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its melancholy bleating was the only sound that disturbed the silence. In former years I used, at once, to pull the string that lifted the wooden latch; but now I deliberately knocked. A strange female form, with a child in her arms, opened the door. I asked for my old acquaintance. "Alas! poor Alice is in her coffin: look, sir, where the shadow of the spire ends: that is her grave." I relaxed my grasp of my money. "And her deformed boy?" He, too, is there!" I drew my hand from my pocket.


It was a hard task for me to thank the woman, but I did so. I moved to the place where the mother and the child were buried. I stood for some minutes, in silence, beside the mound of grass. I thought of the consumptive lad, and as I did so, the lamb, at the cottage window, gave its anxious bleat. And then all the affectionate attentions of my own mother arose on my soul, while my lips trembled out: "Mother! dear mother! would that I were as is the widow's son! would that I were sleeping in thy grave! I loved thee, mother' but I would not have thee living now, to view the worldly sor rows of thy ungrateful boy! My first step toward vice was the oath which the deformed child heard me utter." *


But you, who rest here as quietly as you lived, shall receive the homage of the unworthy. I will protect this hillock from the steps of the heedless wanderer, and from the trampling of the village herd. I will raise up a tabernacle to purity and love. I will do it in secret; and I look not to be rewarded openly. C. EDWARDS.



I've been among the mighty Alps, and wandered through their vales,
And heard the honest mountaineers relate their dismal tales,
As round the cottage blazing hearth, when their daily work was o'er,
They spake of those who disappeared, and ne'er were heard of more.


And there I from a shepherd heard a narrative of fear,
A tale to rend a mortal heart, which mothers might not hear:
The tears were standing in his eyes, his voice was tremulous.
But, wiping all those tears away, he told his story thus:-

"It is among these barren cliffs the ravenous vulture dwells,
Who never fattens on the prey which from afar he smells;
But, patient, watching hour on hour upon a lofty rock,
He singles out some truant lamb, a victim, from the flock.

"One cloudless Sabbath summer morn, the sun was rising high,
When, from my children on the green, I heard a fearful cry,
As if some awful deed were done, a shriek of grief and pain,
A cry, I humbly trust in God, I ne'er may hear again.

"I hurried out to learn the cause; but, overwhelmed with fright, The children never ceased to shriek, and from my frenzied sight I missed the youngest of my babes, the darling of my care; But something caught my searching eyes, slow sailing through the air.

"Oh! what an awful spectacle to meet a father's eye!
His infant made a vulture's prey, with terror to descry!
And know, with agonizing breast, and with a maniac rave,
That earthly power could not avail, that innocent to save!

"My infant stretched his little hands imploringly to me,
And struggled with the ravenous bird, all vainly, to get free,
At intervals, I heard his cries, as loud he shrieked and screamed;
Until, upon the azure sky, a lessening spot he seemed.

"The vulture flapped his sail-like wings, though heavily he flew, A mote upon the sun's broad face he seemed unto my view: But once I thought I saw him stoop, as if he would alight; 'T was only a delusive thought, for all had vanished quite.

"All search was vain, and years had passed; that child was ne'er forgot,

When once a daring hunter climbed unto a lofty spot,
From whence, upon a rugged crag the chamois never reached,
He saw an infant's fleshless bones the elements had bleached!

"I clambered up that rugged cliff; I could not stay away;
I knew they were my infant's bones thus hastening to decay;
A tattered garment yet remained, though torn to many a shred,
The crimson cap he wore that morn was still upon the head."

That dreary spot is pointed out to travelers passing by,
Who often stand, and, musing, gaze, nor go without a sigh.
And as I journeyed, the next morn, along my sunny way,
The precipice was shown to me, whereon the infant lay.


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O LORD, our Lord,

How excellent is thy name in all the earth!
Who hast set thy glory above the heavens!
Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings
Hast thou ordained strength,

Because of thine enemies,

That thou mightest still the enemy and the avenger.
When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers,
The moon and the stars which thou hast ordained;
What is man, that thou art mindful of him?

Or the son of man, that thou visitest him?

For thou hast made him a little lower than the angels,
And hast crowned him with glory and honor,

Thou madest him to have dominion over the works of thy hands

Thou hast put all things under his feet:

All sheep and oxen,

Yea, and the beasts of the field;

The fowl of the air, and the fish of the sea,

And whatsoever passeth through the paths of the seas.

O Lord, our Lord,

How excellent is thy name in all the earth!

The Lord is my shepherd;

I shall not want.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures,

He leadeth me beside the still waters,

He restoreth my soul:

He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil, for thou art with me;

Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies; Thou anointest my head with oil;

My cup runneth over.

Surely mercy and goodness will follow me all the days of my life; And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

Oh that men would praise the Lord for his goodness,
And for his wonderful works to the children of men!
They that go down to the sea in ships,
That do business in great waters;

These see the works of the Lord,

And his wonders in the deep.

For he commandeth, and raiseth the stormy wind,
Which lifteth up the waves thereof.
They mount up to the heaven,

They go down again to the depths:

Their soul is melted because of trouble.

They reel to and fro, and stagger like a drunken man,
And are at their wit's end.

Then they cry unto the Lord in their trouble,
And he bringeth them out of their distresses;
He maketh the storm a calm,

So that the waves thereof are still.

Then are they glad because they be quiet;
So he bringeth them unto their desired haven.

Oh that men would praise the Lord for his goodness,
And for his wonderful works to the children of men!

O come! let us sing unto the Lord;

Let us make a joyful noise to the rock of our salvation.
Let us come before his presence with thanksgiving,

And make a joyful noise unto him with psalms.

For the Lord is great God,

And a great King above all gods.

In his hand are the deep places of the earth:
The strength of the hills is his also.

The sea is his, and he made it;
And his hands formed the dry land.

O come! let us worship and bow down;

Let us kneel before the Lord our Maker,
For he is our God;

And we are the people of his pasture, and the sheep of his hand.

To-day if ye will hear his voice,

Harden not your hearts, as in the provocation,

And as in the day of temptation in the wilderness,

When your fathers tempted me,

Proved me, and saw my work.

Forty years long was I grieved with this generation,
And said, it is a people that do err in their heart,
And they have not known my ways:
Unto whom I sware in my wrath,
That they should not enter my rest.





THE plumage of the mocking-bird, though none of the homeliest, has nothing gaudy or brilliant in it, and had he nothing else to recommend him, would scarcely entitle him to notice; but his figure is well proportioned, and even handsome. The ease, elegance, and rapidity of his movements, the animation of his eye, and the intelligence he displays in listening, and laying up lessons from almost every species of the feathered creation within his hearing, are really surprising, and mark the peculiarity of his genius. To these qualities we may add that of a voice, full, strong, and musical, and capable of almost every modulation, from the clear, mellow tones of the wood-thrush, to the savage screams of the bald-eagle.

In measure and accent, he faithfully follows his originals. In force and sweetness of expression, he greatly improves upon them. In his native groves, mounted upon the top of a tall bush or half-grown tree, in the dawn of dewy morning, while the woods are already vocal with a multitude of warblers, his admirable song rises pre-eminent over every competitor. The ear can listen to his music alone, to which that of all the others seems a mere accompaniment. Neither is this strain altogether imitative. His own native notes, which are easily distinguishable by such as are well acquainted with those of our various birds of song, are bold and full, and varied, seemingly, beyond all limits. They consist of short expressions of two, three, or, at the most, five or six syllables, generally interspersed with imitations, and all of them uttered with great emphasis and rapidity, and continued, with undiminished ardor, for half an hour or an hour, at a time; his expanded wings and tail, glistening with white, and the buoyant gayety of his action, arresting the eye, as his song most irresistibly does the ear.

He sweeps round with enthusiastic ecstasy; he mounts and descends, as his song swells or dies away, and, as my friend Mr. Bartram has beautifully expressed it, " he bounds aloft with the celerity of an arrow, as if to recover or recall his very soul, which expired in the last elevated strain." While thus exerting himself, a bystander, destitute of sight, would suppose that

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