And here he hung his horn and spear,
And oft, as evening fell,

In fancy's piercing sounds would hear,
Poor Gelert's dying yell!

SPENCER.

Let this pathetic and sorrowful poem teach you how fearful and wrong it is to act from passion.

How many and dreadful are the consequences of passion. Had Llewellyn calmed his temper, and not have acted from the passion of the moment, his dog, as well as his child, would have been preserved to him. May you learn from this never to act in a passion.

"A thousand miles from land are we,
Tossing about on the roaring sea;
From billow to bounding billow cast,
Like fleecy snow on the stormy blast,

Up and down! up and down!

From the base of the wave to the billow's crown;
And amidst the flashing and feathery foam,

The Stormy Petrel finds a home,—

A home, if such a place may be,

For her who lives on the wide wide sea."

BARRY CORNWALL.

The Stormy Petrel is a small bird, and distributed over every portion of the ocean. It is thus described by a writer on Natural History. "The flight of the Petrel is very swift, it wheels round the labouring ship descends into the trough of the waves, and mounts over their curling crests, secure amidst the strife of waters; often with wings expanded is it seen to stand, as it were, on the summit of the billow and dip its bill into the water, no doubt in order to pick up some small animal; and again, on vigorous wings it pursues its way." It follows the course of a ship on account of the refuse which is thrown from time to time overboard. The Sailors hold this bird in great awe, and never on any account destroy one. The body is so oily that the inhabitants of the Ferroe and other islands sometimes convert it into a lamp by drawing a wick of cotton through the body, which will burn till the oil be exhausted.

F

THE SUNBEAM.

Thou art no lingerer in monarch's hall,
A joy thou art, and a wealth to all!
A bearer of hope unto land and sea,

Sunbeam! what gift hath the world like thee?

Thou art walking the billows and ocean smiles,
Thou hast touch'd with glory his thousand isles;
Thou hast lit up the ships and the feathery foam,
And gladden'd the sailor like words from home.

To the solemn depths of the forest shades,

Thou art streaming on through their green arcades, 1
And the quivering 2 leaves that have caught thy glow,
Like fire-flies 3 glance to the pools below.
I look'd on the mountains,-a vapour lay,
Folding their heights in its dark array;
Thou brakest forth,-and the mist became,
A crown and a mantle of living flame.

I looked on the peasant's lowly cot,-
Something of sadness had wrapt the spot;-
But a gleam of thee on its lattice 4 fell,
And it laugh'd into beauty at that bright spell.

Sunbeam of summer! oh! what is like thee?
Hope of the wilderness, joy of the sea!-
One thing is like thee to mortals given,

The faith touching all things with hues of (5) Heaven!
MRS. HEMANS.

(1) Arcades-a number of arches in succession.-(2) Quiveringtrembling.-(3) Fire-flies-a species of fly found in eastern countries, which like the glow-worm in this country, emits, or throws out light. (4) Lattice-a window made of grate-work--(5) Hues-tints.

THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.

"The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing (1) winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere (2)

Heap'd in the hollows of the grove the wither'd leaves lie

dead,

They rustle to the eddying (3) gust, and to the rabbit's tread.

The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrub the

jay,

And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day.

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprung and stood,

In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood!

Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours, The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain,

Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones again." BRYANT.

(1) Wailing-sorrowful.-(2) Sere-withered.-(3) Eddying— moving in a ring.

This piece, written by a talented American Poet, describes truthfully the appearance of the country about the month of November, the lovely flowers have disappeared-the feathered songsters are gone to more sunny climes-the trees are bare-the wind blows cold and we love our pleasant firesides.

THE CRUCIFIXION.

Bound upon the accursed tree,

Faint and bleeding who is He ?
By the eyes so pale and dim,

Streaming blood and writhing (1) limb,

By the flesh with scourges torn,

By the crown of twisted thorn,

By the side so deeply pierced,

By the baffled burning thirst,
By the drooping death-dew'd brow,
Son of Man! 'tis Thou, 'tis Thou!

Bound upon the accursed tree,
Dread and awful, who is He ?-
By the sun at noon-day pale,
Shivering rocks, and rending veil,
By earth that trembles at his doom,
By yonder saints who burst their tomb,
By Eden, promised ere He died

To the felon (2) at his side,

Lord! our suppliant knees we bow,

Son of God! 'tis Thou, 'tis Thou!

MILMAN.

(1) Writhing-distorted, trembling with pain. (2) Felon-one

guilty of a capital offence.

THE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

Ye mariners of England!

Who guard our native seas,

Whose flag has braved a thousand years
The battle and the breeze,

Your glorious standard launch again,
To match another foe,

And sweep through the deep

While the stormy tempests blow;
While the battle rages long and loud,
And the stormy tempests blow.

For the deck it was their field of fame,
And Ocean was their grave;
Where Blake (1) and mighty Nelson fell,
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow;
While the battle rages long and loud,
And the stormy tempests blow.

Britannia needs no bulwarks,

No towers along the steep;

Her march is o'er the mountain waves,
Her home is on the deep;

(1) Blake-a celebrated English Admiral in the time of Cromwell. He defeated the Dutch fleet at various times, and after gaining many decisive battles over the Spaniards, was seized with a dropsy, of which he died 1657.