ately.] Pray, gentlemen, keep your seats. I have not done yet. Let me see; where was I? Ay, "All my property, both personal and real, to my dear cousins, Samuel Swipes, of Malt Street, brewer,"

Swipes. Yes!

Squire. "And Christopher Currie, of Fly Court, saddler,"

Cur. Yes!

Squire. "To have and to hold, IN TRUST, for the sole and exclusive benefit of my nephew, Francis Millington, until he shall have attained the age of twenty-one years, by which time I hope he will have so far reformed his evil habits, as that he may safely be intrusted with the large fortune which I hereby bequeath to him."

Swipes. What is all this? You don't mean that we are humbugged? In trust! How does that appear? Where is it?

Squire. There; in two words of as good old English as I ever penned.

Cur. Pretty well too, Mr. Squire, if we must be sent for, to be made a laughing stock of. She shall pay for every ride she has had out of my chaise, I promise you.

Swipes. And for every drop of my beer. Fine times, if two sober, hard-working citizens are to be brought here, to be made the sport of a graceless profligate. But we will manage his property for

him, Mr. Currie; we will make him feel that trustees are not to be trifled with.

Cur. That we will.

Squire. Not so fast, gentlemen; for the instrument is dated three years ago; and the young gentleman must be already of age, and able to take care of himself. Is it not so, Francis?

Frank. It is, your worship.

Squire. Then, gentlemen, having attended to the breaking of the seal, according to law, you are released from any further trouble about the busi

ness.

MERCY.

The quality of mercy is not strained;
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is twice blessed
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes:
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown:
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
But mercy is above the sceptred sway;

It is enthroned in the hearts of kings;
It is an attribute to God himself;

And earthly power doth then show likest God's
When mercy seasons justice.

-SHAKESPEARE.

32. THE BURIAL OF MOSES.

By Nebo's lonely mountain,

On this side Jordan's wave,
In a vale in the land of Moab,
There lies a lonely grave;

And no man knows that sepulchre,
And no man saw it e'er,

For the angels of God upturned the sod,
And laid the dead man there.

That was the grandest funeral
That ever passed on earth;
But no man heard the trampling,
Or saw the train go forth—
Noiselessly as the daylight

Comes back when night is done,

And the crimson streaks on ocean's cheek

Grow into the great sun.

Noiselessly as the springtime

Her crown of verdure weaves, And all the trees on all the hills Open their thousand leaves;

So without sound of music,

Or voice of them that wept, Silently down from the mountain crown The great procession swept.

Perchance the bald old eagle, gray Beth-Peor's height,

On

Out of his lonely eyry,

Look'd on the wondrous sight. Perchance the lion stalking,

Still shuns that hallow'd spot,

For beast and bird have seen and heard
That which man knoweth not.

But when the warrior dieth,
His comrades in the war,

With arms reversed and muffled drum,

Follow his funeral car;

They show the banners taken,

They tell his battles won,

And after him lead his masterless steed,

While peals the minute-gun.

Amid the noblest of the land
We lay the sage to rest,

And give the bard an honor'd place,

With costly marble drest,

In the great minster transept

Where lights like glories fall,

And the organ rings, and the sweet choir sings, Along the emblazoned wall.

This was the truest warrior

That ever buckled sword;

This the most gifted poet

That ever breathed a word;
And never earth's philosopher
Traced with his golden pen,

On the deathless page, truths half so sage
As he wrote down for men.

And had he not high honor,-
The hillside for a pall,

To lie in state while angels wait

With stars for tapers tall,

And the dark rock-pines, like tossing plumes,

Over his bier to wave,

And God's own hand, in that lonely land,
To lay him in the grave?

In that strange grave, without a name,
Whence his uncoffin'd clay

Shall break again, oh, wondrous thought!

Before the Judgment day,

And stand with glory wrapt around

On the hills he never trod,

And speak of the strife that won our life,
With the Incarnate Son of God.

O lonely grave, in Moab's land!
O dark Beth-Peor's hill!

Speak to these curious hearts of ours,
And teach them to be still.