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Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize,
More skill'd to raise the wretched, than to rise.
His house was known to all the vagrant train,
He chid their wand'rings, but reliev'd their pain;
The long-remember'd beggar was his guest,
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast:
The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claim'd kindred there, and had his claim allow'd :
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,
Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away;

Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done,
Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won.
Pleas'd with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow,
And quite forgot their vices in their woe;
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And even his failings lean'd to virtue's side:
But in his duty prompt, at every call,

He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all;
And as a bird each fond endearment tries,
To tempt its new-fledg'd offspring to the skies;
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.

Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismay'd,
The reverend champion stood. At his control
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;
Comfort came down, the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last falt'ring accents whisper'd praise.

At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorn'd the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway,
And fools who came to scoff, remain'd to pray.
The service past, around the pious man
With ready zeal each honest rustic ran:
Even children follow'd with endearing wile,

And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile;
His ready smile a parent's warmth express'd,

Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares distress'd;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven.
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

THE VALLEY OF JEHOSHAPHAT.

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LESSON CXIV.- -APRIL THE TWENTY-FOURTH. Châteaubriand's Description of the Valley of Jehoshaphat. THE air was so fresh and balmy, that all the passengers remained on deck during the night. At six in the morning I was awakened by a confused hum; I opened my eyes, and saw all the pilgrims crowding towards the prow of the vessel. I asked what it was? They said that it was Mount Carmel. I instantly rose from the plank on which I was stretched, and eagerly looked out for the sacred mountain. Every one strove to show it to me, but I could see nothing by reason of the dazzling of the sun, which now rose above the horizon. The moment had something in it that was august and impressive; all the pilgrims, with their chaplets in their hands, remained in silence, watching for the appearance of the Holy Land; the captain prayed aloud, and not a sound was to be heard but that prayer and the rush of the vessel, as it ploughed with a fair wind through the azure sea. From time to time the cry arose, from those in elevated parts of the vessel, that they saw Mount Carmel, and at length I myself perceived it like a round globe under the rays of the sun. I then fell on my knees, after the manner of the Latin pilgrims. My first impression was not the kind of agitation which I experienced on approaching the coast of Greece, but the sight of the cradle of the Israelites, and of the country of our Saviour, filled me with awe and veneration. I was about to descend on the land of miracles -on the birth-place of the sublimest poetry that has ever appeared on earth -on the spot where, speaking only as it has affected human history, the most wonderful event has occurred which ever changed the destinies of our species.

The valley of Jehoshaphat has in all ages served as the burying-place to Jerusalem: you meet there, side by side, monuments of the most distant times, and of the present century. The Jews still resort thither from all corners of the earth, to die. A stranger sells to them, for almost its weight in gold, the land which contains the bones of their fathers. Solomon planted that valley. The shadow of the temple, by which it was overhung - the dark and mournful stream which traverses it - the psalms which David composed on the spot- the lamentations of Jeremiah, which its rocks re-echoed, all rendered it the fitting abode of death. Our blessed Saviour commenced his passion in the same place: that innocent Son of David there shed his blood for the remission of our sins; and

there fell those tears which the guilty David poured forth for his own transgressions. Few names awaken in our minds recollections so solemn as the valley of Jehoshaphat. It is full of wonders.

The aspect of this celebrated valley is desolate. On the western side is a ridge of lofty rocks which support the walls of Jerusalem, and above which the towers of the city appear. The eastern side is formed by the Mount of Olives, and another eminence called the Mount of Scandal, from the idolatry of Solomon. These two mountains, which adjoin each other, are almost bare, and of a red and sombre hue; on their desert side you see here and there some black and withered vineyards, some wild olives, some ploughed land, covered with hyssop, and a few ruined chapels. At the bottom of the valley you perceive a torrent, traversed by a single arch, which is of great antiquity. The stones of the Jewish cemetery appear like a mass of ruins at the foot of the mountain of Scandal, under the village of Siloam. You can hardly distinguish the buildings of the village from the ruins with which they are surrounded. Three ancient monuments are particularly conspicuous those of Zechariah, Jehoshaphat, and Absalom. The sadness of Jerusalem, from which no smoke ascends, and in which no sound is to be heard; the solitude of the surrounding mountains, where not a living creature is to be seen; the disorder of the tombs, ruined, ransacked, and half exposed to view; would almost induce one to believe that the last trump had been heard, and that the dead were about to rise in the valley of Jehoshaphat.

1. Who was Châteaubriand ?

2. What has the valley of Jehoshaphat served for in all ages, and for what do the Jews still resort thither?

3. Describe the aspect of this celebrated valley.

4. What would the sadness and solitude of Jerusalem almost induce one to believe?

LESSON CXV.— APRIL THE TWENTY-FIFTH,

Cowper.

On this day, in 1800, expired at East-Dereham, a few miles from Norwich, in Norfolk, William Cowper, the much-admired poet. His works will be esteemed so long as virtue is cherished on earth, and genius applauded by men.

"Hear CoWPER raise his bold and moral song,
Arm'd with sweet tenderness, in virtue strong,
Truth, while he sings, lets fall her honest tears,
And mad Oppression startles while he hears!"

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A considerable portion of the life of this mild, amiable, and benevolent man was passed, however, under the pressure of extreme despair; his morbid melancholy having induced him to cherish the dreadful idea that he was forsaken by his Creator; though he had lived in the continued practice of all the virtues. The following description of the melancholy man is, probably, sketched from what too faithful remembrance suggested of himself:

"Look where he comes in this embower'd alcove,
Stand close conceal'd, and see a statue move;
Lips busy, and eyes fixt, foot falling slow,
Arms hanging idly down, hands clasp'd below,
Interpret to the marking eye, distress,
Such as its symptoms only can express.
That tongue is silent now; that silent tongue
Could argue once, could jest or join the song,
Could give advice, could censure or commend,
Or charm the sorrows of a drooping friend.
Renounc'd alike its office and its sport,

Its brisker and its graver strains fall short;
But fail beneath a fever's secret sway,

And like a summer brook are pass'd away."

The merry story of "John Gilpin" seems to show, as indeed do many passages in his other works, that a strong perception of the ludicrous naturally balanced in his disposition the gloomy propensity which circumstances rendered finally predominant. For the purpose of losing in employment those distressing ideas, which were ever apt to recur, he undertook the real task of translating into blank verse the whole of Homer's Iliad and Odyssey.

Nothing, however, was capable of durably relieving his mind from the horrible impressions it had undergone; and absolute despair was the state in which it finally settled.

The poet Campbell thus characterises the writings of Cowper: "His verse abounds with opposite traits of severity and gentleness, of playfulness and superstition, of solemnity and mirth, which appear almost anomalous; and there is, undoubtedly, sometimes an air of moody versatility in the extreme contrasts of his feelings. But looking to his poetry as an entire structure, it has a massive air of sincerity. It is founded in steadfast principles of belief; and, if we may prolong the architectural metaphor, though its arches may be sometimes gloomy, its tracery sportive, and its lights and shadows grotesquely crossed, yet altogether it still forms a vast, various, and

interesting monument of the builder's mind. His language has such a masculine idiomatic strength, and his manner, whether he rises into grace or falls into negligence, has so much plain and familiar freedom, that we read no poetry with a deeper conviction of its sentiments having come from the author's heart; and of the enthusiasm, in whatever he describes, having been unfeigned and unexaggerated."

1. What induced Cowper to cherish the dreadful idea that he was forsaken by his Maker?

2. What does the merry story of John Gilpin seem to show?

LESSON CXVI.

APRIL THE TWENTY-SIXTH.

Iceland and its Inhabitants.

In this bleak and mountainous country, man and all that he produces vanish amidst the mightier works of nature. Woods and the higher classes of the vegetable creation are entirely wanting, and the naked rocks are too steep for even the hardy birch or stunted willow to fix their roots. No sound is heard save the billows dashing on the craggy shore, no motion seen but the cataract rushing down the rugged cliffs. Such is the general appearance of these fiords, and the repulsive aspect they present; yet there does the Icelander choose his dwelling, unappalled by the rocks which threaten every moment to crush him by their fall.

The interior of Iceland is an immense desert, strewed with volcanic ashes or dust, and haunted, according to popular belief, by demons which emerge from the adjoining volcanoes. The calamities to which that country has been so often exposed, owing to the activity of its subterranean fires, has disposed its inhabitants to gloomy apprehensions. The devastations caused by earthquakes and volcanoes are still fresh in their memories. The streams of lava which flowed from the Skaptar Jökul, in 1783, are calculated to have covered an extent of not less than 420 square miles. Still more constantly formidable, though less terrific in their immediate operation, are the incroachments made on the valleys by the advancing glaciers which extend from the jökuls or snow-covered mountains.

Instances frequently occur when the Icelander, returning after years of absence in a foreign land to spend the evening of his life in the home of his childhood, finds its

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