read in some book which I gnawed a few days ago, that there is a fine country, called the Indies, in which mice are in much greater security than here. In that region, the sages believe that the soul of a mouse has been that of a king, a great captain, or some wonderful saint, and that after death it will probably enter the body of a beautiful woman or mighty potentate. If I recollect rightly, this is called metempsychosis. Under this idea, they treat all animals with paternal charity, and build and endow hospitals for mice, where they are fed like people of consequence. Come then, my good sister, let us hasten to a country, the customs of which are so excellent, and where justice is done to our merits." Her neighbor replied, "But, sister, do not cats enter these hospitals? if they do, metempsychosis must take place very soon, and in great numbers; and a talon or a tooth might make a fakir, or a king; a miracle we can very well do without." "Do not fear," said the first mouse, "in these countries order is completely established; the cats have their houses as well as we ours, and they have their hospitals for the sick separate from ours. After this conversation, our two mice set out together, contriving the evening before she set sail, to creep along the cordage of a vessel that was to make a long voyage.

They got under weigh, and were enraptured with the sight of the sea, which took them from the abominable shores on which cats exercise their tyranny. The sail was pleasant, and they reached Surat, not like merchants, to acquire riches, but to receive good treatment from the Hindoos. They had scarcely entered one of the houses fitted up for mice, when they aspired to the best accommodation. One of them pretended to recollect having formerly been a Bramin on the coast of Malabar, and the other protested that she had been a fine lady of the same country, with long ears; but they displayed so much impertinence, that the Indian mice lost all patience. A civil war commenced, and no quarter was given to the two Franks who pretended to impose laws on the others; when, instead of being_eaten by cats, they were strangled by their own brethren. From this it is evident, that it is useless to go far in search of safety; as, if we are not modest and wise, we only go into danger; and if we are so, we may be secure at home.

LESSON XXXV.

The Lord and the Judge.-LOMONOSOV.*

THE God of gods stood up-stood up to try The assembled gods of earth. "How long," he said, "How long will ye protect impiety,

;

And let the vile one raise his daring head?
'Tis yours my laws to justify-redress
All wrong, however high the wronger be
Nor leave the widow and the fatherless
To the cold world's uncertain sympathy.
'Tis yours to guard the steps of innocence,
To shield the naked head of misery;

Be 'gainst the strong, the helpless one's defence,
And the poor prisoner from his chains to free."
They hear not-see not-know not-for their eyes
Are covered with thick mists-they will not see;
The sick earth groans with man's iniquities,
And heaven is tired with man's perversity.
Gods of the earth! ye Kings! who answer not
To man for your misdeeds, and vainly think
There's none to judge you ;-know, like ours, your
Is pain and death :-ye stand on judgment's brink.
And ye like fading autumn-leaves will fall;
Your throne but dust-your empire but a grave—
Your martial pomp a black funereal pall—
Your palace trampled by your meanest slave.
God of the righteous! O our God! arise,
O hear the prayer thy lowly servants bring:
Judge, punish, scatter, Lord! thy enemies,
And be alone earth's universal king.

lot

LESSON XXXVI.

The House-builder.-KHEMNITZER.*
WHATE'ER thou purposest to do,
With an unwearied zeal pursue;
To-day is thine-improve to-day,
Nor trust to-morow's distant ray.

*From Bowring's Specimens of Russian Poets.

A certain man a house would build ;
The place is with materials filled;
And every thing is ready there-
Is it a difficult affair?

Yes! till you fix the corner-stone;
It wont erect itself alone.

Day rolls on day, and year on year,
And nothing yet is done-

There's always something to delay
The business to another day.

And thus in silent waiting stood
The piles of stone and piles of wood
Till Death, who in his vast affairs
Ne'er puts things off-as men in theirs-
And thus, if I the truth must tell,
Does his work finally and well-
Winked at our hero as he past,
Your house is finished, Sir, at last;
A narrower house-a house of clay-
Your palace for another day!"

LESSON XXXVII.

Hope triumphant in death.-CAMPBELL. UNFADING Hope! when life's last embers burn, When soul to soul, and dust to dust return, Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour! Oh! then thy kingdom comes, Immortal Power! What though each spark of earth-born rapture fly The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye! Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey The morning dream of life's eternal dayThen, then, the triumph and the trance begin! And all the Phoenix spirit burns within!

Oh! deep-enchanting prěl'ude to repose, The dawn of bliss, the twilight of our woes! Yet half I hear the parting spirit sigh, It is a dread and awful thing to die! Mysterious worlds, untravell'd by the sun! Where Time's far-wandering tide has never run, From your unfathom'd shades, and viewless spheres, A warning comes, unheard by other ears.

'Tis Heaven's commanding trumpet, long and loud,
Like Sinai's thunder, pealing from the cloud!
While Nature hears, with terror-mingled trust,
The shock that hurls her fabric to the dust;
And, like the trembling Hebrew, when he trod
The roaring waves, and called upon his God,
With mortal terrors clouds immortal bliss,
And shrieks, and hovers o'er the dark abyss!

Daughter of Faith, awake, arise, illume
The dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb!
Melt, and dispel, ye spectre-doubts, that roll
Cimmerian darkness on the parting soul!
Fly, like the moon-ey'd herald of Dismay,
Chas'd on his night-steed by the star of day!
The strife is o'er-the pangs of Nature close,
And life's last rapture triumphs o'er her woes.
Hark! as the spirit eyes, with eagle gaze,
The noon of Heaven, undazzled by the blaze,
On heavenly winds that waft her to the sky,
Float the sweet tones of star-born melody;
Wild as that hallowed anthem sent to hail
Bethlehem's shepherds in the lonely vale,
When Jordan hush'd his waves, and midnight still
Watch'd on the holy towers of Zion hill!

Soul of the just! companion of the dead! Where is thy home, and whither art thou fled ? Back to its heavenly source thy being goes, Swift as the comet wheels to whence he rose ; Doom'd on his airy path awhile to burn,

And doom'd, like thee, to travel, and return.—
Hark! from the world's exploding centre driven,
With sounds that shook the firmament of Heaven,
Careers the fiery giant, fast and far,

On bickering wheels, and adamantine car;
From planet whirl'd to planet more remote,

He visits realms beyond the reach of thought;

But, wheeling homeward, when his course is run,
Curbs the red yoke, and mingles with the sun!
So hath the traveller of earth unfurl'd
Her trembling wings, emerging from the world;
And, o'er the path by mortal never trod,
Sprung to her source, the bosom of her God!

LESSON XXXVIII.

Lines written during a thunder storm.-DMITRIEV.*
Ir thunders! Sons of dust, in reverence bow!
Ancient of days! Thou speakest from above:
Thy right hand wields the bolt of terror now;
That hand which scatters peace and joy and love.
Almighty! trembling like a timid child,

I hear thy awful

voice-alarmed-afraid-
I see the flashes of thy lightning wild,
And in the very grave would hide my head.

Lord! what is man? Up to the sun he flies-
Or feebly wanders through earth's vale of dust:
There is he lost 'midst heaven's high mysteries,
And here in error and in darkness lost :
Beneath the storm-clouds, on life's raging sea,
Like a poor sailor-by the tempest tost
In a frail bark-the sport of destiny,

He sleeps and dashes on the rocky coast.

Thou breathest ;-and the obedient storm is still :
Thou speakest ;-silent the submissive wave:
Man's shattered ship the rushing waters fill,
And the hush'd billows roll across his grave.
Sourceless and endless God! compared with Thee,
Life is a shadowy, momentary dream:

And time when viewed through Thy eternity,
Less than the mote of morning's golden beam.

LESSON XXXIX.

Interview between Waverley and Fergus Mac-Ivor, at Carlisle, previous to the execution of the latter.—SCOTT.

AFTER a sleepless night, the first dawn of morning found Waverley on the esplanade in front of the old Gothic gate of Carlisle castle. But he paced it long in every direction before the hour when, according to the rules of the garrison, the gates were opened, and the drawbridge lowered. He produced his order to the sergeant of the guard, and was admitted. The place of Fergus's confinement was a gloomy

* Bowring's Specimens of Russian Poets.