I know the brightest stars that set
Return to bless the yearning sea;
My mother, art thou living yet,

And dost thou still remember me?

I sometimes think thy self comes back
From o'er the dark and silent stream,
Where last we watched thy silent track
To those green hills of which we dream;
Thy loving arms around me twine,

My cheeks bloom younger in thy breath, Till thou art mine and I am thine,

Without a thought of pain or death;
And yet, at times, mine eyes are wet
With tears for her I cannot see;
Oh, mother, art thou living yet,
And dost thou still remember me?

55.-"ROCK OF AGES."

ANONYMOUS.

"Rock of Ages, cleft for me,"
Thoughtlessly the maiden sung,
Fell the words unconsciously
From her girlish, gleeful tongue,
Sung as little children sing,

Sung as sing the birds in June;
Fell the words like light leaves sown
On the current of the tune-

"Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee."

Felt her soul no need to hide-
Sweet the song as song could be,
And she had no thought beside;
All the words unheedingly
Fell from lips untouched by care,
Dreaming not that each might be,
On some other lips, a prayer—
"Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee.'

"Rock of Ages, cleft for me—”

'Twas a woman sung them now,
Pleadingly and prayerfully;
Every word her heart did know.
Rose the song as storm-tossed bird
Beats with weary wing the air,

Every note with sorrow stirred,
Every syllable a prayer-
"Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee."

"Rock of Ages, cleft for me-"

Lips grown aged sung the hymn
Trustingly and tenderly,

Voice grown weak and eyes grown dim-
"Let me hide myself in Thee."

Trembling though the voice, and low,
Rose the sweet strain peacefully

As a river in its flow;
Sung as only they can sing,

Who life's thorny paths have pressed;

Sung as only they can sing

Who behold the promised rest.

"Rock of Ages, cleft for me,"
Sung above a coffin-lid;
Underneath, all restfully,

All life's cares and sorrows hid.
Never more, O storm-tossed soul,
Never more from wind or tide,
Never more from billows' roll

Wilt thou need thyself to hide.
Could the sightless, sunken eyes,
Closed beneath the soft gray hair,
Could the mute and stiffened lips,
Move again in pleading prayer,
Still, aye still, the words would be,
"Let me hide myself in Thee."

56.-STUDY OF LATIN AND GREEK.

SYDNEY SMITH.

Latin and Greek are useful, as they inure children to intel lectual difficulties, and make the life of a young student, what it ought to be, a life of considerable labor. We do not, of course, mean to confine this praise exclusively to the study of Latin and Greek, or to suppose that other difficulties might not be found which it would be useful to overcome; but though Latin and Greek have this merit in common with many arts and sciences, still they have it; and, if they do nothing else, they at least secure a solid and vigorous application at a period of life which materially influences all other periods. To go through the grammar of one language thoroughly is of great

use for the mastery of every other grammar; because there obtains, through all languages, a certain analogy to each other in their grammatical construction. Latin and Greek have now mixed themselves etymologically with all the languages of Modern Europe, and with none more than our own; so that we must read these two tongues for other objects than themselves. These two ancient languages are, as mere inventions-as pieces of mechanism-incomparably more beautiful than any of the modern languages of Europe; their mode of signifying time and case by terminations, instead of auxiliary verbs and particles, would of itself stamp their superiority. Add to this, the copiousness of the Greek language, with the fancy, harmony, and majesty of its compounds; and there are quite sufficient reasons why the classics should be studied for the beauties of language. Compared to them merely as vehicles of thought and passion, all modern languages are dull, ill-contrived, and barbarous. That a great part of the Scriptures have come down to us in the Greek language is of itself a reason, if all others were wanting, why education should be planned so as to produce a supply of Greek scholars.

The cultivation of style is very justly made a part of educa tion. Everything which is written is meant either to please or to instruct. The second object it is difficult to effect without attending to the first; and the cultivation of style is the acquisition of those rules and literary habits which sagacity anticipates, or experience shows to be the most effectual means of pleasing. Those works are the best which have longest stood the test of time, and pleased the greatest number of exercised minds. Whatever, therefore, our conjectures may be, we cannot be so sure that the best modern writers can afford us as good models as the ancients; we cannot be certain that they will live through the revolutions of the world, and continue to please in every climate, under every species of government, through every stage of civilization. The moderns have been well taught by their masters; but the time is hardly yet come when the necessity for such instruction no longer exists. We may still borrow descriptive power from Tacitus; dignified perspicuity from Livy; simplicity from Cæsar; and from Homer some portion of that light and heat which, dispersed into ten thousand channels, has filled the world with bright images, and illustrious thoughts. Let the cultivator of modern literature addict himself to the purest models of taste which France, Italy and England could supply, he might still learn from Virgil to be majestic, and from Tibullus to be tender;

he might not yet look upon the face of nature as Theocritus saw it, nor might he reach those springs of pathos with which Euripides softened the hearts of his audience. In short, it appears to us, that there are so many excellent reasons why a certain number of scholars should be kept up in this and in every civilized country, that we should consider every system of education from which classical education is excluded, as radically erroneous and completely absurd.

57.-BINGEN ON THE RHINE.

C. E. NORTON.

A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers,

There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears;

But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away,
And bent with pitying glances, to hear what he might say.
The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand,
And he said, "I never more shall see my own, my native land;
Take a message, and a token, to some distant friends of mine,
For I was born at Bingen,-fair Bingen on the Rhine.

[around,
"Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd
To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground,
That we fought the battle bravely, and, when the day was done,
Full many a corse lay ghastly pale beneath the setting sun;
And, 'mid the dead and dying, were some grown old in wars,—
The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars;
And some were young, and suddenly beheld life's morn decline,—
And one had come from Bingen,-fair Bingen on the Rhine.
'Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age;
For I was aye a truant bird that thought his home a cage.
For my father was a soldier, and even as a child

My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild; And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard,

I let them take whate'er they would, but kept my father's sword; And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine, On the cottage wall at Bingen,-calm Bingen on the Rhine.

"Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head, When the troops come marching home again, with glad and gal. lant tread,

But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye,
For her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to die;
And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name

To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame,

And hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and mine), For the honor of old Bingen,-dear Bingen on the Rhine.

There's another,-not a sister; in the happy days gone by
You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye;
Too innocent for coquetry,-too fond for idle scorning,- [ing!
O friend! I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourn
Tell her the last night of my life, (for, ere the moon be risen,
My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of prison,)
I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine
On the vine-clad hills of Bingen,-fair Bingen on the Rhine.

"I saw the blue Rhine sweep along; I heard or seemed to hear
The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear;
And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill,
The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still;
And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed with friendly talk
Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk!
And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine,—
But we'll meet no more at Bingen,-loved Bingen on the Rhine."
His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse, his grasp was childish
weak,

His eyes put on a dying look,-he sighed, and ceased to speak;
His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled,-
The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land was dead!
And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down
On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corses strewn ;
Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine
As it shone on distant Bingen,-fair Bingen on the Rhine.

58. THE LOST LEADER.

ROBERT BROWNING.

Just for a handful of silver he left us;
Just for a ribbon to stick in his coat,-

Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us,
Lost all the others she lets us devote.

They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver,
So much was theirs who so little allowed.

How all our copper had gone for his service!

Rags-were they purple, his heart had been proud!
We that had loved him so, followed him honored him,
Lived in his mild and magnificent eye,

Learned his great language, caught his clear accents,
Made him our pattern to live and to die!
Shakspeare was of us, Milton was for us,

[graves!

Burns, Shelley were with us-they watch from their

He alone breaks from the van and the freemen;

He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves!

We shall march prospering,-not through his presence:
Songs may inspirit us,-not from his lyre;