receive you. Come along with me into this region of delights, this world of pleasure, and bid farewell forever to care, to pain, to business." Hercules, hearing the lady talk after this manner, desired to know her name; to which she answered, "My friends and those who are well acquainted with me, call me Happiness: but my enemies and those who would injure my +reputation, have given me the name of Pleasure."

4. By this time, the other lady had come up, and addressed herself to the young hero in a very different manner. "Hercules," said she, "I offer myself to you, because I know you are descended from the gods, and give proofs of that descent, by your love of virtue, and application to the studies proper for your age. This makes me hope that you will gain, both for yourself and me, an immortal reputation. But before I invite you into my society and friendship, I will be open and sincere with you; and must lay this down as an established truth, that there is nothing truly valuable which can be purchased without pains and labor. The gods have set a price upon every real and noble pleasure. If you would gain the favor of Deity, you must be at the pains of worshiping him; if the friendship of good men, you must study to oblige them; if you would be honored by your country, you must take care to serve it; in short, if you would be eminent in war or peace, you must become master of all the qualifications that can make you so. These are the only terms and conditions upon which I can promise happiness."

5. The goddess of Pleasure here broke in upon her discourse; "You see," said she, "Hercules, by her own confession, the way to her pleasures is long and difficult, whereas that which I propose is short and easy." "Alas!" said the other lady, whose visage glowed with scorn and pity, "what are the pleasures you propose? To eat before you are hungry, drink before you are thirsty, sleep before you are tired; to gratify appetites before they are raised, and raise such appetites as nature never planted. You never heard the most +delicious music, which is the praise of yourself; or saw the most beautiful object, which is the work of your own hands. Your votaries pass away their youth in a dream of mistaken pleasures; while they are hoarding up tanguish, torment, and remorse, for old age.

6. "As for me, I am the friend of the gods and of good men; an agreeable companion of the guardian to the fathers of families; a

artisan; a household patron and protector

of servants; an associate in all true and generous friendships. The banquets of my votaries are never costly, but always delicious; for none eat or drink at them, who are not invited by hunger and thirst. Their slumbers are sound, and their wakings cheerful. My young men have the pleasure of hearing themselves praised by those who are in years: and those who are in years, of being honored by those who are young. In a word, my followers are favored by the gods, beloved by their acquaintance, esteemed by their country, and, after the close of their labors, honored by posterity."

7. We know, by the life of this memorable hero to which of these two ladies he gave up his heart; and, I believe, every one who reads this, will do him the justice to approve of his choice.

LXXX. AMBITION.

FROM WILLIS.

1. WHAT is ambition? 'Tis a glorious cheat.
It seeks the chamber of the gifted boy,
And lifts his humble window and comes in.
The narrow walls +expand, and spread away
Into a kingly palace, and the roof

Lifts to the sky, and unseen fingers work
The ceiling with rich +blazonry, and write
His name in burning letters over all.
And ever as he shuts his wilder'd eyes,
The +phantom comes, and lays upon his lips
A spell that murders sleep, and in his ear
Whispers a deathless word, and on his brain
Breathes a fierce thirst no waters will allay.

2 He is its slave henceforth. His days are spent
In chaining down his heart, and watching where
To rise by human weaknesses. His nights
Bring him no rest in all their bless-ed hours;
His kindred are forg tten or testranged;
Unhealthful fires burn constant in his eye;

His lip grows restless, and its smile is curl'd
Half into scorn; till the bright, fiery boy,
That 't was a daily blessing but to see,
His spirit was so bird-like and so pure,
Is frozen in the very flush of youth,
Into a cold, care-fretted, heartless man.

3. And what is its reward?
Praise-when the ear has

At best, a name!

grown too dull to hear;

Gold-when the senses it should please are dead:
Wreaths-when the hair they cover has grown gray;
Fame-when the heart it should have thrill'd is numb.
All things but love-when love is all we want,
And close behind comes death, and ere we know,
That even these tunavailing gifts are ours,

He sends us, stripp'd and naked, to the grave.

1. Reyno. THE wind and rain are over; calm is the noon of day. The clouds are divided in heaven; over the green hill flies the inconstant sun; red, through the stony vale, comes down the stream of the hill. Sweet are thy *murmurs, O stream! But more sweet is the voice I hear. It is the voice of Alpin, the son of song, mourning for the dead. Bent is his head of age, and red his tearful eye. Alpin, thou son of song, why alone on the silent hill? Why complainest thou as a blast in the wood, as a wave on the lonely shore? 2. Alpin. My tears, O Reyno! are voice for the inhabitants of the grave. hill; fair among the sons of the slain. like Morar; and the mourners shall sit on thy tomb. The hills shall know thee no more, thy bow shall lie in the halls, unstrung.

for the dead; my Tall thou art on the But thou shalt fall

3. Thou wert swift, O Morar! as a roe on the hill; terrible as a meteor of fire. Thy wrath was as the storm; thy sword in battle, as lightning in the field. Thy voice was like a stream after rain; like thunder on distant hills. Many fell by thy arm; they were consumed in the flames of thy wrath. But when thou didst return from war, how peaceful was thy brow! Thy face was like the sun, after rain; like the moon,

in the silence of night; calm as the breast of the lake, when the loud wind is hushed into repose. Narrow is thy dwelling, now; dark the place of thine abode. With three steps, I compass thy grave, O thou, who wast so great before! Four stones, with their heads of moss, are the only *memorial of thee. A tree with scarce a leaf, long grass whistling in the wind, mark to the hunter's eye, the grave of mighty Morar. 4. Morar! thou art low indeed: thou hast no mother to mourn thee; no maid with her tears of love. Dead is she that brought thee forth; fallen is the daughter of Morglan. Who, on his staff, is this? Who this, whose head is white with age, whose eyes are galled with tears, who quakes at every step? It is thy father, O Morar! the father of no son but thee. Weep, thou father of Morar, weep; but thy son heareth thee not. Deep is the sleep of the dead, low their pillow of dust. No more shall he hear thy voice, no more awake at thy call. When shall it be morn in the grave, to bid the slumberer awake? Farewell, thou bravest of men; thou conqueror of the field; but the field shall see thee no more, nor the gloomy wood be lightened by the splendor of thy steel. Thou hast left no son,--but the song shall preserve thy name.

How frightful the grave! how deserted and drear!
With the howls of the storm-wind, the †creaks of the bier,
And the white bones all clattering together!

Second Voice.

How peaceful the grave; its quiet how deep!
Its tzephyrs breathe calmly, and soft is its sleep,
And flow'rets perfume it with ether.

First Voice.

There, triots the tblood-crested worm on the dead,
And the yellow skull serves the foul toad for a bed,
And snakes in the nettle-weeds hiss.

Second Voice.

How lovely, how sweet the repose of the tomb!
No tempests are there; but the nightingales come,
And sing their sweet chorus of bliss.

First Voice.

The ravens of night flap their wings o'er the grave;
'T is the vulture's abode; 't is the wolf's dreary cave,
Where they tear up the dead with their fangs.
Second Voice.

There, the cony, at evening, disports with his love,
Or rests on the sod; while the turtles above
Repose on the bough that o'erhangs.

First Voice.

There, darkness and dampness, with poisonous breath,
And loathsome decay, fill the dwelling of death ;
The trees are all barren and bare.

Second Voice.

O! soft are the breezes that play round the tomb,
And sweet, with the violet's wafted perfume,
With lilies and jessamine fair.

First Voice.

The pilgrim, who reaches this valley of tears,
Would fain hurry by; and, with trembling and fears,
He is launch'd on the wreck-cover'd river.

Second Voice.

IIere, the traveler, worn with life's pilgrimage dreary,
Lays down his rude staff, like one that is weary,
And sweetly reposes forever.

JOSEPH ADDISON, an English author, was born in 1672. He contributed largely to the Tatler, a periodical paper, and was also the chief writer of the Spectator. His writings afford the best models of style in our language. He died in 1719.

1. WHEN I am in a serious humor, I very often walk by myself in Westminster Abbey, where the gloominess of the place, and the use to which it is applied, with the solemnity