My weeping mother sat, "and gazed and looked
.Unutterable things." "Will he not wake?"
I eager asked. She answered but with tears.
Her eyes on me, at length, with piteous look,
Were cast-now on the babe once more were fixed-
And now on me: then, with convulsive sigh
And throbbing heart, she clasped me in her arms,
And, in a tone of anguish, faintly said—
"My dearest boy, thy brother does not sleep;
Alas! he's dead; he never will awake."
He's dead! I knew not what it meant, but more
To know I sought not. For the words so sad-
"He never will awake"-sunk in my soul:
I felt a pang unknown before; and tears,
That angels might have shed, my heart dissolved.

LESSON LXXXIX.

GENIUS WAKING.

SLUMBER'S heavy chain hath bound thee

Where is now thy fire?

Feebler wings are gathering round thee

Shall they hover higher?

Can no power, no spell recall thee—

From inglorious dreams?

O, could glory so appal thee

With his burning beams!

Thine was once the highest pinion

In the midway air;

With a proud and sure dominion,

Thou didst upward bear.

Like the herald, winged with lightning,

From the Olympian throne,

Ever mounting, ever brightening,

Thou wert there alone.

Where the pillared props of heaven
Glitter with eternal snows,
Where no darkling clouds are driven,
Where no fountain flows-
Far above the rolling thunder,
When the surging storm
Rent its sulphury folds asunder,
We beheld thy form.

From that cloudless region stooping,
Downward thou didst rush,
Not with pinion faint and drooping
But the tempest's gush.

Up again undaunted soaring,

Thou didst pierce the cloud,

When the warring winds were roaring Fearfully and loud.

Hark! his rustling plumage gathers

Closer to his side,

Close, as when the storm-bird weathers

Ocean's hurrying tide

Now his nodding beak is steady

Wide his burning eye

Now his opening wings are ready,

And his aim-how high!

Now he curves his neck, and proudly

Now is stretched for flight

Hark! his wings-they thunder loudly,
And their flash-how bright!
Onward-onward over mountains,
Through the rock and storm,
Now, like sunset over fountains,
Flits his glancing form.

LESSON XC.

THE YANKEE MARKSMAN.

LORD PERCY, with his regiment, firing at a target on Boston Common.

JONATHAN, an awkward looking country boy, that had outgrown his jacket and trowsers.

Percy. Now, my boys, for a trial of your skill ! Imagine the mark to be a Yankee; and here is a guinea for whoever hits his heart.

[Jonathan draws near to see the trial; and when the first soldier fires, and misses, he slaps his hand on his thigh, and laughs immoderately. Lord Percy notices him. When the second soldier fires, and misses, Jonathan throws up his old hat, and laughs again.]

Percy, [very crossly]. Why do you laugh, fellow ? Jonathan. To think how safe the Yankees are; if you must know.

Percy. Why, do you think you could shoot better? Jonathan. I don't know; I could try.

Percy. Give him a gun, soldier, and you may return the fellow's laugh.

Jonathan [takes the gun, and looks at every part of it carefully, and then says,] It won't bust, will it ? Father's gun don't shine like this, but I guess it's a better gun.

Percy. Why? Why do you guess so?

Jonathan. 'Cause I know what that'll deu, and I have some doubts about this-ere. But look o' here! You called that-air mark a Yankee; and I won't fire at a Yankee.

Percy. Well, call it a British regular, if you please; only fire.

Jonathan. Well, a reg'lar it is, then. Now for freedom, as father says. [He raises the gun and fires.] There, I guess that-air red coat has got a hole in it! [Turning to the soldiers.] Why don't you laugh, now, as that-air fellow said you might. [Pointing to Percy.] Percy. You awkward rascal, that was an accident. Do you think you could hit the mark again?

Jonathan. He! I don't know; I can try.

Percy. Give him another gun, soldiers; and take care that the clown does not shoot you. I should not fear to stand before the mark myself.

Jonathan. I guess you'd better not.

Percy. Why? Do you think you could hit me? Jonathan. I don't know; I could try.

Percy. Fire away, then.

[Jonathan fires, and again hits the mark.] Jonathan. Ha, ha, ha! How father would laugh to see me shooting at half-gun-shot!

Percy. Why, you rascal, do you think you could hit the mark at twice that distance ?

Jonathan. He! I don't know; I'm not afeard to

try.

Percy. Give him another gun, soldiers, and place the mark farther off.

[Jonathan fires again, and hits as before.] Jonathan. There, I guess that-air reg'lar is as dead as the pirate that father says the judge hangs till he is dead, dead, dead, three times dead; and that is one more death than Scripter tells on.

Percy. There, fellow, is a guinea for you.
Jonathan. Is it a good one? [Ringing it.]
Percy. Good?
Good? Yes. Now begone.

Jonathan. I should like to stay, and see them fellows kill some more Yankees.

Percy, [aside]. The fellow is more rogue than fool. [To Jonathan.] Sirrah, what is your name? Jonathan. Jonathan.

Percy. Jonathan what?

Jonathan. Wot'll you give to know?
Percy. What is your father's name?

Jonathan. He was named arter me.

Percy. You lying rogue, how could that be, if you are his son?

Jonathan. Why, you see, his name was George, and he was afeard they'd think he was called arter King George, and so the Gin'ral Court altered it to Joe.

Percy. Do you think your father can shoot as well as you do.

Jonathan. I don't know; but I guess he wouldn't be afeard to try.

Percy. Where did you learn your skill?

Jonathan. O, father larnt me, when I wasn't knee high to a woodchuck.

Percy. Why did he teach you so young