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The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands';
Are strong as iron bands.
His face is like the tan';
He earns whate'er he can',
For he owes not any man.
You can hear his bellows blow";
With measured beat and slow',
When the evening sun is low.
Look in at the open door';
And hear the bellows roar,
Like chaff from a threshing-floor. 5. He goes, on Sunday, to the church, And sits
his boys'; He hears the parson pray and preach',
He hears his daughter's voice, Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
Singing in Paradise'!
How in the grave she lies';
A tear out of his eyes.
Onward through life he goes'; Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close'; Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose. 8. Thanks', thanks to thee, my worthy friend',
For the lesson thou hast taught! Thus, at the flaming forge of life',
Our fortunes must be wrought', Thus, on its sounding anvil', shaped Each burning deed and thought'.
H. W. LONGFELLOW.
LESSON X. 10
THE LONE INDIAN.
1. For many a returning autumn, a lone Indian was seen standing at the consecrated spot we have mentioned; but, just thirty years after the death of Soonseetah, he was noticed for the last time. His step was then firm, and his figure erect, though he seemed old and way-worn. Age had not dimmed the fire of his cye, but an expression of deep melancholy had settled on his wrinkled brow. It was Powontonamo'; he who had once been the eagle of the Mohawks. He came to lie down and die beneath the broad oak, which shadowed the grave of Sunny-eye.
2. Alas! the white man's ax' had been there. The tree that he had planted was dead'; and the vine, which had leaped so vigorously from branch to branch, now yellow and withering, was falling to the ground. A deep groan burst from the soul of the savage. For thirty wearisome years, he had watched that oak, with its twining tendrils. They were the only things left in the wide world for him to love', and they were gone.
3. He idoked abroad. The hunting-land of his tribe was changed, like its chieftain. No light canoe now shot down the river, like a bird upon the wing. The laden boat of the white man alone broke its smooth surface. The Englishman's road wound like a serpent around the banks of the Mohawk'; and iron hoofs had so beaten down the war-path', that a hawk's eye could not discover an Indian track. The last wigwam was destroyed'; and the sun looked boldly down upon spots he had only visited by stealth', during thousands and thousands of moons.
4. The few remaining trees, clothed in the fantastic mourning of autumn'; the long line of heavy clouds, melting away before the coming sun'; and the distant mountain, seen through the blue mist of departing twilight', alone remained as he had seen them in his boyhood. All things spoke a sad language to the heart of the desolate Indian. “Yes',” said he, “the young oak and the vine are like the Eagle and the Sunny-eye. They are cut down', torn', and trampled' on. The leaves are falling, and the clouds are scattering like my people. I wish I could once more see the trees standing thick, as they did when my mother held me to her bosom, and sung the warlike deeds of the Mohawks."
5. A mingled expression of grief and anger passed over his face, as he watched a loaded boat in its passage across the stream. “ The white man carries food to his wife and children, and he
finds them in his home',” said he; “where is the squaw and pappoose of the red' man? They are here'!” As he spoke, he fixed his eye thoughtfully on the grave. After a gloomy silence, he again looked round upon the fair scene, with a wandering and
“The pale' face may like it," murmured he'; “ but an Indian' can not die here in peace.” So saying', he broke his bow-string, snapped his arrows', threw them on the burial-place of his fathers', and departed forever'. Miss FRANCIS.
REMARK. - The words “down,” “torn," and “trampled,” in the last paragraph but one, and “string," arrows," "fathers,” and “forever," in the last paragraph, are examples of inflection which may, perhaps, more appropriately come under the head of “series ;" but, by examining them, it will be found, that the rule which gives the falling inflection wherever the sense is complete, and that which requires the last but one to be the rising inflection, are applicable in these cases. Indeed, the rule for series is substantially the combination of these two principles with that of emphasis, as laid down in Rule II.
UNWRITTEN MUSIC. 1. THERE is a melancholy music in autumn. The leaves float sadly about with a look of peculiar desolation', waving capriciously in the wind, and falling with a just audible sound, that is a very sigh for its sadness. And then, when the breeze is fresher, though the early autumn months are mostly still, they are swept on with a cheerful rustle over the naked harvest fields, and about in the eddies of the blast'; and though I have, sometimes, in the glow of
Ι exercise, felt my life securer in the triumph of the brave contest, yet, in the chill of the evening, or when any sickness of the mind or body was on me, the moaning of those withered leaves has pressed down my heart like a sorrow', and the cheerful fire, and the voices of my many sisters, might scarce remove it.
2. Then for the music of winter. I love to listen to the falling of snow.
It is an unobtrusive' and sweet' music. You may temper your heart to the serenest mood, by its low murmur.
It is that kind of music, that only obtrudes upon your ear when your thoughts come languidly. You need not hear it, if your mind is not idle. It realizes my dream of another world, where music is intuitive like a thought', and comes, only when it is remembered.
3. And the frost' too has a melodious “ministry.” You will hear its crystals shoot in the dead of a clear night, as if the moonbeams were splintering like arrows on the ground'; and you would listen to it the more earnestly, that it is the going on of one
of the most cunning and beautiful of nature's deep mysteries. I know nothing so wonderful as the shooting of a crystal. God has hidden its principle as yet from the inquisitive eye of the philosopher', and we must be content to gaze on its exquisite beauty, and listen, in mute wonder, to the noise of its invisible workmanship. It is a too fine a knowledge for us. We shall comprehend it, when we know how the morning stars sang together.
4. You would hardly look for music in the dreariness of early winter. But, before the keener frosts set in, and while the warm winds are yet stealing back occasionally, like regrets of the departed summer, there will come a soft rain or a heavy mist', and when the north wind returns', there will be drops suspended like car-ring jewels, between the filaments of the cedar tassels, and in the feathery edges of the dark green hemlocks', and, if the clearing up is not followed by the heavy wind', they will all be frozen in their places like well set gems. The next morning, the warm sun comes out', and by the middle of the warm dazzling forenoon, they are all loosened from the close touch which sustained them, and they will drop at the lightest motion. If you go along upon the south side of the wnod at that hour, you will hear music. The dry foliage of the summer's shedding is scattered over the ground', and the round, hard drops ring out clearly and distinctly, as they are shaken down with the stirring of the breeze. It is something like the running of deep and rapid water', only more fitful' and merrier'; but to one who goes out in nature with his heart open', it is a pleasant music', and, in contrast with the stern character of the season, delightful.
5. Winter has many other sounds that give pleasure to the seeker for hidden sweetness'; but they are too rare and accidental to be described distinctly. The brooks have a sullen and muffled murmur under their frozen surface'; the ice in the distant river heaves up with the swell of the current', and falls again to the bank with a prolonged echo'; and the woodsman's ax rings cheerfully out from the bosom of the unrobed forest. These are, at best, however, but melancholy' sounds, and, like all that meets the eye in that cheerless season, they but drive in the heart upon itself. I believe it is ordered in God's wisdom. We forget' ourselves in the enticement of the sweet summer. Its music and its loveliness win away the senses that link up the affections', and we need a hand to turn us back tenderly', and hide from us the outward idols', in whose worship we are forgetting the high and more spiritual altars.
N. P. WILLIS.
Remark. — The words, “frost” in the third paragraph, and “forget” in the last have the falling inflection, because omphatic, according to Rulo II.
EXERCISES ON INFLECTION-CONTINUED.
The rising inflection is used,
1. When the sense is incomplete. Rule IV. 2. At the last pause but one in a sentence. Rule VI. 3. After the nominative addressed. Rule IV. 4. In negative sentences. Rule V. 5. In interrogative sentences, which can be answered by "yes" or
no.” Rule VII. The falling inflection is used,
1. Where the sense is complete. Rule I. 2. In emphatic expressions. Rule II. 3. In interrogative sentences, which can not be answered by “yes”
or “no." Rule III.
A POLITICAL PAUSE.
In this lesson, the influence of a negative in determining the rising inflection, is particularly noticeable.
1. “But we must pause'," says the honorable gentleman', What'! must the bowels of Great Britain be torn out', her best blood spilt', her treasures wasted', that you may make an experiment'? " Put yourselves',-0! that you would put yourselves on the field of battle', and learn to judge of the sort of horrors you excite'. In former' wars, a man might', at least, have some' feeling, some' interest, that served to balance in his mind the impressions which a scene of carnage and death must inflict'.
2. But if a man were present now' at the field of slaughter, and were to inquire for what they were fighting',- -“Fighting ?"* would be the answer"; "they are not fighting'; they are pausing'. “Why is that man expiring'? Why is that other writhing with agony'? What means this implacable fury?” The answer must be', “You are quite wrong', sir', you deceive yourself,— they are not fighting',- do not disturb' them,- they are merely pausing'! This man is not expiring with agony', - that man is not dead', he is only pausing'! Bless' you, sir', they are not angry' with one another; they have now no cause of quarrel'; but their country thinks that there should be a pause'. All that you see is nothing like fighting',- there is no harm', nor cruelty', nor bloodshed' in it; it is nothing more than a political pause! It is merely to try an experiment to see whether Bonaparte will not behave himself