Or moss-crowned fountains mitigate the day,
In vain ye hope the green delights to know,
Which plains more blest, or verdant vales bestow :
Here rocks alone, and ceaseless sands are found,
And faint and sickly winds forever howl around.
Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day,
When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!

4. "Cursed-be the gold and silver which persuade
Weak men to follow far fatiguing trade!
The lily, peace, outshines the silver store.
And life is dearer than the golden ore:
Yet money tempts us o'er the desert brown,
To every distant mart and wealthy town.
Why heed we not, while mad we haste along,
The gentle voice of peace, or pleasure's song?
Or wherefore think the flowery mountain's side,
The fountain's murmur, and the valley's pride,-
Why think we these less pleasing to behold
Than dreary deserts, if they lead to gold?
Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day,
When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!

5. "O cease, my fears!—all frantic as I go,
When thought creates unnumbered scenes of wo.
What if the lion in his rage I meet!

Oft in the dust I view his printed feet:
And, fearful! oft, when day's declining light
Yields her pale empire to the mourner night,
By hunger roused, he scours the groaning plain,
Gaunt wolves and sullen tigers in his train :
Before them, death with shrieks directs their way,
Fills the wild yell, and leads them to their prey.
Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day,
When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!

6. "At that dread hour, the silent asp shall creep,
If aught of rest I find, upon my sleep:

Or some swol'n serpent twist his scales around,
And wake to anguish with a burning wound.
Thrice happy they, the wise contented poor,
From lust of wealth, and dread of death secure!
They tempt no deserts, and no griefs they find:
Peace rules the day, where reason rules the mind.
Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day,
When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!

7. O, hapless youth, for she thy love hath won,
Thy tender Zara will be most undone!

Big swelled my heart, and owned the powerful maid,
When fast she dropped her tears, as thus she said :---
'Farewell the youth whom sighs could not detain,
Whom Zara's breaking heart implored in vain!
Yet, as thou go'st, may every blast arise
Weak and unfelt as these rejected sighs!
Safe o'er the wild, no perils may'st thou see,

No griefs endure, nor weep, false youth, like me.'
O, let me safely to the fair return,

Say with a kiss, she must not, shall not mourn;
O! let me teach my heart to lose its fears,
Recalled by wisdom's voice, and Zara's tears."

8. He said, and called on Heaven to bless the day, When back to Schiraz' walls he bent his way.

LESSON XLVII.

AN OLD EDITION OF SHAKSPEARE.

BY MATTHEW P. DEADY.

Matthew P. Deady, was born in Maryland in 1824. He was admitted to the bar of the Supreme Court of Ohio in 1847 and went to Oregon in 1849. There he engaged in the practice of the law, and sat in the legislature during 1850-1-2-3. In 1853 he went upon the Supreme bench, where he remained until Oregon became a State, in 1859, when he was appointed U. S. District Judge, which position he still holds. During this time, he was also a member and President of the Constitu

tional Convention, and prepared the civil and criminal codes of the State, and prepared two compilations of its laws. This article is taken from his correspondence to the San Francisco Bulletin, some years ago.

[OT long since, on dropping into the salesrooms of an

eloquent knight of the hammer, I found him vociferously engaged in distributing to the highest bidder some two or three score of miscellaneous books, that had erewhile formed the private library of some citizen of the old capital, Oregon City. A number of venerable-looking octavos, eight in all, bound in calf, and brown, spotted, and frayed with use and age, attracted my attention.

2. Having a morsel of weakness for old books, I drew near; and learning from the desultory discourse of the man upon the platform, that these musty tomes were the works of one Mr. Shakspeare, I edged my way into the crowd, and made one among the few bidders. Soon the word came- "going! gone!" and I became the owner of the books.

3. Upon examination, they proved to be the Theobold edition of Shakspeare, printed at London in 1773. It is profusely illustrated, and represents the characters of Shakspeare in a somewhat different garb and style from the modern editions. The frontispiece of the first volume is a likeness of the Bard of Avon himself. He looks young, gay, and froward, compared with the highly improved ideal Shakspeare of to-day.

4. The outline is the same, but the marked difference between this merely human face and the almost supernatural countenance now known as the poet's, proves that we have been gradually expanding and elevating the merely natural Shakspeare into the superior and more spiritual ideal which our fancy and admiration have fashioned under the inspiration and influence of his own drama.

5. Thus, we have come near realizing his own prophetic words, and given him

"A combination and a form indeed,

Where every God did seem to set his seal,
To give the world assurance of a man."

By some such process, in the progress of time, the world has elevated its seers and heroes above the common plane of humanity, until, by the aid of the poet, the painter, and the sculptor, they are raised to the sphere of the gods, and become immortal.

6. And what a life these old volumes have had; and if they could speak, what tales they could tell of people long since gone to dust. Published in London, when George III. was on the throne, and the thirteen colonies were yet debating the momentous questions of separation and independence; after the lapse of nearly a century, they were knocked down to the highest bidder, upon the banks of the Wallamet, within the ebb and flow of the Pacific. They have outlived three generations of men, and the cunning compound of ink and paper still remains to charm the fancy and to feed the mind. Truly, "Life is short and Art is long."

LESSON XLVIII.

TRUE GREATNESS.

BY CHARLES SUMNER.

Charles Sumner, a distinguished lawyer, orator and statesman, was born in Boston, Mass., January 6, 1811, and died March 11, 1874. He was admitted to the bar in 1834, practiced law in Boston, and was appointed Reporter in the Circuit Court of the United States. He rose to eminence in his profession, and in 1851, was elected to the United States Senate, where for twenty years he bore a prominent part in the councils of the nation. He was the author of several volumes of speeches and works on law. His speeches are among the finest specimens of forensic eloquence in the language.

GOD

OD ONLY IS GREAT! is the admired and triumphant exclamation with which Massillon commences his funeral discourse on the deceased monarch of France, called in his own age Louis the Great. It is in the attributes of God that we are to find the elements of true greatness. Man is great by the godlike qualities of justice, benevolence, knowledge, and power. And as justice and benevolence are higher than knowledge and power, so are the just and benevolent higher than those who are intelligent and powerful only.

2. Should all these qualities auspiciously combine in one person on earth, then we might look to behold a mortal, supremely endowed, reflecting the image of his Maker. But even knowledge and power, without those higher attributes, cannot constitute true greatness. It is by His goodness that God is most truly known; so, also, is the great man. When Moses said unto the Lord: "Show me thy glory," the Lord said: "I will make all my goodness pass before thee." It will be easy now to distinguish between those who are only memorable in the world's annals and those who are truly great. If we pass in review the historic names to whom flattery or a false appreciation of character has expressly awarded this title, we shall find its grievous inaptitude.

3. Alexander, drunk with victory and wine, whose remains after death, at the early age of thirty-two, were borne on a golden car through conquered Asia, was not truly great. Cæsar, the ravager of distant lands, and the trampler upon. the liberties of his own country, with an unsurpassed combination of intelligence and power, was not truly great. Peter, of Russia, the organizer of the material prosperity of his country, the murderer of his own son-despotic, inexorable, unnatural, vulgar, was not truly great. Frederic, of Prussia, the heartless and consummate general, skilled in the barbarous act of war, who played the game of robbery with "human lives for dice," was not truly great. Surely there is no Christian grandeur in their careers. None of the beatitudes showered upon them a blessed influence. They were not poor in spirit, or meek, or merciful, or pure in heart. They did not hunger and thirst after justice. They were not peacemakers. They did not suffer persecution for justice's sake.

4. It is men like these that the good Abbé St. Pierre, of France, in works that deserve well of mankind, has termed illustrious in contradistinction to great. Their influence has been extensive, their power mighty, their names have been famous; but they were groveling, selfish, and inhuman in their aims, with little of love to God, and less to man.