The ancient spirit is not dead,

Old times, thought I, are breathing there;
Proud was I that my country bred

Such strength, a dignity so fair:

She begged an alms, like one in poor estate,
I looked at her again, nor did my pride abate.

When from these lofty thoughts I woke,
"What is it," said I, "that you bear,
Beneath the covert of your cloak,
Protected from this cold damp air?"
She answered, soon as she the question heard,
"A simple burthen, Sir, a little singing-bird."

And, thus continuing, she said,
"I had a son, who many a day
Sailed on the seas, but he is dead;

In Denmark he was cast away:

And I have travelled weary miles to see

If aught which he had owned might still remain for me.

The bird and cage they both were his:

'Twas my son's bird; and neat and trim
He kept it: many voyages

This singing-bird had gone with him;

When last he sailed, he left the bird behind;

From bodings, as might be, that hung upon his mind.

He to a fellow lodger's care

Had left it to be watched and fed,
And pipe its song in safety;—there
I found it when my son was dead;

And now, God help me for my little wit!

I bear it with me, Sir;-he took so much delight in it."

1. On what kind of morning did the

poet meet the old woman?

2. Describe her appearance.

3. What thoughts were suggested by her appearance and manner?

4. What lofty thoughts are meant in verse 3rd?

5. What did the old woman carry beneath her cloak?

6. What was her son, and where was he lost?

7. What had been the object of his mother's present journey?

8. With whom had the lad left the bird? 9. What, did the mother say, might make him leave it behind?

10. Why did she prize the bird so much and carry it with her?

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 le balancier dit et redit sans cesse ces deux mots seulement, dans le silence des tombeaux: "Toujours! jamais! Jamais! toujours!"

There groups of merry children played,
There youths and maidens dreaming strayed;
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!

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 grey 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 poured,
And the slight cadence of a whispered 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 facalties 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,