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he is down!" "Who is down?" cried Ivanhoe; "for our dear Lady's sake, tell me which has fallen?" "The Black Knight," answered Rebecca, faintly; then instantly again shouted with joyful eagerness-"But no! but no! the name of the Lord of Hosts be blessed! he is on foot again, and fights as if there were twenty men's strength in his single arm-his sword is broken-he snatches an ax from a yeoman-he presses Front de Boeuf, blow on blow-the giant stoops and totters like an oak under the steel of the woodman-he falls-he falls!" Front de Boeuf?" exclaimed Ivanhoe. "Front de Boeuf," answered the Jewess; "his men rush to the rescue, headed by the haughty Templar,their united force compels the champion to pause-they drag Front de Boeuf within the walls."

7. The assilants have won the barriers, have they not?" said Ivanhoe. "They have-they have,-and they press the besieged hard, upon the outer wall; some plant ladders, some swarm like bees, and endeavor to ascend upon the shoulders of each other; down go stones, beams, and trunks of trees upon their heads, and as fast as they bear the wounded to the rear, fresh men supply their places in the assault. Great God! hast thou given men thine own image, that it should be thus cruelly defaced by the hands of their brethren!"Think not of that," replied Ivanhoe; "this is no time for such thoughts. Who yield? Who push their way?"

8. "The ladders are thrown down," replied Rebecca, shuddering; "the soldiers lie groveling under them like crushed reptiles; the besieged have the better." "Saint George strike for us!" said the knight, "do the false yeomen give way?" "No," exclaimed Rebecca, "they bear themselves. right yeomanly; the Black Knight approaches the postern with his huge ax; the thundering blows which he deals, you may hear them above all the din and shouts of the battle; stones and beams are hailed down on the brave champion; he regards them no more than if they were thistle-down and feathers."

9. "St. John of Acre!" said Ivanhoe, raising himself joyfully on his couch, "methought there was but one man in England that might do such a deed." "The postern gate shakes," continued Rebecca; "it crashes-it is splintered by

his powerful blows-they rush in-the out-work is won-oh God! they hurry the defenders from the battlements-they throw them into the moat-0 men, if ye be indeed men, spare them that can resist no longer! "The bridge-the bridge which communicates with the castle-have they won that pass?" exclaimed Ivanhoe. "No," replied Rebecca; "the Templar has destroyed the plank on which they crossed -few of the defenders escaped with him into the castle-the shrieks and cries which you hear, tell the fate of the others. Alas! I see that it is still more difficult to look upon victory than upon battle."

10. "What do they now, maiden?" said Ivanhoe; "look forth yet again, this is no time to faint at bloodshed." "It is over, for a time," said Rebecca; "our friends strengthen themselves within the out-work which they have mastered." "Our friends," said Invahoe, "will surely not abandon an enterprise so gloriously begun, and so happily attained; O no! I will put my faith in the good knight, whose ax has rent heart-ofoak, and bars of iron. Singular," he again muttered to himself, "if there can be two who are capable of such achivements. It is, it must be Richard COEUR de Lion."

11. "See'st thou nothing else, Rebecca, by which the Black Knight may be distinguished?" "Nothing," said the Jewess, "all about him is as black as the wing of the night-raven. Nothing can I spy that can mark him further; but having once seen him put forth his strength in battle, methinks I could know him again among a thousand warriors. He rushes to the fray, as if he were summoned to a banquet. There is more than mere strength; it seems as if the whole soul and spirit of the champion, were given to every blow which he deals upon his enemies. God forgive him the sin of bloodshed! it is fearful, yet magnificent to behold, how the arm and heart of one man can triumph over hundreds."

LVI.

- DESCRIPTION OF A STORM AT SEA.

FROM CARRINGTON.

1 THE evening winds shriek'd wildly: the dark cloud
Rest'd upon the horizon's hem, and grew
Mightier and mightier, flinging its black arch
Around the troubled offing, till it grasp'd
Within its terrible embrace, the all

2.

3.

That eye could see of ocean. There arose,
Forth from the infinite of waters, sounds
Confus'd, appalling; from the dread lee-shore
There came a heavier swell, a lengthen'd roar,
Each moment deeper, rolling on the ear

With most portentous voice. Rock howl'd to rock,
Headland to headland, as the Atlantic flung
Its billows shoreward; and the feathery foam
Of twice ten thousand broken surges, sail'd
High o'er the dim-seen land. The startl'd gull,
With scream prophetic, sought his savage cliff,
And e'en the bird that loves to sail between
The ridges of the sea, with hurried wing,
Flew from the blast's fierce onset.

One-far off,

One hapless ship was seen upon the deep,

Breasting the western waters. Nothing liv'd
Around her; all was desert; for the storm

Had made old ocean's realm a solitude,

Where man might fear to roam. And there she sat,
A lonely thing amid the gathering strife,

With pinions folded-not for rest,-prepar'd
To struggle with the tempest.

And it came,

As night abruptly clos'd; nor moon nor star
Look'd from the sky, but darkness deep as that
Which reign'd over the primeval chaos, wrapp'd
That fated bark, save when the lightning hiss'd
Along the bursting billow. Ocean howl'd
To the high thunder, and the thunder spoke
To the rebellious ocean, with a voice

So terrible, that all the rush and roar

Of waves were but as the meek lapse of rills,
To that deep, everlasting peal, which comes
From thee, Niagara, wild flinging o'er
Thy steep the waters of a world.

4.

5.

Anon,

The lightnings glar'd more fiercely, burning round
The glowing offing with unwonted stay,

As if they linger'd o'er the dark abyss,
And rais'd its vail of horror, but to show

Its wild and tortur'd face. And then, the winds
Held oft a momentary pause,

As spent with their own fury; but they came
Again with added power; with shriek and cry,
Almost unearthly, as if on their wings,
Pass'd by the spirit of the storm.

They heard,

Who rode the midnight mountain-wave; the voice
Of death was in that cry unearthly. Oft,

In the red battle had they seen him stride
The glowing deck, scattering his burning hail,
And breathing liquid flame, until the winds,
The very winds grew faint, and on the waves
Rested the column'd smokes; but on that night
He came with tenfold terrors; with a power
That shook at once heaven, earth; his ministers
Of vengeance round him, the great wind, the sea,
The thunder, and the fatal flash! Alas!
Day dawn'd not on the mariner; ere morn,
The lightning lit the seaman to his grave,
And the fierce sea-dog feasted on the dead!

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REGINALD HEBER, late Bishop of Calcutta, was born in 1783, and died suddenly at Trichinopoli, in 1826. Heber is truly a Christian poet, and a spirit of affectionate piety pervades all his writings.

1. LIFE bears us on, like the current of a mighty river. Our boat, at first, glides down the narrow channel, through the playful murmurings of the little brook, and the windings of its happy border. The trees shed their blossoms over our young heads; the flowers on the brink seem to offer themselves to our hands; we are happy in hope, and we grasp eagerly at the beauties around us; but the stream hurries us on, and still our hands are empty.

2. Our course in youth and manhood is along a wider and deeper flood, and amid objects more striking and magnificent. We are animated by the moving picture of enjoyment and industry which passes before us; we are excited by some short-lived success, or depressed and made miserable by some equally short-lived disappointment. But our energy and our dependence are both in vain. The stream bears us on, and our joys and our griefs are alike left behind us; we may be shipwrecked, but we can not anchor; our voyage may be hastened, but it can not be delayed; whether rough or smooth, the river hastens toward its home, till the roaring of the ocean is in our ears, and the tossing of the waves is beneath our heel, and the land lessens from our eyes, and the floods are lifted up around us, and we take our last leave of the earth, and its inhabitants; and of our further voyage there is no witness but the Infinite and Eternal.

3. And do we still take so much anxious thought for future days, when the days which have gone by have so strangely and so uniformly deceived us? Can we still so set our hearts on the creatures of God, when we find, by sad experience, that the Creator only is permanent? Or shall we not rather lay aside every weight, and every sin which doth most easily beset us, and think ourselves henceforth as wayfaring persons only, who have no abiding inheritance but in the hope of a better world, and to whom even that world would be worse than hopeless, if it were not for our Lord Jesus Christ, and the interest we have obtained in his mercies?

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CHARLES SPRAGUE was born in Boston in 1791, and was a son of one of the veterans of the Boston Tea-tax Memory. In his leisure moments he has written some admirable poems, among which are Curiosity, Shakspeare Ode, Centennial Ode, The Winged Worshippers, The Family Meeting, etc.

We are all here!
Father, mother",

Sister, brother,

All who hold each other dear.

Each chair is fill'd: we're all at home`:

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