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"Now go

venturing to reply, he did as he was commanded. thy way," said the robber, sternly, "but leave with me thy horse, and leave with me the mail, lest a worse thing come upon thee." The man arose, and proceeded towards Berwick, trembling; and the robber, mounting the horse which he had left, rode rapidly across the heath."

Preparations were making for the execution of Sir John Cochrane, and the officers of the law waited only for the arrival of the mail with his second death-warrant, to lead him forth to the scaffold, when the tidings arrived that the mail had again been robbed. For yet fourteen days, and the life of the prisoner would be again prolonged. He again fell on the neck of his daughter, and wept, and said, "It is good; the hand of Heaven is in this!" "Said I not," replied the maiden, and for the first time she wept aloud, "that my father should not die ?"

The fourteen days were not yet passed, when the prison doors flew open, and the Earl of Dundonald rushed to the arms of his son. His intercession with the confessor had been at length successful, and after twice signing the warrant for the execution of Sir John, which had as often failed in reaching its destination, the king had sealed his pardon.

He had hurried with his father from the prison to his own house; his family were clinging around him, shedding tears of joy, but Ellen, who during his imprisonment had suffered more than them all, was again absent. They were marveling with gratitude at the mysterious Providence that had twice intercepted the mail, and saved his life, when a stranger craved an audience. Sir John desired him to be admitted, and the robber entered; he was habited, as we have before described, with the coarse cloak and coarser jerkin, but his bearing was above his condition. On entering, he slightly touched his beaver, but remained covered.

"When you have perused these," said he, taking two papers from his bosom, "cast them into the fire." Sir John glanced on them; started, and became pale; they were his death-warrants. "My deliverer!" he exclaimed, "how, how shall I thank thee? how repay the savior of my life? My father! my children! thank him for me. The old earl

grasped the hand of the stranger; the children embraced his knees. He pressed his hand before his face, and burst into tears. "By what name," eagerly inquired Sir John, "shall I thank my deliverer ?" The stranger wept aloud, and raising nis beaver, the raven tresses of Ellen Cochrane fell on the coarse cloak. My child!" exclaimed the astonished and enraptured father, "my own child! my savior! my own Ellen!'

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It is unnecessary to add more. The imagination of the reader can supply the rest, and we may only add, that Ellen Cochrane, whose heroism and noble affection we have here briefly and imperfectly sketched, was the grandmother of the late Sir John Stewart, of Allanbank, in Berwickshire, and great, great grandmother of Mr. Coutts, the celebrated banker.

J. WILSON.

LESSON VI.

FIDELITY UNTO

(Gertrude.)

DEATH.

The Baron Von der Wart, accused, though it is believed unjustly, as an accomplice in the assassination of the Emperor Albert, was bound alive on the wheel, and was attended by his wife Gertrude, throughout his last agonizing moments, with the most heroic fidelity.

HER hands were clasped, her dark eyes raised,

The breeze threw back her hair;

Up to the fearful wheel she gazed,

All that she loved was there.

The night was round her clear and cold,

The holy heaven above;

Its pale stars watching to behold

The might of earthly love.

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"I have been with thee in thine hour
Of glory and of bliss,
Doubt not its memory's living power
To strengthen me through this!
And thou, mine honored love and true,
Bear on, bear nobly on!

We have the blessed Heaven in view,
Whose rest shall soon be won."

And were not these, high words to flow
From Woman's breaking heart?
Through all that night of bitterest woe,
She bore her lofty part:

But oh! with such a freezing eye
With such a curdling cheek!
Love, love! of mortal agony,

Thou, only thou, shouldst speak!

The wind rose high, but with it rose
Her voice, that he might hear;
Perchance that dark hour brought repose
To happy bosoms near;

While she sat striving with despair
Beside his tortured form,

And pouring her deep soul in prayer
Forth on the rushing storm.

She wiped the death-damps from his brow,
With her pale hands and soft,
Whose touch, upon the lute chords low,

Had stilled his heart so oft.

She spread her mantle o’er his breast,
She bathed his lips with dew,
And on his cheek such kisses pressed,
As Joy and Hope ne'er knew.

Oh! lovely are ye, Love and Faith,
Enduring to the last!

She had her meed-one smile in death

And his worn spirit passed.

While even as o'er a martyr's grave,

She knelt on that sad spot,

And weeping, blessed the God who gave

Strength to forsake it not !

MRS. HEMANS.

LESSON VII.

FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS.

WHEN the hours of day are numbered,
And the voices of the night

Wake the better soul that slumbered,
To a holy, calm delight;

Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
And, like phantoms grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful firelight
Dance upon the parlor wall;
Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door;
The beloved, the true-hearted,
Come to visit me once more.

He, the young and strong, who cherished
Noble longings for the strife,
By the roadside fell and perished,
Weary with the march of life!

They, the holy ones and weakly,

Who the cross of suffering bore,
Folded their pale hands so meekly,
Spake with us on earth no more!
And with them the being beauteous,
Who unto my youth was given,
More than all things else to love me,
And is now a saint in heaven.

With a slow and noiseless footstep,
Comes that messenger divine,
Takes the vacant chair beside me,
Lays her gentle hand in mine.

And she sits and gazes at me,

With those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, so still and saintlike, Looking downward from the skies. Uttered not, yet comprehended,

Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, Breathing from her lips of air.

Oh, though oft depressed and lonely,

All my fears are laid aside,

If I but remember only

Such as these have lived and died! H. W. LONGFELLOW.

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LESSON VIII.

THE PARTING OF FRIENDS.

FRIEND after friend departs;

Who hath not lost a friend?

There is no union here of hearts,
That finds not here an end:
Were this frail world our only rest,
Living or dying none were blest.
Beyond the flight of time,

Beyond this vale of death,
There surely is some blessed clime,
Where life is not a breath;
Nor life's affections, transient fire,
Whose sparks fly upward to expire.
There is a world above,

Where parting is unknown,
A whole eternity of love,
Formed for the good alone;
And faith beholds the dying here,
Translated to that happier sphere.
Thus star by star declines,

Till all have passed away,

As morning high and higher shines

To pure and perfect day;

Nor sink those stars in empty night,

They hide themselves in heaven's own light.

J. MONTGOMERY

LESSON IX.

ROMANCE OF THE SWAN'S NEST.
(Reverie.)

So the dreams depart,

So the fading phantoms flee,

And the sharp reality,

Now must act its part.

LITTLE Ellie sits alone
'Mid the beeches of a meadow,

By a stream side, on the grass;
And the trees are showering down
Doubles of their leaves in shadow,
On her shining hair and face.

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