His course is run-his battles done-
He died as aye he wished to die,—
The well-fought field was fairly won,
And Victory pealed her clarion nigh;
Nor on his lip of beauteous pride,

When high in hope, he rode among
The brave, the noble, and the young,
Wreathed such a smile as when he died.

Stern eyes became, as woman's, weak,

Nor scorned to soil the clustering gold
That floated o'er his marble cheek,

With tears that would not be controlled.
For though none bolder struck with brand,
When boiling veins were up and wild,
Yet never even the gentlest child
Had kinder heart or freer hand.

To horse-to horse-no more I weep;
His high career was run full fast,-
Thus on the battle-field to sleep

His long, lone sleep of death at last.
No more I weep ;-but far away
Are deep blue eyes to weep in vain-
Fair lips not soon to smile again,—
And hearts to wail this bitter day.

Ex. LI-DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR.

FULL knee-deep lies the winter snow,

TENNYSON.

And the winter winds are wearily sighing:

Toll ye the church-bell, sad and slow,

And tread softly and speak low;

For the old year lies a-dying.

Old year, you must not die.

You came to us so readily,
You lived with us so steadily,
Old year, you shall not die.

He lieth still; he doth not move;

He will not see the dawn of day:

He hath no other life above.

He gave me a friend and a true, true love,
And the new year will take them away.

Old year, you must not go:
So long as you have been with us,
Such joy as you have seen with us,—
Old year, you
shall not go.

He frothed his bumpers to the brim;
A jollier year we shall not see;
But though his eyes are waxing dim,
And though his foes speak ill of him,
He was a friend to me.

Old year, you shall not die.
We did so laugh and cry with you,
I've half a mind to die with you,
Old year, if you must die.

He was full of joke and jest;

But all his merry quips are o'er.
To see him die, across the waste
His son and heir doth ride post-haste,
But he'll be dead before.

Every one for his own.

The night is starry and cold, my friends,
And the new year blithe and bold, my friends,
Comes up to take his own.

How hard he breathes! over the snow
I heard just now the crowing cock;
The shadows flitter to and fro;

The cricket chirps,-the light burns low,-
'Tis nearly twelve o'clock.

Shake hands before you die!
Old year, we 'll dearly rue for you.
What is it we can do for you ?-
Speak out before you die.

His face is growing sharp and thin ;-
Alack! our friend is gone,
Close up his eyes,-tie up his chin,-
Step from the corpse; and let him in
That standeth there alone,

And waiteth at the door.

There's a new foot on the floor, my friends, And a new face at the door, my friends, The new year's at the door.

Ex. LII.-ELIOT AND THE INDIAN.

Ir was an autumn morning fair,

Ere yet the sun was high;

But the early mists were passed away,
And placid was the sky,

When on the turf, beside the wood,
Five hundred Indian warriors stood,
And keenly turned the listening ear,
The white man's coming step to hear.

He came, but not with sword or plume,
Bright helm, or glance of pride:
His robe was of the forest woof;
A cap of wild deer hide

Above his parted locks he wore;

And in his hand a scroll he bore.

ANON.

They gathering, thronged,—the wild, the free,-
Around that lonely man;

And many a piercing eye was bent
His face and form to scan;
But on his mild and open brow,
No trace of terror did he show;
And backward, silent and amazed,

They drew, yet still in wonder gazed.

The stranger kneeled ;-and toward his God
He raised his forehead bare,
And in his earnest native tongue

He poured a rapid prayer.

Perchance his prayer he could not frame,

Those rugged Indian words to name;

The warriors silent stood and near,

That noble foreign speech to hear.

Then to the listening chiefs he turned,
And in their language spoke;
His kindling words with fervor burned,
His voice like music broke

Upon a stillness so profound,

You started from the lightest sound.

Oh! it were worth ten years of life,

That forest church to see,

Its pillars of the living pine,

Its dome, the arching tree!

While round and round, in circling band,
The savage Indian hunters stand;
And in the center,-all alone,—
The fearless and devoted one!

He told of mercy,-full and deep,
And boundless as the sea;
And of a bright One who was slain,
To set his children free;

And of a glorious world on high,
For those who faithful be!

And ever as his theme grew higher,
His pale cheek flushed with living fire;
His sweet low voice rang proudly out,
And rose to an exulting shout!

Then with the pleading tones of love,
He sought their hearts to win;

He told them of his holy book,

And all that lay within;

And when he marked their bosoms swell,

He spoke his blessing and farewell!

Full many an outstretched hand sprang forth,
Their passing friend to greet;

For they wist not that upon this earth,
They ever more might meet;
And kindly wish and kindlier word,
From many a swarthy lip was heard;
But there was one apart who crept,
And turned his face away-and wept.

Aye, wept!-The haughty Indian chief
Even to the dust was bowed,-

The strong man's soul was touched with grief,
And he must weep aloud!

But none may hear an Indian's moan,

He rushed into the woods alone:

Yet not unmarked,—his gentle friend
Upon his footsteps trod;

And, kneeling down beside him, there,
He prayed for him to God!
Then went rejoicing on his way,
O'er all the blessings of that day!

CHARA

Ex. LIII.-CHARACTER OF TRUE ELOQUENCE.

WEBSTER.

WHEN public bodies are to be addressed on momentous occasions, when great interests are at stake, and strong passions excited, nothing is valuable, in speech, further than it is connected with high intellectual and moral endowments. Clearness, force, and earnestness, are the qualities which produce conviction. True eloquence, indeed, does not consist in speech. It can not be brought from far. Labor and learning may toil for it, but they will toil in vain. Words and phrases may be marshaled in every way,-they can not compass it. It must exist in the man, in the subject, and in the occasion. Affected passion, intense expression, the pomp of declamation, all may aspire after it, they can not reach it. It comes, if it come at all, like the outbreaking of a fountain from the earth, or the bursting forth of volcanic fires, with spontaneous, original, native force.

The graces taught in the schools, the costly ornaments, and studied contrivances of speech, shock and disgust men, when their own lives, and the fate of their wives, their children, and ther country, hang on the decision of the hour. Then, words have lost their power, rhetoric is vain, and all elaborate oratory contemptible. Even genius itself then feels rebuked and subdued, as in the presence of higher qualities. Then, patriotism is eloquent: then, self-devotion is eloquent. The clear conception, outrunning the deductions of logic, the high purpose, the firm resolve, the dauntless spirit, speaking on the tongue, beaming from the eye, informing every feature, and urging the whole man onward, right onward to his object.this, this is eloquence: or rather it is something greater and higher than all eloquence,-it is action, noble, sublime, godlik action.