Instruments and wheels of the Invisible Governor of the Universe! This is indeed all which the greatest of men ever have been, or ever can be. No flatterers of courtiers; no adulation of the multitude; no audacity of self-reliance; no intoxications of success; no evolutions or developments of science can make more or other of them. This is the "sea-mark of their utmost sail" the goal of their furthest run the very round and top of their highest soaring.

Oh, if there could be, to-day, a deeper and more pervading impression of this great truth throughout our land, and a more prevailing conformity of our thoughts, and words, and acts to the lessons which it involves; if we could lift ourselves to a loftier sense of our relations to the Invisible; if, in surveying our past history, we could catch larger and more exalted views of our destinies and our responsibilities; if we could realize that the want of good men may be a heavier woe to a land than any want of what the world calls great men, our Centennial year would not only be signalized by splendid ceremonials, and magnificent commemorations, and gorgeous expositions, but it would go far towards fulfilling something of the grandeur of that ceptable year," which was announced by higher than human lips, and would be the auspicious promise and pledge of a glorious second century of Independence and Freedom for our country!

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The patriot voice which cried from the balcony of yonder old State-House, when the Declaration had been originally proclaimed, "stability and perpetuity to American Independence," did not fail to add, "God save our American States." I would prolong that ancestral prayer. There is, there can be, no independence of God; in Him as a nation, no less than in Him as individuals, "we live and move and have our being!" God save our American States.—Robert C. Winthrop.

THE BATTLE OF HOHENLINDEN.

ON Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow;
And dark as winter was the flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight,

When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neighed
To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven;
Then rushed the steed to battle driven;
And louder than the bolts of heaven
Far flashed the red artillery.

And redder yet those fires shall glow
On Linden's hills of blood-stained snow;
And darker yet shall be the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn; but scarce yon lurid sun
Can pierce the war clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun

Shout in their sulphurous canopy.

The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory or the grave!
Wave Munich! all thy banners wave,

And charge with all thy chivalry!

Ah! few shall part where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet

Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

Thomas Campbell.

Questions for Thought-Analysis of the above Poem.

Between what Meaning of the Derivation of

What kind of poetry is this? Give some account of the author. Did he witness the battle here described? In what year and season was it fought? nations or people? Where is Hohenlinden? Meaning of the word? phrase "sun was low"? Describe the Iser.

How pronounced?

untrodden? Principal parts of verb lay? Explain the line " and dark as winter was the flow."

Was the battle fought by day or night? What commanded the fires of death? Meaning of phrase "fires of death"?

What is vividly pictured in the third and fourth stanzas? What kind of utterance would express the sense-slow or spirited? In fifth stanza what "fires" are meant? Meaning of third and fourth lines?

Define lurid. Dun. Who were the Franks? the Huns? Meaning of sulphurous? canopy? How express the bold command in seventh stanza? Where is Munich? Meaning of chivalry as applied in fourth line? How does the sentiment change in eighth stanza? Meaning of first line?

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Marked for Rhetorical Pauses.

SONGS IN THE NIGHT.

THE world hath its night. It seemeth necessary that it should have one. | The sun | shineth | by day, and men | go forth to their labors; | but they grow weary, | and nightfall | cometh on, like a sweet boon | from heaven. | The darkness | draweth the curtains, | and shutteth out the light, | which might prevent our eyes | from slumber; | while the sweet, | calm stillness of the night | permits us | to rest | upon the lap | of ease, and there forget awhile our cares, | until the morning sun | appeareth, and an angel | puts his hand | upon the curtain, and undraws it once again, | touches our eyelids, and bids. us rise, and proceed | to the labors | of the day. | Night | is one | of the greatest blessings | that men enjoy; | we have many reasons to thank God | for it. | Yet night | is to many | a gloomy season. I There is "the pestilence | that walketh | in darkness;" there is the terror | by night;" | there is the dread of robbers | and of fell disease, | with all those fears | that the timorous know, when they have no light | wherewith they can discern objects. It is then they fancy that spiritual creatures | walk the earth; though, if they knew rightly, they would find it to be true, I that "Millions of spiritual beings | walk this earth, | unseen, | both when we sleep and when we wake," | and that | at all times | they are round about us | not more by

"

night than by day. | Night | is the season | of terror | and alarm to most men. Yet even night | hath its songs. | Have you never stood | by the sea-side | at night, | and heard the pebblessing, and the waves | chant God's glories? | Or | have you never risen from your couch, | and thrown up the window |

of your chamber, | and listened there? | Listened | to what? | Silence save now and then | a murmuring sound, | which seems sweet music | then. | And have you not fancied | you heard the harp | of God | playing | in heaven? | Did you not conceive, that yon stars, | that those eyes of God, | looking down on you, I were also | mouths of song-that every star | was singing God's glory, | singing, | as it shone, | of its mighty Maker, and his lawful, | well-deserved praise? | Night | hath its songs. We need not much poetry | in our spirit, | to catch the song of night, and hear the spheres as they chant praises which are loud | to the heart, though they be silent | to the ear the praises | of the mighty God, | who bears up the unpillared arch | of heaven, | and moves the stars | in their courses.-C. H. Spurgeon.

Marked for Inflections and Emphasis.

UNIVERSAL DECAY.

WE receive such repeated intimations of decay in the world through which we are passing; decline and change and loss follow decline and change and loss in such rapid succession, that we can almost catch the sound of universal wasting, and hear the work of desolation going on busily around us. The mountain falling cometh to naught, and the rock is removed out of his place. The waters wear the stones, the things which grow out of the dust of the earth are washed away, and the hope of man is destroyed. Conscious of our own instability, we look about for ,, ;,, something to rest on; but we look in vain. The heavens and the earth had a beginning, and they will have an end. The face of the world is changing, daily and hourly. All animated things grow old and die. The rocks crumble, the trees fall, the leaves fade, and the grass withers. The clouds are flying, and the waters are flowing away from us.

The firmest works of man, too, are gradually giving way; the

ivy clings to the mouldering tower, the brier hangs out from the shattered window, and the wall-flower springs from the disjointed stones.

The founders of these perishable works have shared the same fate long ago. If we look back to the days of our ancestors, to the men as well as the dwellings of former times, they become immediately associated in our imaginations, and only make the feeling of instability stronger and deeper than before. In the spacious domes, which once held our fathers, the serpent hisses, and the wild bird screams. The halls, which once were crowded with all that taste and science and labor could procure,—which resounded with melody, and were lighted up with beauty, are buried by their own ruins, mocked by their own desolation.

The voice of merriment and of wailing, the steps of the busy and the idle have ceased in the deserted courts, and the weeds choke the entrances, and the long grass waves upon the hearth

stone.

The works of art, the forming hand, the tombs, the very ashes they contained, are all gone.

And when we have gone ourselves, even our memories will not stay behind us long. A few of the near and dear will bear our likeness in their bosoms, till they, too, have arrived at the end of their journey, and entered the dark dwelling of unconsciousness. In the thoughts of others we shall live only till the last sound of the bell, which informs them of our departure, has ceased to vibrate in their ears. A stone, perhaps, may tell some wanderer where we lie, when we came here, and when we went away; but even that will soon refuse to bear us record: "time's effacing fingers" will be busy on its surface, and at length will wear it