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And happy now, the grace did magnify

Which thrust it forth — as it had feared — to die;

Until again, " I perish quite," it said,

Torn by rude diver from its ocean bed:

O, unbelieving! — So it came to gleam

Chief jewel in a monarch's diadem.

6. — Independence. Thomson.

I care not, Fortune, what you me156 deny;

¥ou cannot rob me of free Nature's grace;

You cannot shut the windows of the sky,

Through which Aurora" shows her brightening fivoe ,

Jfou cannot bar" my constant feet to trace

The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve:

Let health my nerves and liner fibres brace,

And I their toys to the great children leave;

Of Fancy, Reason, Virtue, naught can me bereave!

7. — The Moral Law.Wordsworth.

All true glory rests,

All praise of safety, and all happiness,

Upon the moral law. Egyptian Thebes,"

Tyre by the margin of the sounding waves,

Palmy'ra central in the desert, fell,

And the arts died by which they had been raised.

Call Archimedes" from hia buried tomb45

f rpon the plain of vanished Syracuse,"

And feelingly the sage shall make report

How insecure, how baseless in itself,

Is that philosophy whose sway is framed

For mere material instruments: — how weak

Those arts and high inventions, if unpropped

By Virtue.

8.—The Ruined Citv.

1 u iked of Time, from whom those temples rose.

That, prostrate by his hand, in silence lie. His lips disdained the mystery156 to disclose,

And, borne on swifter wing, he hurried by ! — 'These broken columns,59 whose ?" I asked of Fame:

(Her kindling breath gives life to works sublime131) — ^Tith downcast looks of mingled grief and shame,

She heaved the uncertain2'sigh, and followed Time. 'rapt in amazement, o'er the mouldering pile

I saw Oblivion pass, with giant stride; ind, whiLst his visage wore Pride's Bcornful smile,

"Haply thou know'st;—then, tell me whose !" I cried,

Whoso these vast domes that even in ruin shine ?" — • I reck not whose," he said; "they now are mine!"

XLI. JOHN POUNDS, THE COBBLER.

1. John Pounns was one of those good Samaritans" of whom every generation apparently produces some examples. Born on the 17th of July, in the year 1766, at Portsmouth in England, he was apprenticed, when twelve years of age, to a shipwright, with whom he served three years of his term, when a serious accident happened to the boy. Falling one day from a considerable height into one of the dry docks," he dislocated his thigh, and was in other respects very grievously injured. Time and surgical ingenuity sufficed to restore him to a tolerable state, but he was crippled in such a manner as to be unfitted ic resume95 his trade; and so John Pounds became a cobbler.

2. He lived a lonely kind of life. Having no household soci ety,92 and being little disposed to go abroad in quest of entertainment, he relieved his involuntary solitude by rearing99 and domesticating all kinds of singing birds and harmless animals; teaching some of them a variety of amusing tricks, and accustoming those of opposite6 propensities to live together in harmony. He would, sit with a cat upon one shoulder, and a canary-bird on the other, charming away fear from the one, and curbing destructive inclinations in the other. *

3. The notion of undertaking the gratuitous education97 of poor children seems to have been suggested accidentally to John Pounds. A brother of his, who was a seafaring man with a large family, had amongst the rest a feeble little boy, with deformed feet. John benevolently took charge of this lad, cured him of his deformity, and taught him to read. Thinking it would be well for the boy to have a companion in study, he took another, and then another poor child under his care, until at length he became a sort of ragged schoolmaster-general to all the poorer population; and, in a spirit of noble disinterestedness, performed a most serviceable work in his generation.

4. He might be seen, day after day, in his small workshop about six feet wide, and eighteen in length, in St. Mary-street Portsmouth, seated on his stool, mending shoes, and attending at the same time to the studies of a busy crowd of ragged children, clustering around him. Sometimes there would be assembled in bis shop as many as forty boys and girls, the latter of whom ho kept a little apart from the rest. In receiving pupils,83 he made choice98 of those who seemed most in need of his reforming discipline. He had a decided predilection for "the little blackguards," and was frequently at great pains to attract such within his door. He was once seen following a young vagabond11 of this stamp, and endeavoring to entice him to come to school with the bribe of a baked potato.04

5. His methods of tuition were somewhat original.90 He collected all sorts of refuse"2 hand-bills and scraps of printed and written paper, which he found lying anywhere uselessly about, and with these he contrived to teach reading and spelling. With the younger children his manner was particularly pleasant. He would ask them the names of different91 parts of their body, make them spell the words, and signify their uses. For instance, taking hold of a child's hand, he would say, "What do you call this?" and, having received his answer, direct him to spell the word. Then, giving the hand a playful slap, he would ask, "What do I do?" and teach him next to spell the word expressive of the act.

6. Should this remind any one of Mr. Squeers's" analogous*' method of teaching a boy to spell "horse,"98 and then, by way of emphatic illustration, sending him to rub such an animal down, that hd might the better remember his lesson, it will be proper to recollect the different pretensions of the parties, and not to confound an ignorant charlatan" with an honest and benevolent person, who performs his work with conscientious consideration, and according to the extent of his ability and means.

7. Writing and arithmetic were taught by John Pounds to the elder pupils, in a manner to give them a creditable degree of skill in those branches. Many25 of the boys he taught to mend their shoes, to cook their food, and perform a variety of useful services for themselves and others. Not only did he superintend their sports and personal habits, but the generous and considerate teacher likewise exerted himself in curing their bodily ailments, such as chilblains, and coughs, and the manifold cuts and bruises to which the children of the poor are continually exposed. Often65 he shared his own scanty and homely provisions with destitute and forsaken9' children. He acknowledged universal kinship with the neglected and unhappy.

8. The sort of education which John Pounds was enabled to give was doubtless very imperfect; but it was infinitely preferable to none at all. He had ample assurances that his steadfast labors, adhered to through a long life, were not fruitless. Coming home from foreign service or a distant voyage, often would some tall soldier, or rough jovial sailor, now grown up out of all remembrance, call to shake hands with him, and confess the benefits he had received from his instruction. These were proud occasions for the poor and modest cobbler. Other recompense than this he had scarcely any. So quietly and unobtrusively had he all along pursued his purpose, that comparatively few persons, of the respectable sort in the world's estimation, knew" anything of his proceedings.

9. It was the wish of John Pounds that his labors might terminate only with his life. The thought of lingering out any

ortion of his days uselessly and helplessly was a painful one 1'or iin to entertain; and it was his hope to go off suddenly, in the way, as he said, "in whichTM a bird drops from his perch." The desire of his soul was granted. On the first'0' of January,"1839, he expired suddjnly, from a rupture of one of the large vessels30 of the heart, at the house of a gentleman whom he had called ipon to thank for certain27 actsI00 of kindness recently rendered to his establishment.

10. A little boy who was with him at the time carried the intelligence to his assembled school-fellows, who were all instantly overwhelmed with sorrow and consternation. Some of the younger ones returned to the house for several successive days, looking painfully about the room, and apparently unable to comprehend the reality of the loss they had sustained. Old and young, in a numerous and motley assemblage, followed his body to the grave, and saw him to his rest with tears and blessings.

11. One cannot sufficiently admire the heartiness and generosity of this poor man's labors. Patiently from year to year he went on, quietly performing these daily acts of charity and mercy, without needing or expecting anybody's approbation, or even conceiving that he was doing anything remarkable. A good man and a true one, he flung the benefits of his sympathy, and of such talents as he possessed, over all that seemed to need them ; finding a joyful satisfaction in being useful to such as had no helper, and leaving, with an assured heart, the results of his endeavors to that universal Providence which heeds and nurtures whatever seeds of goodness91 are sown anywhere in the world. No slightest service to humanity can be lost, but successfully proclaims itself, or works silently to some benefit.

XLII. — THE SPRING SHOWER.

l. Away to that snug nook! For, the thick shower
Rushes on stridingly. Ay, now it comes,
With its first drips glancing about the leaves
Like snatches of faint music. Joyous thrush!
It mingles with thy song, and beats soft time
To thy exulting measure. Now it falls
Pattering, like the far voice of leaping rills;
And now it breaks upon tho shrinking clumps
With a crash of many sounds. The thrush is still.

2 There are sweet scents about Up: the violet" hides
On that green bank; the prharose sparkles there;
The earth is grateful to the teeming clouds,
And yields a sudden:" freshness to their kisses.
But nuw the shower slopes off to the warm west,
Leaving a dewy13 track ; like falling pearls
The big drops glistenTM in the sunny mist.
The air is clear again and the far woods
In their early green shine out. Let's onward, then,
For the first blossoms peep about our path,
The lambs are nibbling the short, dripping grass,
And the birds are on the bushes.

XLIII. — "NOT TO MYSELF ALONE."

1. "Not to myself alone,"

The little opening flower transported cries,
"Not to myself alone I bud and bloom;
With fragrant breath the breezes I perfume,8*
And gladden30 all things with my rainbow dyes
. The bee comes sipping, every eventide,
His dainty fill;
The butterfly within my cup doth hide
From threatening ill."

2. "Not to myself alone,"

The circling star98 with honest pride doth boast,
"Not to myself alone I rise and set;
I write upon night's coronal90 of jet
His power and skill who formed our myriad host ,
A friendly beacon32 at heaven's30 open gate,

I gem the sky,
That man might ne'er forget,29 in every fate,
His home on high."

3. "Not to myself alone,"

The heavy-laden bee doth murmuring hum,
"Not to myself alone, from flower to flower,
I rove the wood, the. garden, and the bower,
And to the hive at eveinng weary come;
For man, for man, the luscious food I pile

With busy care,
Content if ho repay my ceaseless91 toil
With scanty share."

4 "Not to myself alone,"
The soaring bird with lusty pinion sings,

"Not to myself alone I raise my song;

I cheer the drooping with my warbling tongue, And bear the mourner on my viewless wings;

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