XVI, THE SAINTED DEAD.

They are our treasures-changeless and shining treasures. Let us look hopefully. Not lost, but gone before. Lost only like stars of the morning, that have faded into the light of a brighter heaven. Lost to earth, but not to us. When the earth is dark, then the heavens are bright; when objects around become indistinct and invisible in the shades of night, then objects above us are more clearly seen. So is the night of sorrow and mourning; it settles down upon us like a lonely twilight at the grave of our friends, but then already they shine on high. While we weep, they sing. While they are with us upon earth, they lie upon our hearts refreshingly, like the dew upon the flowers; when they disappear, it is by a power from above that has drawn them upward; and, though lost on earth, they still float in the skies. Like the dew that is absorbed from the flowers, they will not return to us; but, like the flowers themselves, we will die, yet only to bloom again in the Eden above. Then those whom the heavens have absorbed and removed from us, by the sweet attraction of their love, made holier and lovelier in light, will draw towards us again by holy affinity, and rest on our hearts as before. They are our treasure-loving ones-the sainted dead!—Harbaugh's Heavenly Recognition.

XVII. THE SEA, THE LARGEST OF ALL CEMETERIES.

The Sea is the largest of all Cemeteries, and its slumberers sleep without a monument. All other graveyards, in all other lands, show some symbol of distinction between the great and the small, the rich and the poor; but in that ocean cemetery the king and the clown, the prince and the peasant, are alike undistinguished. The same wave rolls over all-the same requiem by the minstrelsy of the ocean is sung to their honour. Over their remains the same storm beats, and the same sun shines; and there, unmarked, the weak and the powerful, the plumed and the unhonoured, will sleep on until awakened by the same trump when the sea will give up its dead.-Anonymous.

XVIII. THE FALL OF THE LEAF.

Autumn tinges the forest, and the deepening green fades into brown. The slanting sun sinks sooner to its bed; the rains are steadier and less hopeful of a break; and the day, like that of aging man is graver. The wind is harsher-it beats and tears the trees in their waning life, and already begins to strip them of their summer glories, strewing the ground with the cast off rags of verdure. The dahlia holds out the parting splendours of the summer, with an intense fire of its own, as though sunlight had been sown and blossomed in colour. The corn has been robbed of its golden crown. The gay season has passed, and autumn is leading us to winter, as life wanes and the sombred countenance of man foreshadows death.

Death the handmaid of life. The leaf falls to compose the life-giving earth for future forests the tree perishes to heap nurture round the root of the sapling; the glowing petal rots and is food for the seed of the bud; the corn is gathered to feed the race that survives many generations of corn and seeds beyond its own mortality. Man witnesses these transitions with saddened senses by an informed faith, spans the dark chasm between summer and summer, and borrows for the drear season the light of future years. Other creatures die; he is gifted with the sad knowledge that he dies, but he is able to recognize death as the frontier between life and life. Where the lichen crept over the barren rock, the shrub has grown to forests, the corn waves, and the voice of man breaks the silence of the desert to sing the story of the world; that long story which began before mankind awoke in its cradle, the tale in which ages are as seasons, and change is ever-increasing glory.

To the informed soul of man the fall of the leaf speaks not only of a resurrection, but teaches him how decay is but a process of regeneration; destruction is the first half of improvement. When living nature has attained perfection in one type, it will not tolerate less, but each stage is made complete, and then the creature perfected after its kind, gives place to new perfection. As forests fall that more stately forests may rise, so human states fail that greater states may rise. Persia and Egypt sank into the tomb on which Greece built her temple; Rome propagated the civilization planted by Greece, and modern Europe rises on the ruins of Rome. Revolutions are but the fall of the leaf. Poland has rotted in the soil of Europe; but the Emperor sitting at Warsaw can no more forbid the unborn nation, than the vulture perched upon the fallen oak trunk can forbid the oak which is growing beneath his feet.

XIX. BEAUTIFUL AUTUMN.

The sere and yellow leaf reminds us that another autumn is at hand. There is no subject in nature more beautiful to the contemplative mind than Autumn. When we go back in memory to the gay flowers of the vernal fields, the green foliage of the mountains, hills and valleys, and contemplate their beauty, their glory, their freshness, their grandeur and sublimity, we think of but youth and happiness. But when we see the ruddy hue of declining Summer deepening into the rich robe of Autumn-gathering like the pall of death upon all nature--we are reminded in her own emphatic language, that we, like the "leaves that fall in wintry weather," must ere long, as they are nipped by the autumnal frost, be cut down by the strong arm of death, and gathered to the tomb of silence. It is the time for the mother to visit the lonely grave of her departed love, and weep over it the bright tear of sorrow-for the friend, the acquaintance, and the relative to think of those who have closed their eyes forever upon the vanities of earth, and lie sleeping among the silent dead. At such a period the mind enters into untold enjoyment. There is a sweetness even in the deepest melancholy, which flows to the heart, touching every tendril with emotions of affection, sympathy and love. It is the time to abstract our thoughts from things perishable-to turn from the ephemeral charms of earth, the more sublime beauties which le beyond the grave-to learn from the sober realities around us, that our days will have an autumn, that we cannot expect while here "our bright summer always," though we may look forward to a time when the bloom of an eternal Spring will be known forever; where streams of happiness flow in tranquil beauty from a fountain which time cannot affect.- Washington Irving.

SELECTIONS FOR SCHOOL RECITATIONS.
Part III.-Poetry.

I. THE ALMA RIVER.

(By the Very Rev. Richard Chenevix Trench, D.D.)
Though till now ungraced in story, scant although thy waters be,
Alma, roll those waters proudly, roll them proudly to the sea!
Yesterday unnamed, unhonoured, but to wandering Tartar known,
Now thou art a voice forever, to the world's four corners blown.
In two nations' annals written, thou art now a deathless name,
And a star forever shining in their firmament of fame.

Many a great and ancient river, crowned with city, tower, and shrine,
Little streamlet, knows no magic, has no potency like thine;
Cannot shed the light thou sheddest around many a living head,
Cannot lend the light thou lendest to the memories of the dead;

Yea, nor, all unsoothed their sorrow, who can, proudly mourning, say,-
When the first strong burst of anguish shall have wept itself away,-
"He hath pass'd from us, the loved one; but he sleeps with them that died
"By the Alma, at the winning of that terrible hill side."

Yes, and in the days far onward, when we all are cold as those
Who beneath thy vines and willows on their hero-beds repose,
Thou, on England's banners blazoned with the famous fields of old,
Shalt, where other fields are winning, wave above the brave and bold;
And our sons unborn shall nerve them for some great deed to be done
By that twentieth of September, when Alma's heights were won.
Oh! thou river, dear forever to the gallant, to the free,
Alma, roll thy waters proudly, roll them proudly to the sea!

IN ALMAM FLUVIUM

VICTORIA CRUENTIA A. D. XII. CAL, OCTOB. A. S. MDCCCLIV. NOBILITATUM.

Mater es, Alma, necis; partæ sed sanguine nostro,

Pacis tu nutrix, Almaque Mater eris.

II. THE EAST INDIAN MASSACRES.

The fearful scenes now being enacted in the East Indies by the cowardly and mutinous Sepoys forcibly recal the tragic events connected with the conquest of the Punjaub. The following touching and beautiful poem by the Very Rev. Richard Chenevix Trench, D.D., on the murder at Mooltan of two British officers, Anderson and Agnew, is singularly and painfully appropriate at the present time.

The gallant Major Edwardes' narrative of the tragedy states that, "having been reduced to extremity, Sirdar Khan Sing begged Mr. Agnew to be allowed to wave a sheet and sue for mercy. Though weak from loss of blood, Agnew's heart failed him not. He replied: 'The time for mercy is gone; let none be asked for; we are not the last of the English-thousands of them will yet come down here when we are gone, and annihilate Moolraj, his soldiers, and his fort!' The crowd rushed in, seized Khan Sing and surrounded the two officers who were talking together in English, doubtless bidding each other farewell for all time. They were soon despatched, and their dead bodies thrown out and insulted by the crowd. The English indeed soon came and reduced the fortress; but they did not depart without performing the last sad rites over the gallant slain. The bodies of the two officers were carefully, even affectionately, removed and wrapped in cashmere shawls, to obliterate all traces of neglect. They were borne by the soldiers in triumph through the breach in the walls, and placed in an honoured resting place on the summit of Moolraj's citadel !”—Ed.

Bear them gently, bear them duly, up the broad and sloping breach
Of this torn and shattered city, till their resting-place they reach.
In the costly cashmeres folded, on the stronghold's topmost crown,
In the place of foremost honor, lay these noble relics down.
Here repose, for this is meetest, ye who here breathed out your life,
Ah! in no triumphant battle, but beneath the assassin's knife.

Hither, bearing England's message, bringing England's just demand,
Under England's ægis, came ye to the chieftain of the land:
In these streets beset and wounded, hardly borne with life away,
Faint, and bleeding, and forsaken, in your helplessness ye lay.

But the wolves that once have tasted blood, will raven still for more;
From the infuriate city rises high the wild and savage roar.
Near and nearer grows the tumult of the gathering murderous crew,
Tremble found those helpless couches, an unarmed but faithful few:
"Profitless is all resistance, let us then this white flag wave,
Ere it be too late, disdain not mercy at their hands to crave."

But to no unworthy pleading, would descend that noble twain:
Nay, for mercy sue not; ask not what to ask from these were vain.
We are two, betrayed and lonely; human help or hope is none;
Yet, O friends, be sure that England owns beside us many a son.
"They may slay us; in our places multitudes will here be found,
Strong to hurl this guilty city, with its murderers to the ground.

Yea, who stone by stone would tear it from its deep foundations strong,
Rather than to leave unpunished, them that wrought this treacherous wrong."

Other words they changed between them, which none else could understand,
Accents of our native English, brothers grasping hand in hand.

So they died, the gallant hearted! so from earth their spirits past,
Uttering words of lofty comfort, each to each, unto the last;
And we heard, but little heeded their true spirits far away,
All of wrong and coward outrage, heaped on the unfeeling clay.

Lo! a few short moons have vanished, and the promised ones appear,
England's pledged and promised thousands, England's multitudes are here.
Flame around the blood-stained ramparts swiftest messengers of death,
Girdling with a fiery girdle, blasting with a fiery breath;
Ceasing not, till choked with corpses low is laid the murderers' hold,
And in his last lair the tiger toils of righteous wrath enfold.
Well, oh well-ye have not fail'd them who on England's truth relied,
Who on England's name and honor did in that dread hour confide:

Now one last dear duty render to the faithful and the brave,
What they left of earth behind them rescuing for a worthier grave.
Oh then, bear them, hosts of England, up the broad and sloping breach
Of this torn and shattered city till their resting place they reach.
In the costly cashmeres folded, on the ramparts' topmost crown,
In the place of foremost honor, lay these noble relics down!

III. THE ISLESMEN OF THE WEST.

[From the Dublin University Magazine.]

There is mustering on the Danube's banks such as Earth ne'er saw before,
Though she may rifle where she may her glory-page of yore:
The bravest of her children, proud Europe stands to-day,
All battle-harnessed for the strife, and panting for the fray.

No jewelled robe is round her flung, no glove is on her hand,
But visor down and clasped in steel, her gauntlet grasps the brand;

Oh lordly is the greeting as she rises from her rest,
And summons to the front of fight the Islesmen of the West.

No braver on this earth of ours, no matter where you go,

Then they whose boast was aye to bear the battle's sternest blow;
No braver than that gallant host, who wait with hearts of fire
To bridle with an iron bit the Muscovite's desire.

Ho! gallant hearts, remember well the glories of the past,
And answer with your island shout the Russian's trumpet-blast;
Ho gallant hearts, together stand, and who shall dare molest,
The bristling hem of battle's robe, the Islesmen of the West?

Brave are the chivalry of France as ever reined a steed,
Or wrung from out the jaws of death some bold heroic deed;
A hundred fields have proved it well from Neva to the Po.
When kings have knelt to kiss the hand that smote their souls with wo.

And worthy are the sons to-day of that old Titan breed,

Who spoke in thunders to the Earth that glory was their creed;
Ay, worthy are the sons of France, in valour's lap caress'd,
To-night beside their foes of old, the Islesmen of the West.

Oh, England! in your proudest time you ne'er saw such a sight,
As when you flung your gauntlet down to battle for the right;
What are the Scindian plains to us, the wild Caffrarian kloof,
That glory may be bought too dear that brings a world's reproof!
The brightest deed of glory is to help the poor and weak,
And shield from the oppressor's grasp the lowly and the meek;
And that thou'lt do-for never yet you raised your lion crest,
But victory has blest your sons, the Islesmen of the West.

Who are those haughty Islesmen now who hold the keys of earth,
And plant beside the Crescent moon the banner of their birth?
Who are those scarlet ranks that pass the Frenchman and the Turk,
With lightsome step and gladsome hearts, like reapers to their work?
The sons of Merry England they, reared in her fertile lands,
From Michael's Mount to stout Carlisle, from Thames to Mersey's sands;
From every corner of the isle where valour was the guest,

That cradled in the freeman's shield the Islesmen of the West.

The stormers of the breach pass on, the daring sons of Eire,
Light-hearted in the bayonet-strife as in the country fair ;
The mountaineer who woke the lark on Tipperary's hills,
And he who kiss'd his sweetheart last, by Shannon's silver rills.
The "Rangers" of our western land who own that battle-shout,
That brings the "Fag-an-bealag" blow, and seals the carnage rout;
Those septs of our old Celtic land, who stand with death abreast,
And prove how glorious is the fame of Islesmen of the West.

The tartan plaid and waving plume, the bare and brawny knee,
Whose proudest bend is when it kneels to front an enemy;
The pulse of battle beating fast in every pibroch swell—
Oh, God assoilize them who hear their highland battle yell.
Those Campbell and those Gordon men, who fight for "auld lang syne,"
And bring old Scotland's broadsword through the proudest battle line;
You have done it oft before, old hearts, when fronted by the best,
And where's the serf tc-day dare stand those Islesmen of the West?