd the prayer,

Was heard the old clock on the stair,

"Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

All are scatter'd now and fled,
Some are married, some are dead;
And when I ask, with throbs of pain,
"Ah! when shall they all meet again'
As in the days long since gone by?
The ancient timepiece makes reply,-
66 "Forever-never!
Never-forever!"

Never here, forever there,

Where all parting, pain, and care,
And death, and time shall disappear,-
Forever there, but never here!

The horologe of Eternity

Sayeth this incessantly,―

"Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

THE BLIND MOTHER.

GENTLY, dear mother, here;

The bridge is broken near thee, and below
The waters with a rapid current flow-

Gently, and do not fear;

N. P. WILLIS.

Lean on me, mother-plant thy staff before thee,
For she who loves thee most is watching o'er thee.
The green leaves as we pass
Lay their light fingers on thee unaware,
And by thy side the hazel clusters fair,
And the low forest grass

Grows green and lovely, where the wood-paths wind;
Alas, for thee, dear mother, thou art blind!

And nature is all bright;

And the faint gray and crimson of the dawn,
Like folded curtains from the day are drawn ;
And evening's dewy light

Quivers in tremulous softness on the sky-
Alas, dear mother, for thy clouded eye!

And the kind looks of friends

Peruse the sad expression in thy face,
And the child stops amid his bounding race,
And the tall stripling bends
Low to thine ear with duty unforgot-
Alas, dear mother, that thou seest them not!

But thou canst hear-and love
May richly on a human tongue be pour'd,
And the slight cadence of a whisper'd word
A daughter's love may prove;
And while I speak thou knowest if I smile,
Albeit thou dost not see my face the while.

Yes-thou canst hear-and He
Who on thy sightless eye its darkness hung,
To the attentive ear like harps hath strung
Heaven, and earth, and sea!
And 'tis a lesson in our hearts to know,
With but one sense the soul may overflow!

1. Why does the daughter caution her mother to walk softly now?

2. What is here said of the green leaves? 3. What is said of the hazel?

4. What of the forest grass?

5. What of the morning light and of the evening light?

6. Wherefore does the daughter grieve amidst these beauties of nature?

7. How do the blind mother's friends

show their sympathy?

8. How does the child that meets her act? 9. How does the stripling act?

10. In what kind of tones are feelings of love and affection generally uttered? 11. What in the daughter's voice betrays her love for her mother?

12. Wherefore does the daughter repeat these words, "thou canst hear"?

13. In what is God here shown to be good to the blind?

14. Name the five senses.

15. How should those feel who possess all their external senses?

16. How should we ever act towards the blind?

THE WOODCUTTER'S NIGHT SONG.

CLARE.

Work is the appointed calling of man on earth, the end for which his various faculties were given, the element in which his nature is ordained to develop itself, and in which his progressive advance towards heaven is to lie.-Arnold.

WELCOME, red and roundy sun,
Drooping lowly in the west;
Now my hard day's work is done,
I'm as happy as the best.

Joyful are the thoughts of home,
Now I'm ready for my chair,
So, till to-morrow morning's come,
Bill and mittens, lie ye there!

Though to leave your pretty song,
Little birds, it gives me pain,
Yet to-morrow is not long,

Then I'm with you all again.

If I stop, and stand about,

Well I know how things will be,

Judy will be looking out

Every now and then for me.

So fare-ye-well! and hold your tongues;
Sing no more until I come;
They're not worthy of your songs,
That never care to drop a crumb.

All day long I love the oaks,
But, at nights, yon little cot,
Where I see the chimney smokes,
Is by far the prettiest spot!

Wife and children all are there,
To revive with pleasant looks,
Table ready set, and chair,
Supper hanging on the hooks.

Soon as ever I get in,

When my fagot down I fling,
Little prattlers they begin
Teasing me to talk and sing.

Welcome, red and roundy sun,
Drooping lowly in the west;
Now my hard day's work is done,
I'm as happy as the best.

Joyful are the thoughts of home,
Now I'm ready for my chair,
So, till to-morrow morning's come,
Bill and mittens, lie ye there!

1. How does the woodcutter address the sun?

6. Name the woodman's wife.

7. Does the woodcutter grumble at his

2. What has made him ready for his lowly station? chair?

3. What are the bill and mittens?

4. What is the woodcutter sorry to leave? 5. If he spend his time speaking to the birds, what will be taking place at home?

8. Tell me the prettiest spot to him at night.

9. In what state are matters at home? 10. What carries he home on his shoulder?

LINES TO A SWALLOW.

THOMAS AIRD.

"The Swallow," says Sir Humphry Davy in his Salmonia, "is one of my favourite birds, and a rival of the Nightingale, for he cheers my sense of seeing as much as the other does my sense of hearing. He is the glad prophet of the year-the harbinger of the best season; he lives a life of enjoyment amongst the loveliest forms of nature; winter is unknown to him; and he leaves the green meadows of England in autumn for the myrtle and orange groves of Italy, and for the palms of Africa." The bird does not winter in Italy, leaving it in autumn, and going off in the direction of Egypt, and has been seen in Egypt going still further south; but, in other respects, "this is in truth," to use the words of Mr Yarrell, "a brief but perfect sketch of the history of the Swallow."-Patterson's Zoology.

THE swallow is a bonnie bird, comes twitt'ring o'er the sea,
And gladly is her carol heard for the sunny days to be;
She shares not with us wintry glooms, but yet, no faithless thing,
She hunts the summer o'er the earth with little wearied wing.

The lambs like snow all nibbling go upon the ferny hills,
The gladsome voice of gushing streams the leafy forest fills,
Then welcome, little swallow, by our morning lattice heard,
Because thou comest when nature bids bright days be thy reward.
Thine be sweet mornings with the bee that's out for honey-dew;
And glowing be the noontide for the grasshopper and you:
And mellow shine, o'er day's decline, the sun to light thee home;
What can molest thy airy nest? sleep till the day-spring come.
The river blue that rushes through the valley hears thee sing,
It murmurs much beneath the touch of thy light dipping wing;
The thunder-cloud above us bow'd in deeper gloom is seen,
When quick relieved it glances to thy bosom's silvery sheen,

The silent power that brought thee back, with leading strings of love,
To haunts where first the summer sun fell on thee from above,
Shall bind thee more to come aye to the music of our leaves,
For here thy young, where thou hast sprung, shall glad thee in our caves.
Oh! all thy life's one pleasant hymn to God who sits on high,
And gives to thee o'er land and sea the sunshine of the sky;
And aye the summer shall come round, because it is His word,
And aye will welcome back again its little travelling bird!

B