With thoughts that swell his glowing soul,
He bids the ore illume the page,
And proudly scorning Time's control,
Commerces with an unborn age.

In fields of air he writes his name,
And treads the chambers of the sky;
He reads the stars, and grasps the flame
That quivers round the throne on high.
In war renowned, in peace sublime,

He moves in greatness and in grace;
His power, subduing space and time,
Links realm to realm, and race to race.

EXERCISE XCII.

TO THE FALLS OF NIAGARA.

THE thoughts are strange that crowd into my brain,
While I look upward to thee. It would seem
As if God poured thee from his "hollow hand,"
And hung his bow upon thine awful front ;-

And spoke in that loud voice, which seemed to him
Who dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour's sake,
"The sound of many waters ;" and had bade
Thy flood to chronicle the ages back,

And notch his centuries in the eternal rocks.

Deep calleth unto deep. And what are we, That hear the question of that voice sublime? O! what are all the notes that ever rung From war's vain trumpet, by thy thundering side? Yea, what is all the riot man can make, In his short life, to thy unceasing roar! And yet, bold babbler! what art thou to Him Who drowned a world, and heaped the waters far Above its loftiest mountains ?- A light wave, That breaks, and whispers of its Maker's might.

PART III-DIALOGUES.

DIALOGUE 1.

PERSEVERANCE.

Mother. What was it, my dear, you just told your sister, in a very discontented voice, that you could not, and would not do?

Eliza. Something my school-mistress requires of me, and which I cannot do.

Mother. Indeed! she must be an unreasonable wo man, to require of you what you cannot do. Has she ever before required you to do what you really could not do?

of

Eliza. Why, no, mother, not very often.
Mother. Then she has, occasionally?

Eliza. Yes, I think she has, sometimes.

Mother. Well, what did you do, when she required you what you could not do?

Eliza. I had to try, and try again, till I was almost dead with fatigue.

Mother. And did trying do any good?

Eliza. To be sure; after trying a great while, I made out to do it at last.

Mother. Then, my child, your school-mistress did not require of you what you could not do; but only what it it was difficult to do; and I dare say, the very difficulty did you more good than twenty times as much of what you would call easy exercises. You have yet to learn, I see, that the conquering of difficulties will alone give you strength of mind and invention, and that the more easy your task is, the sooner you will forget it, and the less good it will do you.

Eliza. But, mother, there are some things that are not only difficult, but I do not know how to do them.

Mother. Such as what?

Eliza. I cannot write composition, and that is what I have to do. The great girls at school write about friendship, and China. I do not know anything about China; and I am sure I cannot write about friendship. What could I say about friendship, mother?

Mother. You need not write about friendship; indeed, that is not a proper subject for one of your age; but you can describe to me things which you have seen or of which you have heard, and why not put them on paper? You can write and spell, you know. I think you might compose something about this very China, that your school-mistress would be pleased with.

Eliza. Pray tell me what, mother.

Mother. Do you not remember the conversation of Captain S., who took tea with us last week? Eliza. Yes; I think I do.

Mother. Well, cannot you tell me what it was; at least, some of it?

Eliza. I remember his saying that many Chinese families lived always on the water, in little boats; that many children were born and brought up without ever going upon land; and I could not help pitying the poor little creatures: how they must want their liberty!

Mother. Not so much, perhaps, as you suppose; as they have never known what it is to run and skip as you do over the green fields; but you may well pity them on account of their poor and untaught condition.

Eliza. I remember, too, that the women in these boats take the clothes to wash from vessels that go there; and that at the same time they work with their hands and their feet: what industrious people they must be!

Mother. It would not do, I think, for them to say, because a thing was difficult, that they could not do it. What else do you remember?

Eliza. That the Chinese are very ingenious in imitating anything they see, but that they do very little without a pattern; that an American captain, from the neighborhood of Boston, had his portrait taken in China, and that when he sat the last time, he happened to have on a coat with a patch on the elbow; the painter very

carefully put the patch on the elbow of the portrait: and one thing more I recollect—that the Chinese are very suspicious, and even afraid of foreigners; and that they do not eat with knives and forks-having something like a fear of them when brought near the mouth — but with something they call chopsticks.

Mother. Very well, my dear; now only write down. what you have told me, and it will be very proper composition for you. It is not expected that one of your age can have thoughts upon such subjects as older people write upon; but you must begin by describing such things as you have seen, or about which you have heard or read; and you will, without intending it, make remarks, as you did just now, about the industry of the Chinese, and about their pitiable condition.

Eliza. I thank you, mother, for making me think that I can do something; I will try to do as you direct

me.

Mother. Try sincerely, my dear, and you will find a great many things possible, and even easy to be done, which you might beforehand think yourself wholly unable to accomplish.

DIALOGUE II.

THE USEFUL AND THE ORNAMENTAL.

Augusta. Well, Mary, I cannot expect to be like you, nature intended that I should be only useful.

Mary. I should be very sorry, if I thought she had not made me for the same purpose.

A. Oh! you are above being useful. You were meant to be ornamental; and everybody is willing you should be so; for few can make such attainments, and those who can are not expected to be useful.

M. What do you mean by being useful?

A. Why, I mean fulfilling one's duty in the common relations of life.

M. Well, am I negligent in that particular?

A. No; I would not say that; but you do not put your whole mind into it.

M. Why should I, if I have mind enough for that and other things too?

A. Well, you are more ornamental than useful, at any

rate.

M. It seems to me that you strangely limit the term useful. I suppose you mean that we are useful, only when we are making raiment for the body, or setting the house in order, or tending the sick.

A. Yes; and visiting the poor, and keeping Sunday school.

M. Well, do you propose doing this last without cultivation? Shall the blind lead the blind?

A. That requires no knowledge beyond Christian morality.

M. The highest knowledge of all, and to which all other attainments are subsidiary!

A. Well, but granting that, of what other use, Mary, are all your accomplishments? They make you very independent, I know, and much admired by certain persons; but then they render insipid other society, in which they are not appreciated, and from which you can gain nothing; and what good do they do anybody but yourself?

M. I think they do some good, when they make my father and brothers fond of being at home, and talking with me. You have often complained that you could not make home attractive to your father and brothers, and lamented the ennui of the one, and the idle amusements of the others. As to its making the sort of society of which you speak insipid to me, I know that although you spend so much time in it, it is as disagreeable to you as it is wearisome to me. You are always bringing me stories of the calumnies which are afloat about you and your friends. Now I say, that much of this wicked gossipping arises from idleness, and that if these people's minds were better furnished, their tongues would be less venomous.

A. But if we can do nothing for this society, ought we to withdraw ourselves wholly from it?

M. If we cannot raise its tone, I think it may be of some use to bear a quiet testimony, that we car find