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But listen! This morning you rose e'er the dawn,
To keep an appointment, perhaps—with Apollo;
And, finding a fairy footprint on the lawn

Which I could not mistake, I determined to follow.

To the hillside I tracked it, and, tripping above me,
Her sun-ringlets flying and jeweled with dew,
A maiden I saw! Now, the truth, if you love me;
But why should I question? I'm sure it was you.

And you cannot deny you were met, in ascending,

—I, meanwhile, pursuing my truant by stealth—
By a blooming young seraph, who turned, and, attending
Your steps, said her name was the Spirit of Health.
Meantime, through the mist of transparent vermilion
That suddenly flooded the brow of the hill,
All fretted with gold rose Aurora's pavilion,
Illumining meadow, and mountain, and rill.

And Health, floating up through the luminous air,
Dipped her fingers of snow in those clouds growing bright;
Then turned and dashed down o'er her votary fair

A handful of rose-beams that bathed her in light.

Even yet they're at play, here and there, in your form,
Through your fingers they steal to your white taper tips,
Now rush to that cheek its soft dimples to warm,
Now deepen the crimson that lives in your lips.

Will you tell me again, with that scorn lighted eye,
That you do not use paint, while such tinting is there?
While the glow still affirms what the glance would deny ?
No, in future disclaim the sweet theft, if you dare!

MRS. F. S. OSGOOD

LESSON XXVII.

THE TWO MAIDENS.

ONE came with light and laughing air,
And cheek like opening blossom,
Bright gems were twined amid her hair,
And glittered on her bosom;

And pearls and costly bracelets deck
Her round, white arms, and lovely neck.

Like summer's sky, with stars bedight,
The jeweled robe around her,
And dazzling as the noontide light
The radiant zone that bound her;
And pride and joy were in her eye,
And mortals bowed as she passed by.

Another came-o'er her mild face
A pensive shade was stealing,
Yet there no grief of earth we trace,
But that deep, holy feeling,

Which mourns the heart should ever stray
From the pure fount of Truth away.

Around her brow, as snow-drop fair,
The glossy tresses cluster,

Nor pearl, nor ornament was there,
Save the meek spirit's luster;

And faith and hope beamed from her eye,
And angels bowed as she passed by.

MRS. S. J. HALE.

LESSON XXVIII.

THE PEBBLE AND THE ACORN.

"I AM a Pebble! and yield to none!"
Were the swelling words of a tiny stone;
"Nor time nor seasons can alter me;
I am abiding while ages flee.

The pelting hail and the drizzling rain
Have tried to soften me, long, in vain;
And the tender dew has sought to melt
Or touch my heart; but it was not felt.

There's none that can tell about my birth,
For I'm as old as the big, round earth.
The children of men arise, and pass
Out of the world, like blades of grass,
And many a foot on me has trod,
That's gone from sight, and under the sod!
I am a pebble! but who art thou,
Rattling along from the restless bough?"

The Acorn was shocked at this rude salute,
And lay for a moment abashed and mute;
She never before had been so near

This gravelly ball, the mundane sphere;
And she felt, for a time, at a loss to know
How to answer a thing so coarse and low.

But to give reproof of a nobler sort
Than the angry look, or keen retort,
At length, she said, in a gentle tone:
"Since it has happened that I am thrown
From the lighter element, where I grew,
Down to another, so hard and new,
And beside a personage so august,
Abased, I will cover my head in dust,
And quickly retire from the sight of one
Whom time, nor season, nor storm, nor sun,
Nor the gentle dew, nor the grinding heel,
Has ever subdued, or made to feel!"
And soon, in the earth, she sunk away

From the comfortless spot where the pebble lay.

But it was not long ere the soil was broke
By the peering head of an infant oak!
And as it arose, and its branches spread,
The pebble looked up, and wondering said:
"A modest acorn! never to tell

What was inclosed in its simple shell!
That the pride of the forest was folded up
In the narrow space of its little cup!
And meekly to sink in the darksome earth,
Which proves that nothing could hide its worth!

And oh! how many will tread on me,
To come and admire the beautiful tree,
Whose head is towering toward the sky,
Above such a worthless thing as I!
Useless and vain, a cumberer here,
I have been idling from year to year.
But never, from this, shall a vaunting word
From the humble pebble again be heard,

Till something, without me, or within,

Shall show the purpose for which I have been."
The pebble its vow could not forget,

And it lies there wrapped in silence yet.

Miss H. F. GOULD.

LESSON XXIX

LILIAS GRIEVE.

THERE were fear and melancholy in all the glens and valleys that lay stretching around, or down upon St. Mary's Loch; for it was a time of religious persecution. Many a sweet cottage stood untenanted on the hill-side and in the hollow: some had felt the fire, and had been consumed; and violent hands had torn off the turf roof from the green shealing of the shepherd. In the wide and deep silence and solitariness of the mountains, it seemed as if human life were nearly extinct. Caverns and clefts, in which the fox had kenneled, were now the shelter of Christian souls; and when a lonely figure crept stealingly from one hiding-place to another, on a visit of love to some hunted brother in faith, the crows would hover over him, and the hawk shriek at human steps, now rare in the desert.

When the babe was born, there might be none near to baptize it; or the minister, driven from his kirk, perhaps, poured the sacramental water upon its face, from some pool in the glen, whose rocks guarded the persecuted family from the oppressor. Bridals now were unfrequent, and in the solemn sadness of love. Many died before their time, of minds sunken, and of broken hearts. White hair was on heads long before they were old; and the silver locks of ancient men were often ruefully soiled in the dust, and stained with their martyred blood.

But this is the dark side of the picture; for even in their caves were these people happy. Their children were with them, even like the wild flowers that blossomed all about the entrances of their dens. And when the voice of psalms rose up from the profound silence of the solitary place of rocks, the ear of God was open, and they knew that their prayers and praises were heard in heaven. If a child was born, it belonged unto the faithful; if an old man died, it was in the religion of his forefathers. The hidden powers of their souls were brought forth into the light, and they knew the strength that was in them for these days of trial. The thoughtless became sedate; the wild were tamed; the unfeeling made compassionate; hard hearts were softened, and the wicked saw the error of their ways.

All deep passion purifies and strengthens the soul; and so

was it now. Now was shown and put to the proof, the stern, austere, impenetrable strength of men, that would neither bend nor break; the calm, serene determination of matrons, who, with meek eyes and unblanched cheeks, met the scowl of the murderer; the silent beauty of maidens, who with smiles received their death; and the mysterious courage of children, who, in the inspiration of innocent and spotless nature, kneeled down among the dew drops on the green sward, and died fearlessly by their parents' sides. Arrested were they at their work, or in their play; and, with no other bandage over their eyes, but haply some clustering ringlet of their sunny hair, did many a sweet creature of twelve summers, ask just to be allowed to say her prayers, and then go, unappalled, from her cottage door to the breast of her Redeemer.

In those days, had old Samuel Grieve and his spouse suffered sorely for their faith. But they left not their own house; willing to die there, or to be slaughtered, whenever God should so appoint. They were now childless; but a little granddaughter about ten years old, lived with them, and she was an orphan. The thought of death was so familiar to her, that, although sometimes it gave a slight quaking throb to her heart in its glee, yet it scarcely impaired the natural joyfulness of her girlhood; and often, unconsciously, after the gravest or the saddest talk with ner old parents, would she glide off, with a lightsome step, a blithe face, and a voice, humming sweetly some cheerful tune. The old people looked often upon her in her happiness, till their dim eyes filled with tears; while the grandmother said, "If this nest were to be destroyed at last, and our heads in the mold, who would feed this young bird in the wild, and where would she find shelter in which to fold her bonny wings?"

Lilias Grieve was the shepherdess of a small flock, among the green pasturage at the head of St. Mary's Loch, and up the hillside, and over into some of the little neighboring glens. Sometimes she sat in that beautiful church-yard, with her sheep lying scattered around her upon the quiet graves, where, on still, sunny days, she could see their shadows in the water in the loch, and herself sitting close to the low walls of the house of God. She had no one to speak to, but her Bible to read; and day after day, the rising sun beheld her in growing beauty, and innocence that could not fade, happy and silent as a fairy upon

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