Life hath its pang-of deepest thrill-
Thy sting, relentless memory!
Which wakes not, pierces not, until
The hour of joy hath ceased to be.
Then, when the heart is in its pall,
And cold afflictions gather o'er,
Thy mournful anthem doth recall

Bliss, which hath died to bloom no more

Life hath its blessings-but the storm
Sweeps like the desert wind in wrath,
To sear and blight the loveliest form
Which sports on earth's deceitful path.
Oh! soon the wild heart-broken wail

So changed from youth's delightful tone,
Floats mournfully upon the gale

When all is desolate and lone.

Life hath its hopes-a matin dream-
A cankered flower-a setting sun,
Which casts a transitory gleam
Upon the even's cloud of dun.
Pass but an hour, the dream hath fled,
The flowers on earth forsaken lie-
The sun hath set, whose lustre shed
A light upon the shaded sky.

LESSON SEVENTY-FOURTH.

Shenandoah the Oneida Chief.

Shenandoah, the celebrated Oneida chief, was well known in the wars which occurred while we were British colonies, and in the contest which ensued in our independence, as the undeviating friend of the people of the United States. He was very savage and addicted to drunkenness in his youth; but he lived a re

formed man for more than sixty years, and died in Christian hope.

Shenandoah's person was tall and brawny but well made; his countenance was intelligent, and beamed with all the indigenous dignity of an Indian chief. In his youth he was a brave and intrepid warrior, and in his riper years one of the ablest counsellors among the North American tribes. He possessed a strong and vigorous mind, and though terrible as the tornado in war, he was bland and mild as the zephyr in peace.

With the cunning of the fox, the hungry perseverance of the wolf, and the agility of the mountain cat, he watched and repelled Canadian invasions. His vigilance once preserved from massacre the inhabitants of the infant settlement of German Flats. His influence brought his tribe to our assistance in the war of the revolution. How many have been saved from the tomahawk and scalping knife, by his friendly aid is not known; but individuals and villages have expressed gratitude for his benevolent interpositions; and among the Indian tribes he was distinguished by the appellation of "White man's friend."

Although he could speak but little English, and in his extreme old age was blind, yet his company was sought. In conversation he was highly decorous, evincing that he had profited by seeing civilized and polished society, and by mingling with good company in his better days.

To a friend who called on him a short time since, he thus expressed himself by an interpreter; "I am an aged hemlock. The winds of a hundred winters have whistled through my branches, I am dead at the top. The generation to which I belonged has run away and left me. Why I live the great good Spirit only knows. Pray to my Jesus that I may have patience to wait for my appointed time to die."

he

Honored chief! His prayer was answered was cheerful and resigned to the last. For several years he kept his dress for the grave prepared. Once and again, he came to Clinton to die; longing that his soul might be with Christ, and his body in the narrow house, near his beloved Christian teacher.

While the ambitious, but vulgar great, look principally to sculptured monuments and niches in the temple of earthly fame, Shenandoah, in the spirit of the only real nobility, stood with his loins girded, waiting the coming of his Lord.

His Lord has come! And the day approaches when the green hillock that covers his dust will be more respected than the Pyramids, the Mausolea, and the Pantheon of the proud and imperious. His simple 'turf and stone' will be viewed with affection and veneration when the tawdry ornaments of human apotheosis shall awaken only pity and disgust.

LESSON SEVENTY-FIFTH.

Early Spring.

I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sat reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did nature link

The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.

The birds around me hopped and played;
Their thoughts I cannot measure—
But the least motion that they made,
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven is sent,
If such be nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?

LESSON SEVENTY-SIXTH.

The converted Atheist.

The famous astronomer, Kircher, having an acquaintance who denied the existence of a Supreme Being, took the following method to convince him of his error, upon his own principles. Expecting him upon a visit, he procured a very handsome globe of the starry heavens, which, being placed in a corner of the room, at which it could not escape his friend's observation, the latter seized the first occasion to ask from whence it came, and to whom it belonged.

"Not to me," said Kircher; "nor was it ever made by any person, but came here by mere chance! " "That," replied his skeptical friend, "is impossible. You surely jest." Kircher, however, seriously persisting in his assertion, took occasion to reason with his friend upon his own atheistical principles. "You

will not," said he, "believe that this small body originated in mere chance; and yet you would contend, those heavenly bodies, of which it is only a faint and diminutive resemblance, came into existence without order and design!"

Pursuing this chain of reasoning, his friend was at first confounded, in the next place convinced, and ul

timately joined in a cordial acknowledgement of the absurdity of denying the existence of a God!

LESSON SEVENTY-SEVENTH.

The Hour of Death.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath,
And stars to set-but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O death!

Day is for mortal care,

Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth,
Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer—
But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth.

The banquet hath its hour,

Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine; There comes a day for grief's o'erwelming power, A time for softer tears-but all are thine.

Youth and the opening rose

May look like things too glorious for decay,
And smile at thee-but thou art not of those
That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath,
And stars to set-but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O death!

We know when moons shall wane,

When summer birds from far shall cross the sea, When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grainBut who shall teach us when to look for thee?