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66

Stay, pilot, stay, and shorten sail,

Our stormy tri-sail's riven !"

Stranger, what mattereth calm or gale
To him who trusts in Heaven?"

Borne by the winds, the vessel flees
Up to that thunder cloud;

Now tottering low, the spray-winged seas
Conceal the topmast shroud.

"Pilot! the waves break o'er us fast,
Vainly our bark has striven!"

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'Stranger, the Lord can rule the blast,
Go put thy trust in Heaven!"

Good hope! good hope! one little star
Gleams o'er the waste of waters;
'Tis like the light reflected far

Of beauty's loveliest daughters!
"Stranger, good hope He giveth thee,
As He has often given;

Then learn this truth, whate'er may be,
To put thy trust in Heaven!"

LESSON XCV.

THE VAIN GOOSE.

The following Fable is a free imitation of Cailleau, a modern French poet. The original of this and of some other pieces in this selection, may be found in the French First Class Book, published by the Editor.

A Goose, one day, upon the shore
Was taking airs, as if the sea,
And land, and sky, had really

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Been made for geese, and nothing more.
Fish are but made to cleave the deep,
The birds through air alone to sweep,
And beasts on land to run or creep,

But," added she, "thank Heaven that I
Am made to walk, and swim, and fly."
And then, to show what she could do,
She waddled on a step or two,

Or splashed about, or, on her toes,

She flapped her wings, and thought she rose.
A Dog, who knew the vain old creature,
Thought this a capital time to teach her;
And first he hinted, that true talent

Most ordinarily keeps silent.

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Now, if you swam as fishes do,

Or if you, like the sky-lark, flew,

And matched the deer upon the plain,
You might be reasonably vain ;

But, paddling, waddling, flapping wings,
I call not swimming, running, flying,
And I mistake if all your trying

Will make you skillful in these things.
For my part, and my parts are small,
I'd rather shine in any one,

As fish and deer and lark have done,
Than be a Goose in all."

Children of every thing who know
A smattering, and nothing well,
Excuse me if I plainly tell,

That Goslings into Geese will grow.

LESSON XCVI.

THE PRIZE.

The following characteristic description of flowers appears best when spoken by a young lady neatly and modestly dressed. The writer is unknown to the Editor. Anemones, pronounced a-nemi-o-nees. Rouge, pronounced Roozh ; the z as in azure.

Minerva a visit to Flora once paid,

When the flowers, in a body, their compliments made,
And charmed with their manners and elegant dyes,
She promised to give to the fairest a prize,
Appointed a day when herself should preside,
And on their pretensions to beauty decide.
Then the Rose bridled up with a confident air,
As if she would say, who with me would compare?
While the Lily, but newly come out as a bride,
Whispered long to her sisters, who laughed at such
pride;

The Hyacinth studied her wardrobe with care,
Still puzzled to settle what colors to wear;
The Poppy, ashamed of her dull, sleepy eyes,
Wore a new scarlet dress with a view to the prize;
While the Tulip kept flaunting and waving her fan,
And turned up her nose at the Daffodil clan;
Then flocked the Anemones, fair to behold,
With the rich Polyanthus in velvet and gold;
And the Jonquil, with cantelos laced very tight,-
The hump on her back to conceal from the sight.
The Buds who were thought by their mothers too young,
Round their sisters' toilettes, discontentedly hung;
There was teasing, and dressing, and prinking enough,
The pretty Quill Daisies bought each a new ruff;
The stately Carnations stood frizzing their hair,
And the tall London Pride choosing feathers to wear;
The Pink at her mirror was ready to drop,
And the Snowball bought rouge at a milliner's shop;
While in the same square, at a shoe store so neat,
The trim Lady Slippers were pinching their feet.

Thrifty Lilac complained that her robe was not new,
But with turning and furbishing thought it might do ;
While the poor Ragged Lady, who passed for a poet,
Sat darning her hose, but let nobody know it.
The Monk's hood, who sometimes had furnished a sonnet,
Was padding and plaiting a fanciful bonnet.

The Greenhouse Exotics in chariots went by,
For their delicate nerves feared each frown of the sky,
While from a low cottage of moss on the plain,
The Violet looked and admired the bright train,
Not dreaming to join in a circle so gay,

Nor supposing that she had a charm to display;
Beside a sick babe she preferred to attend,

Which down to the dust its pale forehead would bend.
But judge how this splendid conventicle stared,
When Minerva the prize to the Violet declared!
And added, "though beauties and graces were there,
That modesty ever to her was most fair,"

And loudly pronounced in the hearing of all,
"That the humble must rise, and the arrogant fall."

LESSON XCVII.

LORD

THE CALM AND THE STORM CONTRASTED. The following description of Alpine scenery, is taken from Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, a poem in which, under this fictitious name, BYRON describes his own wanderings. Lake Leman is more commonly called Lake Constance. The stanza is what is called the Spenserian, because invented by the early poet, Spenser, in his chief poem, the Fairy Queen. The last line of each stanza is what is called an Alexandrine, the unskillful use of which, by poor poets, led Pope to sati rize them in the couplet,

"A needless Alexandrine ends the song,

Which, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along."

Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake,
With the wild world I dwell in, is a thing
Which warns me with its stillness, to forsake
Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring.

This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing

To waft me from distractions ;-once I loved
Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring

Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved

That I with stern delights should e'er have been so moved.

All heaven and earth are still-though not in sleep,
But breathless, as we grow when feeling most;
And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep :-
All heaven and earth are still: from the high host
Of stars, to the lulled lake and mountain-coast,
All is concentered in a life intense,

Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost,
But hath a part of being, and a sense

Of that which is of all, Creator and defence.

The sky is changed!—and such a change! O night,
And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong,
Yet lovely in your strength as is the light
Of a dark eye in woman! far along,

From peak to peak, the rattling crags among, Leaps the live thunder! not from one lone cloud, But every mountain now hath found a tongue, And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud!

And this is in the night: most glorious night!
Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be
A sharer in thy fierce and fair delight—
A portion of the tempest and of thee!
How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea,
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth!
And now again 't is black-and now,

the glee Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth, As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth.

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