I long to see those icebergs vast,

With heads all crowned with snow; Whose green roots sleep in the awful deep, Two hundred fathoms low.

I long to hear the thundering crash
Of their terrific fall;

And the echoes from a thousand cliffs,
Like lonely voices call.

There shall we see the fierce white bear,
The sleepy seals aground;

And the spouting whales, that to and fro
Sail with a dreary sound.

There may we tread on depths of ice,
That the hairy mammoth hide;
Perfect, as when in times of old,
The mighty creature died.

And while the unsetting sun shines on,
Through the still heaven's deep blue,
We'll traverse the azure waves, the herds
Of the dread sea-horse to view.

We'll pass the shores of solemn pine,
Where wolves and black bears prowl;
And away to the rocky isles of mist,
To rouse the northern fowl.

Up there shall start ten thousand wings,
With a rushing, whistling din;

Up shall the auk and fulmar start, –
All but the fat penguin.

And there in the wastes of the silent sky,

With the silent earth below,

We shall see far off to his lonely rock,

The lonely eagle go.

Then softly, softly will we tread

By inland streams to see,

Where the pelican of the silent North,
Sits there all silently.

EXERCISE XXVI.

THE CITY OF PEKING. - Anon.

To the stranger approaching the city of Peking, its lofty walls and towers give it an imposing appearance, not unworthy the capital of a great empire; but when he comes within the walls, his admiration is turned to surprise. He beholds there none of those beautiful and superb edifices, none of those neat and elegant streets, which are the principal ornament of European cities: instead of these, he sees, in various directions, irregular assemblages of houses, shops, and temples. The style of the architecture, and the general appearance of the buildings, are the same as in Canton. Most of the streets are, indeed, sufficiently wide and straight, but they are not paved; and, in general, their bad condition is a just subject of complaint in this, as well as in other Chinese cities. As, however, the front of every shop in the business-streets has an arrangement peculiar to itself, and before it, on either side, a perpendicular sign-board, as high as the roof, covered with inscriptions in large gilt or painted letters, describing the wares within, and the reputation of the dealer, and often hung from top to bottom with flags and ribands; this diversity in the arrangement of merchandize, together with the profusion of gaudy decorations, and the bustling crowd by which he is surrounded, divert the attention of the spectator, and cause him to forget, in some measure, the more disagreeable parts of the scenery around him.

The smaller streets are quiet, and free from crowds; but those which lead to the principal gates, are constantly thronged with people. The following description, by an eyewitness, will serve to convey some idea of the scene they often exhibit. 'The multitude of movable workshops of tinkers and barbers, cobblers and blacksmiths; the tents and booths where tea, and fruit, and rice, and other vegetables, were exposed for sale; with the wares and merchandize arranged before the doors of the shops; contracted the spacious street to a narrow road in the middle. The processions of men in office, attended by their numerous retinues, bearing umbrellas and flags, painted lanterns, and a variety of large insignia of their rank and station; trains accompanying, with lamentable cries, corpses to their graves; and others conducting brides to their husbands, with squalling music; the troops of dromedaries, laden with coal,

from Tartary; the wheelbarrows and handcarts, loaded with vegetables, occupied nearly the whole of this middle space. All was in motion; the sides of the streets were filled with people buying and selling, and bartering their different commodities. The buzz and confused noises of this mixed multitude, proceeding from the loud bawling of those who were crying their wares, the wrangling of others, and the mirth and laughter which prevailed in every group, could scarce be exceeded. Pedlers, with their packs, and jugglers, and conjurors, and fortune-tellers, mountebanks, and quack doctors, comedians and musicians, left no space unoccupied.' Such, according to Mr. Barrow, is the scene exhibited in a street in Peking. The crowd of people, and the strange sights and sounds on the occasion described, were probably greater than usual; but he has given too correct a representation of what may sometimes be witnessed even in the suburbs of Canton, to allow us to accuse him of much exaggeration.

EXERCISE XXVII.

RED-BIRD, THE WINNEBAGOE CHIEF.—Anon.

Wau-nig-sootsh-kaw, or the Red-Bird, a Winnebagoe chief, of note, died in prison, at Prairie Du Chien. His free, wilderness spirit could not bear the confinement of a narrow prison-house; nor could his body be supported by the provisions usually dealt out on such occasions; they being so unlike those which he had gathered in his native forests. He was buried, the next evening, in the presence of his fellowprisoners.

This was the chief who killed and scalped Gagnier, and who was aided in the bloody adventure by the miserable We-kaw, who scalped, at the same time, an infant, and mangled it in savage style. He, together with his companion in guilt, voluntarily surrendered himself at the portage of Fox and Ouisconsin rivers, and was afterwards delivered over by Major Whistler, to whom he gave himself up, to General Atkinson, who conveyed him and others to Prairie Du Chien, to await the penalties of the law. From these, however, Red-Bird escaped by death.

This was an extraordinary man.

In form and appearance

he had few equals, white or red; and in the graces of action, of face, and of spirit, he was not surpassed. His character, too, had, during his whole life, and up to the period of his bloody adventure, been marked by all that was kind, and friendly, and faithful. His hospitality to the whites, and to Indians, was notorious;—and his means were ample. He was rich in traps and spears, in wampum, and all that constitutes the wealth of the hunter. He was highly distinguished and beloved in all the regions of the Northwest. But all his distinction was swallowed up and lost in one fell resolve, one act of guilt. He rose, if not to innocence and life, yet high in general admiration and sympathy, in the voluntary surrender which he made of himself, and in the manner of the act.

No individual act was ever more imposing than was that act of self-devotion. His white dress, of beautiful deer-skin, fitting his elegantly proportioned frame, as if to show the perfection and beauty of his finish; his war-pipe made fast to his breast, as if to indicate the attachment of his heart to the Indian's glory; his white flag, the emblem of peace, - in one hand, and his calumet, or pipe of peace, in the other; and then the long line of the one hundred and fourteen unarmed warriors, attending the self-devoted victim; and, to crown all, his death-song! All this was highly impressive; but it was overmatched by the calm, though commanding spirit, that gave grace and firmness to his steps, and spirit and life to his eye, and majesty to every movement of the man, and grandeur to the ceremony. As he entered the portal of death, stepping firmly up, he said, by a manner forcible as language, 'I give away myself, my life!'

EXERCISE XXVIII.

THE INQUIRY. - Anon.

Tell me, ye winged* winds,

That round my pathway roar,

Do ye not know some spot

Where mortals weep no more;

* The letter e, when thus marked, is to be sounded, as forming

a syllable in the verse.

Some lone and pleasant dell,

Some valley in the west, Where free from toil and pain, The weary soul may rest? The loud wind dwindled to a whisper low, And sighed for pity, as it answered, 'No.'

Tell me, thou mighty deep,

Whose billows round me play,
Knowest thou some favored spot,
Some island far away,
Where weary man may find

The bliss for which he sighs,
Where sorrow never lives,

And friendship never dies?

The loud waves, roaring in perpetual flow,
Stopped for awhile, and sighed, to answer, 'No.'

And thou, serenest moon,
That, with so holy face,

Dost look upon the world

Asleep in night's embrace;

Tell me, in all thy round,

Hast thou not seen some spot,

Where miserable man

Might find a happier lot?

Behind a cloud the moon withdrew in woe;
And a voice, sweet but sad, responded, 'No.'

Tell me, immortal Soul;

Oh! tell me, Hope and Faith,

Is there no resting-place

From sorrow, sin, and death?

Is there no happy spot,

Where mortals may be blessed,
Where grief may find a balm,

And weariness a rest?

Faith, Hope, and Love,best boons to mortals given, Waved their bright wings, and whispered, 'Yes, in heaven!'