NEAR yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,
And still where many a garden flower grows wild;
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
The village preacher's modest mansion rose.
A man he was to all the country dear,
And passing rich with forty pounds a year;
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,

Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change his place.
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power,

By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.
His house was known to all the vagrant train,
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain;
The long-remembered beggar was his guest,
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;
The ruined spendthrift now no longer proud,
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed;
The broken soldier, kindly bid to stay,

Sat by his fire, and talked the night away;

Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done,
Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won.
Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow,
And quite forgot their vices in their woe;
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And even his failings leaned to virtue's side;
But in his duty prompt at every call,

He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all.
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries,
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.

Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed,
The reverend champion stood. At his control
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last faltering accents whispered praise.

At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorned the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,
And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,
With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran;
Even children followed with endearing wile,
And pluck'd his gown to share the good man's smile.
His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed,
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven.
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head. Goldsmith.

1. Where had the Minister's manse stood?

2. What was his yearly income? 3. Did he eagerly seek after a rich living? 4. On what was he more bent than on lofty station in the church?

5. Name some of the "wandering train" who well knew his house.

6. Describe the old beggar.

7. How was the spendthrift treated by him?

8. How did the old soldier pass the night under his roof?

9. What was his pride?

10. How acted this good man in the discharge of his duty?

11. How does the parent bird induce the young ones to fly ?

12. How did the pastor try to draw

people along the narrow way that leads to heaven?

13. At what bed-side was he often found? 14. To whom would he direct the dying sinner to flee ?

15. Describe the pastor in the pulpit. 16. Who flocked to speak with him after the service ?

17. Who gave his gown a gentle pull, and why?

18. What gave him pleasure, and what caused him distress?

19. In the midst of his earthly sorrows, where did his soul ever find rest?

20 To what is he compared in the last four lines?

21. Show the correctness of the simile, in the several points indicated by the words printed in Italics.

PATRIOTS have toil'd, and in their country's cause
Bled nobly; and their deeds, as they deserve,
Receive proud recompense. We give in charge
Their names to the sweet lyre. Th' historic Muse,
Proud of the treasure, marches with it down
To latest times; and Sculpture, in her turn,
Gives bond in stone and ever-during brass
To guard them, and t' immortalize her trust:
But fairer wreaths are due, though never paid,
To those, who, posted at the shrine of Truth,
Have fall'n in her defence. A patriot's blood,
Well spent in such a strife, may earn indeed,
And for a time ensure, to his loved land
The sweets of liberty and equal laws;
But martyrs struggle for a brighter prize,
And win it with more pain. Their blood is shed
In confirmation of the noblest claim,
Our claim to feed upon immortal truth,
To walk with God, to be divinely free,
To soar, and to anticipate the skies.

Yet few remember them. They liv'd unknown,
Till Persecution dragg'd them into fame,

And chas'd them up to Heav'n. Their ashes flew
-No marble tells us whither. With their names
No bard embalms and sanctifies his song:
And History, so warm on meaner themes,
Is cold on this. She execrates, indeed,
The tyranny, that doom'd them to the fire,
But gives the glorious suff'rers little praise.

He is the freeman, whom the truth makes free,
And all are slaves beside. There's not a chain,
That hellish foes, confed'rate for his harm,
Can wind around him, but he casts it off
With as much ease as Samson his green withes.1
He looks abroad into the varied field

Of nature, and, though poor, perhaps, compar'd
With those whose mansions glitter in his sight,
Calls the delightful scenery all his own.
His are the mountains, and the valleys his,
And the resplendent rivers. His t' enjoy

1 See Judges xvi. 7. &c.

With a propriety that none can feel,
But who, with filial confidence inspir'd,
Can lift to Heaven an unpresumptuous eye,
And smiling say—" My father made them all."

1. In what cause do patriots suffer? 2. For what do martyrs bleed?

3. How are the names of patriots preserved?

4. Are not martyrs who die for the Truth more deserving of grateful remembrance even than they?

5. What does the patriot win with his blood?

6. Were not the Christian martyrs generally obscure individuals?

7. How were they made known to fame?

Cowper.

XXXIV.-BOADICE'A.

BOADICEA, lived in the middle of the first century, and was the wife of Prasutagus the king of the Iceni, a tribe of Britons inhabiting Norfolk and Suffolk. Prasutagus at his death bequeathed his wealth to his two daughters and to the Roman emperor. Nero was at this time emperor; and Suetonius Paulinus, a general of great skill and energy, commanded in Britain. While Suetonius was occupied in attacking the Isle of Anglesey (then called Mona,) Boadicea was scourged and her daughters violated by the orders of the Roman procurator Catus, for some cause not recorded. The crime however brought its punishment. The Iceni and their neighbours, the Trinobantes (who dwelt in what is now Essex and Middlesex), flew to arms. They first attacked and destroyed the Roman colony of Camalodunum (Colchester), and defeated a Roman legion which was coming to the relief of the place, under the command of Petilius Cerialis. The insurgents also massacred the Romans at Verola. mium (St. Alban's), and at London, which was then famous for its commerce. Tacitus says that the Romans and their allies were destroyed to the number of 70,000, many of whom perished under torture.

Suetonius hastened to the scene of this revolt; and met the Britons (A.D. 61), who were commanded by Boadicea, with her two daughters, and totally defeated them with a dreadful carnage. Tacitus, a nearly contemporary historian, estimates the destruction at 80,000 persons. Boadicea, he tells us, killed herself by poison.-Knight's Cyclopædia.

Princess! if our aged eyes

Weep upon thy matchless wrongs,
'Tis because resentment ties
All the terrors of our tongues.

Rome shall perish-write that word
In the blood that she has spilt;
Perish hopeless and abhorr'd,
Deep in ruin as in guilt.

Rome, for empire far renown'd,
Tramples on a thousand states;
Soon her pride shall kiss the ground-
Hark! the Gaul is at her gates!

Other Romans shall arise,

Heedless of a soldier's name;
Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize,
Harmony the path to fame.1

Then the progeny 2 that springs

From the forests of our land,
Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings,
Shall a wider world command.

Regions Cæsar never knew,
Thy posterity shall sway;
Where his eagles never flew,
None invincible as they.3

Such the Bard's prophetic words,
Pregnant with celestial fire,
Bending as he swept the chords
Of his sweet but awful lyre.

She, with all a monarch's pride,
Felt them in her bosom glow:
Rush'd to battle, fought and died;
Dying, hurl'd them at the foe.

Ruffians, pitiless as proud,

Heaven awards the vengeance due;

Empire is on us bestow'd,

you.

Shame and ruin wait for

Cowper.

1 The modern Romans, the Italians, are passionately fond of music.

2 The ships of England.

3 The British, not the Romans.