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been composed by Richard, and the first by himself. After he had sung, with a loud and harmonious voice, the first part, he suddenly stopped, and heard a voice, which came from the castle window, "continue, and finish the song." Transported with joy, he was now assured it was the king, his master, who was confined in this dismal castle.

The chronicle adds, that one of the keeper's servants falling sick, he hired himself to him, and thus made himself known to Richard ; and, informing his nobles, with all possible expedition, of the situation of their monarch, he was released from his confinement, on paying a large

ransom.

LESSON TWENTY-NINTH.

THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.
They grew in beauty, side by side,

They filled one home with glee;
Their graves are severed far and wide,

By mount, and stream, and sea.
The same fond mother bent at night

O’er each fair sleeping brow;
She had each folded flower in sight-

Where are those dreamers now?
One, ʼmidst the forests of the West,

By a dark stream, is laid ;
The Indian knows his place of rest,

Far in the cedar shade.
The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one-

He lies where pearls lie deep;
He was the loved of all, yet none

O’er his low bed may weep.
One sleeps where southern vines are drest,

Above the noble slain ;
He wrapp'd his colours round his breast,

On a blood-red field of Spain.
And one-o'er her the myrtle showers

Its leaves, by soft winds fann'd;
She faded ’midst Italian flowers,

The last of that bright band.

And parted thus they rest, who play'd

Beneath the same green tree;
Whose voices mingled as they pray'd

Around one parent knee !
They that with smiles lit up the hall,

And cheer'd with song the hearth
Alas! for love, if thou wert all,

And nought beyond, 0 earth!

LESSON THIRTIETH.

MOURAT BEY.

A peasant, near Damascus, in a year that locusts covered the plains of Syria, to supply the urgent necessities of his family, was daily obliged to sell a part of his cattle. This resource was very soon exhausted ; and the unhappy father, borne down by the present calamity, went to the town to sell his implements of labour.

Whilst he was cheapening some corn newly arrived from Damietta, he heard tell of the successes of Mourat Bey, who, after vanquishing his enemies, had entered Grand Cairo in triumph. They painted the size, the character, the origin of this warrior. They related the manner in which he had arisen from a state of slavery to his present greatness.

The astonished countryman immediately knew him to be one of his sons, carried off from him at eleven years old. He lost no time in conveying to his family the provisions he had purchased, recounted what he had learned, and determined to set out for Egypt. His wife and children bathed him with their tears, offering up their vows for his safe return. He went to the port of Alexandretta, where he embarked, and landed at Damietta.

But, a son who had quitted the religion of his forefathers to embrace Mahometanism, and who saw himself encircled with all the splendour of the most brilliant fortune, was it likely that he would acknowledge him? This idea hung heavy on his heart. On the other hand, the desire of rescuing his family from the horrors of famine, the hopes of recovering a child, whose loss he had long bewailed, supported his courage, and animated him to continue his journey.

He entered the capital, and repaired to the palace of Mourat Bey. He presented himself to the prince's attendants, and desired permission to speak with him. He urged, he ardently solicited an audience. His dress, and his whole appearance, which bespoke poverty and misfortune, were not calculated to obtain him what he sought for; but his great age, that age so respected in the East, pleaded in his favour.

One of the officers informed Mourat Bey, that a wretched old man desired to speak with him. “Let him enter,” said he. The peasant advanced with trembling steps, on the rich carpet which covered the hall of the divan, and approached the Bey, who was reposing on a sofa embroidered with silk and gold. The various feelings which oppressed his mind, deprived him of utterance.

Recollecting, at length, the child that had been stolen from him, and the voice nature getting the better of his fears, he threw himself at his feet, and enbracing his knees, he cried out, “You are my child.” The Bey raised him up, endeavoured to recollect him, and, on a further explanation, finding him to be his father, he seated him by his side, and loaded him with

caresses.

After the tenderest effusions of the heart, the old man painted to him the deplorable situation in which he had left his mother and his brethren. The prince proposed to him to send for them to Egypt, and to make them partake of his riches and his power, provided they would embrace Mahometanism.

The generous Christian had foreseen this proposal, and, fearing lest the young people might have been dazzled with it, had not suffered one of his children to accompany him. He steadfastly rejected, therefore, this offer of his son, and had even the courage to remonstrate with him on his change of religion.

Mourat Bey, seeing that his father remained inflexible, and that the distress his family was in demanded immediate succour, ordered him a large sum of money, and sent him back into Syria, with a small vessel laden with corn. The happy countryman returned as soon as possible to the plains of Damascus. His arrival banished misery and tears from his rural dwelling, and restored joy, comfort, and happiness.

LESSON THIRTY-FIRST.

THE SOUND OF THE SEA.
Thou art sounding on, thou mighty sea,

For ever and the same!
The ancient rocks yet ring to thee,

Whose thunders nought can tame.
Oh! many a glorious voice is gone,

From the rich bowers of earth, And hushed

many a lovely one
Of mournfulness or mirth.
The Dorian flute that sighed of yore

Along thy wave, is still ;
The harp of Judah peals no more

On Zion's awful hill.
And Memnon's lyre hath lost the chord

That breathed the mystic tone,
And the songs at Rome's high triumphs poured,

Are with her eagles flown.
And mute the Moorish horn, that rang

O’er stream and mountain free;
And the hymn the leagued Crusaders sang,

Hath died in Galilee.
But thou art swelling on, thou deep,

Through many an olden clime,
Thy billowy anthem, ne'er to sleep

Until the close of time.
Thou liftest up thy solemn voice

To every wind and sky,
And all our earth's green shores rejoice

In that one harmony.
It fills the noontide's calm profound,

The sunset's heaven of gold ;
And the still midnight hears the sound,

E'en as when first it roll’d.
Let there be silence, deep and strange,

Where sceptred cities rose!
Thou speak'st of one who doth not change

So may our hearts repose.

LESSON THIRTY-SECOND. THE DUTIFUL SON ; OR, FREDERICK THE GREAT AND BIS

HUSSAR. In a regiment of hussars, in garrison in Silesia, there was a brave soldier, who was extremely exact in all the duties of his station; but, being turned of seventy years of age, he, on account of his grey bairs and wrinkles, had become, in his general's eyes, a blemish to the company in which he served. The general had long endeavoured to persuade him to put himself upon the invalid establishment.

It must be observed that to be dismissed as an invalid in Prussia, is nearly the same thing as to be condemned to starve, since its pensioners are allowed only three halfpence per day for their support. It should also be remembered that, in that country, soldiers are enlisted for their whole lives ; consequently, none are dismissed the service but such as labour under incurable disorders, or are extremely old. This is sufficient of itself to justify the extreme horror felt by the Prussian soldiery at the idea of being dismissed, however wretched their situation.

The old hussar constantly refused to leave the company; and the more strenuously, as he was a married man, and his wife was but little younger than himself; and by that means they would have lost the advantage of receiving towards their support a portion of the pay of their son, an honest stripling, who, according to the regulations of the army, served in the same corps, and messed with his parents.

The general, unable to impute the smallest fault to the father, and not daring to dismiss him on his own authority, determined to deprive him of his son, hoping, by this means, either through his grief or poverty, to get rid of him. To this effect, he wrote to the king, that he had in his regiment an excellent young soldier, who was too tall for an hussar, and offered him to his majesty for his regiment of guards, which he said would be a more proper situation for him.

The king accepted the offer, and the young man set out for Potzdam, leaving his parents in an affliction that was the more poignant, as they knew that though the regiment of guards was one of the finest in the kingdom, yet it was

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