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miserable cottage? to be obliged to toil almost in the menial concerns of her wretched habitation ?"

"Has she, then, repined at the change?"

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Repined! she has been nothing but sweetness and good humor. Indeed, she seems in better spirits than I have ever known her; she has been to me all love, and tenderness, and comfort!"

"Admirable girl!" exclaimed I. "You call yourself poor,

my friend; you never were so rich: you never knew the boundless treasures of excellence you possessed in that woman."

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Oh! but, my friend, if this first meeting at the cottage were over, I think I could then be comfortable. But this is her first day of real experience: she has been introduced into an humble dwelling; she has been employed all day in arranging its miserable equipments; she has, for the first time, known the fatigues of domestic employment; she has, for the first time, looked around her on a home destitute of every thing elegant; almost of every thing convenient; and may now be sitting down, exhausted and spiritless, brooding over a prospect of future poverty."

There was a degree of probability in this picture, that I could not gainsay; so we walked on in silence.

After turning from the main road, up a narrow lane, so thickly shaded by forest trees, as to give it a complete air of seclusion, we came in sight of the cottage. It was humble enough in its appearance for the most pastoral poet; and yet it had a pleasing rural look. A wild vine had overrun one end with a profusion of foliage; a few trees threw their branches gracefully over it; and I observed several pots of flowers, tastefully disposed about the door, and on the grassplot in front. A small wicket-gate opened upon a footpath, that wound through some shrubbery to the door. Just as we

approached, we heard the sound of music. Leslie grasped my arm; we paused and listened. It was Mary's voice, singing, in a style of the most touching simplicity, a little air, of which her husband was peculiarly fond.

I felt Leslie's hand tremble on my arm. He stepped forward, to hear more distinctly. His step made a noise on the

valk.

,

A bright, beautiful face glanced out at the and vanished; a light footstep was heard, and Mary ipping forth to meet us. She was in a pretty rural white; a few wild flowers were twisted in her fine fresh bloom was on her cheek; her whole countebeamed with smiles. I had never seen her look so

dear George," cried she, "I m so glad you are I have been watching and watching for you; and down the lane, and looking out for you. I've set ble under a beautiful tree behind the cottage; and en gathering some of the most delicious strawberries, now you are fond of them; and we have such excelam, and every thing is so sweet and still here.-Oh!" e, putting her arm within his, and looking up brightly ace, "Oh! we shall be so happy!"

Leslie was overcome. He caught her to his bosom; ed his arms round her; he kissed her again and again; ould not speak; but the tears gushed into his eyes; ha's often assured me, that though the world has since -osperously with him, and his life has indeed been a ɔne, yet never has he experienced a moment of more te felicity.

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LESSON XXVII.

Elysium.-MRS. HEMANS

FAIR Wert thou, in the dreams lder time, thou land of glorious flowers, summer-winds, and low-toned, silvery streams, with the shadows of thy laurel-bowers! Where, as they passed, bright hours O faint sense of parting, such as clings athly love, and joy in loveliest things!

Fair wert thou, with the light

On thy blue hills and sleepy waters cast,
From purple skies ne'er deepening into night,
Yet soft, as if each moment were their last
Of glory, fading fast

Along the mountains!-but thy golden day
Was not as those that warn us of decay.

And ever, through thy shades,

A swell of deep Eolian sound went by,
From fountain voices in their secret glades,
And low reed-whispers, making sweet reply
To summer's breezy sigh!

And young leaves trembling to the wind's light breath,
Which ne'er had touched them with a hue of death!

And the transparent sky

Rung as a dome, all thrilling to the strain
Of harps that, midst the woods, made harmony
Solemn and sweet; yet troubling not the brain
With dreams and yearnings vain,

And dim remembrances, that still draw birth
From the bewildering music of the earth.

And who, with silent tread,

Moved o'er the plains of waving Asphodel?
Who, called and severed from the countless dead,
Amidst the shadowy amaranth-bowers might dwell,
And listen to the swell

Of those majestic hymn-notes, and inhale
The spirit wandering in the immortal gale?

They of the sword, whose praise,

With the bright wine at nation's feasts, went round!
They of the lyre, whose unforgotten lays,

On the morn's wing, had sent their mighty sound,
And, in all regions, found

Their echoes midst the mountains!—and become,
In man's deep heart, as voices of his home!

They of the daring thought!

g and powerful, yet to dust allied.

e flight through stars, and seas, and depths, had sought soul's far birth-place-but without a guide!

Sages and seers, who died,

eft the world their high mysterious dreams, midst the olive-woods, by Grecian streams.

But they, of whose abode,

her green valleys, earth retained no trace, a flower springing from their burial-sod, de of sadness on some kindred face, A void and silent place

me sweet home;-thou hadst no wreaths for these, sunny land! with all thy deathless trees!

The peasant, at his door,

tsink to die, when vintage-feasts were spread, songs on every wind!-From thy bright shore velier vision floated round his head;

Thou wert for nobler dead!

eard the bounding steps which round him fell, sighed to bid the festal sun farewell!

The slave, whose very tears

a forbidden luxury, and whose breast
up the woes and burning thoughts of years,
the ashes of an urn comprest;

-He might not be thy guest!
entle breathings from thy distant sky
o'er his path, and whispered, "Liberty !"

Calm, on its leaf-strown bier,

e a gift of nature to decay,

-ose-like still, too beautiful, too dear, child at rest before its mother lay;

E'en so to pass away,

its bright smile!-Elysium! what wert thou,

er, who wept o'er that young slumberer's brow?

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Thou hadst no home, green land,

For the fair creature from her bosom gone,
With life's first flowers just opening in her hand,
And all the lovely thoughts and dreams unknown,
Which in its clear eye shone,

Like the spring's wakening!-But that light was past.
-Where went the dew-drop, swept before the blast?

Not where thy soft winds played,

Not where thy waters lay in glassy sleep!—
Fade, with thy bowers, thou land of visions, fade!
From thee no voice came o'er the gloomy deep,
And bade man cease to weep!

Fade, with the amaranth plain, the myrtle grove,
Which could not yield one hope to sorrowing love!

For the most loved are they,

Of whom Fame speaks not with her clarion-voice
In regal halls! the shades o'erhang their way;
The vale, with its deep fountains, is their choice,
And gentle hearts rejoice

Around their steps!-till silently they die,
As a stream shrinks from summer's burning eye.

And the world knows not then,

Not then, nor ever,-what pure thoughts are fled !
Yet these are they, that, on the souls of men,
Come back, when Night her folding veil hath spread,
The long-remembered dead!

But not with thee might aught save glory dwell-
-Fade, fade away, thou shore of Asphodel!

LESSON XXVIII.

Better Moments.-WILLIS.

My mother's voice! how often creep
Its accents o'er my lonely hours!
Like healing sent on wings of sleep,
Or dew to the unconscious flowers.

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