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chambers. No! Science is not opposed to Poetry, it only opens a wider field. When I think that each of those sparkling points that I see above me sprinkled over the blue shell of the sky, is a distant world that
may call him the wealthy owner of a thousand acres. I shone steadily-and the rest had withdrawn behind The poorest painter that ever passes his estate owns the veil of the moonlight into their fathomless blue more of it than he; the little school-girl who stops to list his robin's song, or to dabble in his running brook, or to chase his butterfly, or to pluck his dandelion, owns more of all his land than he ever knew there was to own. I do not covet your broad wood-spins alorg its meted course forever, and that its lands, they are mine now-here from my window, twinkling is but the incessant obscuration caused by all, as far as I can see, is mine,-I pay no taxes. the passage of invisible atoms across its disk; when Habit steals the sweetness out of our pleasures. I know that some of them are double, and of comThe hard drudgery of a week's work makes the plementary color, though they seem to us as one, do silence of the seventh day its blessing. To the city I not find a lofty truth therein, which is full of man of business, the few free hours in which he can Poetry? We need not fear that science shall crowd smell the fresh air of the country, are by far poetry out of nature, by depriving it of mysterypleasanter for the tedious routine of his common for ever the web grows more complicate, and the life. Sleep is sweetened by labor. The poor stu- secret more unfathomable. Yet the imaginative dent whose hard earned dollar was pressed out of may well fear, for it is our stand point, that enables aching needs and privations, and given for the book us to find poems in the common life of every day. he coveted, sweetens his life and soul by it—but the This dry muscle-shell which lies beside me, will rich virtuoso has no dark vista of expectation and grow translucent and veined with a thousand curidesire, to heighten the charm of the object he pur- ous hues and prismatic lights, as soon as the salt chases. Never was play so good as in the quarter spray touches it. And so when the commonest fact hour at recess, hemmed in between the walls of of nature is wet from the fountain of inspiration, it study. Too much tasting vitiates the palate. We shows its thousand radiant, yet hidden beauties. artists live the best lives. We are like children, lured Custom and convention alone kill the poetry out of on by the scent of flowers in a green and pleasant nature. Laws of society, which are barren forms, meadow, which, though they are seldom found, make hang lead weights upon the young enthusiastic the seeking a delight. Art thus entices us gently on. Apollo. Every youthful heart, which in its first flush The mechanical is so harmoniously connected with of hope would clasp the world to its bosom, finds. the intellectual, that mind and body are both satis- that it clasps a cold mailed body-stuffed with a fied. We smell a perfume after which all common trite commonplace, instead of the genial glowing things, dusty and scentless in themselves, seem spirit that it sought. Enthusiasm is unfashionablevivified and transfigured. The old barn-yard, the the ideal, a bore-high projects are foolish transcengnarled oak and the stunted willow, and every sun-dentalism-and when the bewhipped heart, after it set and sunrise, and all the clouds, and all human has run its gauntlet, turns and asks, what is true faces, become full of interest for us. They are no and good? “Our forms,” says the world, and he longer tame and prosaic, but filled with an everconsents for sake of peace. shifting beauty. Had we only the ideal, we should soon give up, but the constant contact of the actual, from which our problem is to shape out the ideal, gives a sincerity and truth to all our aspirations and labors. Our brushes and paints lie between the picture and our hands, and between the conception and its embodiment there is a great deal of actual work. Thus a pleasant vibration is constantly kept up between the spirit and the sense. Along the pencil runs the thought to bury itself in the canvass, as the lightning from heaven flashes along the iron rod to seek the earth. We are kept from being too visionary by a constant necessity of reducing all our feelings and emotions and ideas, to something actual and visible. Thus we can sit and realize our ideal world-and is not this the greatest joy?
I have been looking out of my window into the moon-light. The fresh air as it blew in, fluttered the flame of my candle, which stood on the mantel, and threatened momentarily to extinguish it. Being in a superstitious mood, I determined not to move it, but to try my fate by it. If it were blown out, my love would also melt away. If it resisted the wind and burned on, my love was not a foolish fancy, but would live to shed light and happiness around me. I have watched with curiosity, for some time, the struggle between the wind and the candle. Now it seems as if the wind would get the better, for the flame hangs fluttering around the wick, and seems barely to keep its hold. And now again the wind flags, and the flame burns brightly and steadily. So it is with me. Love, the flame, now burning brightly, and now threatened with doubt and distrust. How universally this desire of snatching an intimation of the future out of the passing facts of the present, possesses the mind of man. Do we not, when anxious for an undetermined result, endeavor to strengthen our belief in what we hope,
by watching the chance ending of trivial facts then pending, and attaching an encouraging and signifi cant interpretation to one of the two issues. we cannot build up so strong a wall of confidence, that it needs no prop to sustain it. And we are willing but too often that chance shall decide, when reason and judgment are wavering. And yet our destiny is almost the creation of our will-and often when a peculiar providence seems to have directed the result, and to have aided the individual, he in fact has created the circumstances and fashioned the event. When we are broken down in hope, and drowning, we grasp at straws. If a chance happen in our favor it gives us faith-and belief in our ability is the touchstone to success. When we have taken counsel in moments of hesitation, from chance throws of dice, from fates cut in a book, and the result has proved fortunate as thereby indicated, is it not the faith which the chance decision has inspired, that decided the issue? When Robert Bruce lay on his pallet watching the spider, and saw him make six unsuccessful attempts to fasten its web to a beam above his head, and then determined, that if the insect succeeded in his seventh attempt, he also, who had six times failed in his efforts for the freedom of his country, would make one more trial; was it not the faith which the final success of the indefatigable insect inspired, that was the guaranty of victory, and under the guidance of which, defeat and failure were next to impossible? We can do, what we do not doubt that we can do. All great minds have a settled fearlessness and confidence, which looks like inspiration. Napoleon conquered and intimidated all Europe, by his sublime faith in himself. After marshalling all his resources and omitting no precaution which pointed even dimly to success, he had over and above this, a fiery faith, which spread like wildfire over his whole army, which conquered the most fearful odds, and which strode over and crushed all doubt to the earth. No army could withstand that desperate resolution, which never harbored a doubt of its own ability. Without this faith, he might have possessed his eagle insight, his quick instinct, his rapid combination, his subtle calculation and foresight, still never have grasped the hydra of anarchy, and tamed it to submission, even while its fangs were dripping with gore, nor have waded through the blood of Europe to an imperial throne. If we have no faith in ourselves, who is to have faith in us? No great man is astonished at his own success.
For dubious meanings learned polemics strove, And words on faith prevented works of love.
THE POOR MAN'S DEATH BED.
BY CAROLINE SOUTHEY.
Tread softly-bow the head-
Stranger! how great soe'er,
Beneath that beggar's roof,
That pavement, damp and cold, No whispering courtiers tread ; One silent woman stands, Lifting with pale thin hands
A dying head.
I thank ye, oh ye ever noiseless stars!
And the worn toilers' deepening hunger cry, Then from your height ye gaze so placidly, That the low cares whose fretful breathing scars Life's holy deeps, shrink back abashed before
The love-sad meekness of your still rebuke, And the calmed soul forgets the earth storm's roar In the deep trust of your majestic look, Till through the heart by warring passions torn, Some pulse of your serener life is born.
ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF DR. CHANNING. | Thou art not idle in thy higher sphere
BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
I do not come to weep above thy pall,
And mourn the dying-out of noble powers;
Truth needs no champions: in the infinite deep
Peace is more strong than war, and gentleness,
Where force were vain, makes conquests o'er the wave;
And love lives on and hath a power to bless,
When they who loved are hidden in the grave.
Thy spirit bends itself to loving tasks,
For sure, in Heaven's wide chambers, there is room
What wars, what martyrdoms, what crimes, may
Thou knowest not, nor I; but God will lead The prodigal soul from want and sorrow home, And Eden ope her gates to Adam's seed.
The sculptured marble brags of death-strewn fields, Farewell! good man, good angel now! this hand
Clarkson will stand where Wellington hath stood.
I watch the circle of the eternal years,
One lengthened roll of blood, and wrong, and tears,
The poor are crushed; the tyrants link their chain;
Freedom doth forge her mail of adverse fates.
Men slay the prophets; fagot, rack, and cross
But Evil's triumphs are her endless loss,
And sovereign Beauty wins the soul at last.
No power can die that ever wrought for Truth;
When he who called it forth is but a name.
Therefore I cannot think thee wholly gone,
Thou livest in the life of all good things;
To soar where hence thy hope could hardly fly.
And often, from that other world, on this
Soon, like thine own, shall lose its cunning, too,
This laurel-leaf I cast upon thy bier;
Let worthier hands than these thy wreath entwine; Upon thy hearse I shed no useless tear,
For me weep rather thou in calm divine!
ABOU BEN ADHEM.
BY LEIGH HUNT.
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase)
Some gleams from great souls gone before may The Angel wrote and vanished. The next night shine,
To shed on struggling hearts a clearer bliss,
And clothe the Right with lustre more divine.
He came again, with a great wakening light,
THE WASTED FLOWERS.
snow-balls; but at length, coming hand to hand,
On the velvet bank of a rivulet sat a rosy child. they coped in a rage, and many bloody raps were liberally given and received.
Her lap was filled with flowers, and a garland of rose-buds was twined around her neck. Her face was as radiant as the sunshine that fell upon it; and her voice was as clear as that of the bird whieh warbled at her side.
I went up to try if I could pacify them; for by this time a number of little girls had joined the affray, and I was afraid they would be killed. So, addressing one party, I asked, What are you fighting those boys for? What have they done to you?'
'O, naething at a', maun; we just want to gie them a gude thrashin'-that's a'.'
The little stream went singing on, and with every gush of its music the child lifted a flower in its dimpled hand, and with a merry laugh threw it upon its My remonstrance was vain; at it they went surface. In her glee she forgot that her treasures afresh; and after fighting till they were quite exwere growing less, and with the swift motion of hausted, one of the principal heroes stepped forth childhood, she flung them upon the sparkling tide, between the combatants, himself covered with blood Then until every bud and blossom had disappeared. and his clothes all torn to tatters, and addressed the seeing her loss, she sprang to her feet, and bursting opposing party thus:- Weel, I'll tell you what into tears, called aloud to the stream-"Bring back we'll do wi' ye-if ye'll let us alane, we'll let you my flowers." But the stream danced along, regard-alane. There was no more of it; the war was less of her tears; and as it bore the blooming burden at an end, and the boys scampered away to their away, her words came back in a taunting echo along its reedy margin. And, long after, amidst the wailing of the breeze and the fitful bursts of childish grief, was heard the fruitless cry," Bring back my flowers."
Merry maiden! who art idly wasting the precious moments so bountifully bestowed on thee-see in the thoughtless impulsive child, an emblem of thy
Each moment is a perfumed flower. Let its fragrance be dispensed in blessings on all around
thee, and ascend as sweet incense to its beneficent GIVER.
Else, when thou hast carelessly flung them from thee, and seest them receding on the swift waters of Time, thou wilt cry in tones more sorrowful than those of the weeping child- Bring back my flowers." And the only answer will be an echo from the shadowy past-Bring back my flowers." The Lowell Offering.
That scene was a lesson of wisdom to me.
thought at the time, and have often thought since, that this trivial affray was the best epitome of war in general, that I had ever seen. Kings and ministers of state are just a set of grown-up children, exactly like the children I speak of, with only this material difference, that instead of fighting out for themselves the needless quarrels they have raised. they sit in safety and look on, hound out their inno
cent but servile subjects to battle, and then, after an immense waste of blood and treasure, are glad to make the boys' condition-if ye'll let us alane, we'll let you
EPITOME OF WAR.
BY THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD."
The history of every war is very like a scene I once saw in Nithsdale. Two boys from different schools met one fine day upon the ice.-They eyed each other awhile in silence, with rather jealous and indignant looks, and with defiance on each brow.
What are ye glowrin' at, Billy?'
To this a hearty blow was the return; and then began such a battle! It being Saturday, all the boys of both schools were on the ice, and the fight instantly became general. At first they fought at a distance, with missile weapons, such as stones and
THE FREE MIND.
BY WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON.
Written by him while despotically imprisoned in Baltimore, in 1831, on a charge for libel; he having published an article against a New England merchant by the name of Todd, who freighted a vessel with slaves for the New Orleans market.
HIGH walls and huge the body may confine,
And iron grates obstruct the prisoner's gaze, And massive bolts may baffle his design,
And vigilant keepers watch his devious ways:
And in a flash from earth to heaven it goes!
Or, in sweet converse, pass the joyous hours.
BY WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER.
There were sounds of mirth and revelry,
And many a merry laugh rang out,
And the glass was freely pass'd around,
And many a heart beat high with glee,
In that broad and huge ancestral hall,
A voice arose as the lights grew dim, And a glass was flourished high,
"I drink to Life!" said a Reveller bold,
"And I do not fear to die.
I have no fear-I have no fear
Talk not of the vagrant, Death;
A boast well worthy a revel rout
"We drink," said all, "We drink to life,
In visor and cloak, like a secret knight
He spoke "I join in your revelry,
And I drink the toast ye have fill'd to drink,
A pledge well worthy a revel rout
"He's a noble soul, that champion knight, And he wears a martial brow; Oh, he'll pass the gates of Paradise,
To the regions of bliss below!"
The Reveller stood in deep amaze
Now flash'd his fiery eye;
He muttered a curse-then shouted loud, Intruder, thou shall die!"
He struck-and the stranger's guise fell off,
He stirred not again, till the stranger blew
'Then the Reveller fell at the Phantom's feet, And his conqueror was-DEATH!
In that broad and high ancestral hall,
TO A WATERFOWL.
BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
Whither, 'midst falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way?
Vainly the fowler's eye
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
Seek'st thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
There is a Power, whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,The desert and illimitable air,
Lone wandering, but not lost.
All day thy wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere; Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near.
And soon that toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend Soon o'er thy sheltered nest.
Thou'rt gone; the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form; yet on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart.
He, who, from zone to zone,
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
And his sword leap'd out, like a Baron's brave In the long way that I must tread alone,
Of the times that were, of old.
Will lead my steps aright.