resolved to die with his son. The youth, astonished at his father's determination, and satisfied that his persuasions were unavailing, entreated the Portuguese in the most impressive manner, to carry away his father.

Two priests who were of the party, endeavored to represent to the captain the sinfulness of persisting in his resolution; but the Portuguese were obliged finally to carry him away by force, after having removed his son a little apart. So cruel, however, was the sepaThe vio

ration, that the captain never recovered it. lence of his grief was unabating; and he actually died of a broken heart, one or two days after reaching the Cape.

LESSON ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-NINTH.

The Grave of the Indian Chief.

They laid the corse of the wild and brave
On the sweet fresh earth of the new day grave,
On the gentle hill, where wild weeds waved,
And flowers and grass were flourishing.

They laid within the peaceful bed,

Close by the Indian Chieftain's head,
His bow and arrows; and they said,
That he had found new hunting grounds.

Where bounteous Nature only tills

The willing soil; and o'er whose hills,
And down beside the shady rills,
The hero roams eternally.

And these fair isles to the westward lie,
Beneath a golden sun-set sky,

Where youth and beauty never die,
And song and dance move endlessly.

They told of the feats of his dog and gun,
They told of the deeds his arm had done;
They sung of battles lost and won,

And so they paid his eulogy.

And o'er his arms, and o'er his bones,
They raised a simple pile of stones;
Which, hallowed by their tears and moans,
Was all the Indian's monument.

And since the Chieftain here has slept,
Full many a winter's winds have swept,
And many an age has softly crept
Over his humble sepulchre.

E

LESSON ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTIETH.

The Maid of Moscow.

When Moscow was destroyed, and the French soldiers were eagerly searching every part of a ruined church, they perceived at the end of a dark gallery, a lamp, the light of which fell on a small altar. They immediately proceeded towards it, and the first object which presented itself to their notice, was a young female elegantly dressed, and in the attitude of devotion.

At the noise of the soldiers, the unhappy girl screamed violently, and fell into a swoon. In that situation she was carried before a French general. Her countenance, in which grief and despair were equally legible, was irresistibly interesting. As her recollection returned, she seemed to deprecate the

care which was employed in recalling her to life. The general begged her to relate her misfortunes.

"Of what use," said she, "would it be to mention to you the wealth of a house which will soon be annihilated? Suffice it, that the name of my father is celebrated in the history of our empire, and that he is now serving with distinction in the army which is gloriously fighting in defence of our country. My name is Paulowna. On the day preceding your entrance into Moscow, I was to have been united to one of the young warriors who had distinguished himself at the battle of Majaisk.

But in the midst of the nuptial solemnities, my father was informed that the French were at the gates of the city; and suspending our marriage, and taking my husband with him, they hastened to join the army. As I sat with my afflicted family on the following morning, we heard the roar of the cannon; the noise evidently approached, and we no longer doubted that we must quit Moscow. We immediately fled; but when we arrived near the Kremlin, an immense crowd met us, and rushing hastily by, parted me from my mother and my sisters. I endeavored in vain to recall them by my cries. The noise of arms, and the shouts of an infuriated populace, overpowered my feeble voice, and in an instant I was rendered truly miserable.

The French meanwhile penetrated into the town, and driving all before them, advanced towards the Kremlin. To find a shelter from their excesses, I, with many others, ran into the citadel, which was considered a place of security. As I could not mix with the combatants, I retired to the church of St. Michael, seeking refuge amongst the graves of the Czars. Kneeling near their sepulchres, I invoked the manes of those illustrious founders of our country, when, on a sudden, some brutal soldiers broke in upon my retreat, and dragged me from an inviolable and sacred asvlum.".

When the unhappy girl had finished her history, she shed a torrent of tears, and throwing herself at the general's feet, implored him to respect her virtue, and restore her to her relations. The general pretending to pity her misfortunes, pledged himself to relieve them. He offered her his house as a protection; promised to use his utmost endeavors to discover her father, and her distressed mother; but this apparent generosity was only a snare to deceive the innocent Paulowna, who fell a victim to his treachery.

LESSON ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-FIRST.
Seneca Lake.

On thy fair bosom, silver lake!
The wild swan spreads his snowy sail,
And round his breast the ripples break,
As down he bears before the gale.

On thy fair bosom, waveless stream!
The dipping paddle echoes far,
And flashes in the moonlight gleam,
And bright reflects the polar star.

The waves along thy pebbly shore,
As blows the north wind, heave their foam,
And curl around the dashing oar,
As late the boatman hies him home.

How sweet, at set of sun, to view
Thy golden mirror spreading wide,
And see the mist of mantling blue
Float round the distant mountain's side.

At midnight hour, as shines the moon,
A sheet of silver spreads below,

And swift she cuts at highest noon,
Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow.

On thy fair bosom, silver lake!
O! I could ever sweep the oar,
When early birds at morning wake,
And evening tells us toil is o'er.

LESSON ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-SECOND

The Broken Heart.

A few days before the fall of Robespierre, a revolutionary tribunal in one of the departments of the north of France, condemned to death M. des R****, an ancient magistrate, and a most estimable man, as guilty of a conspiracy. M. des R. had a water spaniel, ten or twelve years old, of the small breed, which had been brought up by him, and had never quitted him. Des R. saw his family dispersed by a system of terror; some had taken flight; others were arrested and carried into distant gaols; his domestics were dismissed; his friends had either abandoned him, or concealed themselves; he was himself in prison, and every thing in the world was silent to him, except his dog.

This faithful animal had been refused admittance into the prison. He had returned to his master's house, and found it shut; he took refuge with a neighbor who received him: but, that posterity may judge rightly of the times in which we have existed, it must be added, that this man received him with treinbling, and in secret, dreading lest his humanity for an animal should conduct him to the scaffold. Every day at the same hour the dog left the house, and went to the door of the prison. He was refused admittance, but he constantly passed an hour before it, and then returned,