In plague and famine some;
Earth's cities had no sound nor tread;
And ships were drifting with the dead
To shores where all was dumb.
Its piteous pageants bring not back,
Nor waken flesh, upon the rack
Of pain anew to writhe;

Stretch'd in disease's shapes abhorr'd,
Or mown in battle, by the sword,
Like grass beneath the scythe.

E'en I am weary in yo skies
To watch thy fading fire;
Test of all sumless agonies,
Behold not me expire.

My lips, that speak thy dirge of death,
Their rounded gasp, and gurgling breath
To see thou shalt not boast.

Th' eclipse of nature spreads my pall,-
The majesty of darkness shall
Receive my parting ghost!

This spirit shall return to Him
That gave its heavenly spark!
Yet think not, sun, it shall be dim
When thou thyself art dark!

No! it shall live again, and shine

In bliss unknown to beams of thine,
By Him recall'd to breath,
Who captive lead captivity,
Who robb'd the grave of victory,

And took the sting from death!

Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood,
With dauntless words and high,

That shook the sear leaves from the wood,
As if a storm pass'd by;

Saying, We are twins in death, proud sun;
Thy face is cold,-thy race is run:

'Tis mercy bids thee go.

For thou ten thousand thousand years
Hast seen the tide of human tears,
That shall no longer flow.

What though beneath thee man put forth
His pomp, his pride, his skill;

And arts that made fire, flood, and earth,

The vassals of his will;

Yet mourn I not thy parted sway,
Thou dim discrowned king of day:

For all those trophied arts,

And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, Heal'd not a passion or a pang

Entail'd on human hearts.

So let oblivion's curtain fall
Upon the stage of men,

Nor with thy rising beams recall
Life's tragedy again.

Go, sun, while mercy holds me up
On nature's awful waste,

To drink this last and bitter cup
Of grief that man shall taste-
Go, tell the night that hides thy face,
Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race,

On earth's sepulchral clod,
The darkening universe defy
To quench his immortality,

Or shake his trust in God!

COMMON SENSE EXPLAINED.

"He must be a poor creature, indeed," says a lively writer, "whose practical convictions do not, in almost all cases, outrun his deliberate understanding, or who does not feel and know much more than he can give a reason for. Hence the distinction between eloquence and wisdom, between ingenuity and common sense. A man may be dexterous and able in explaining the grounds of his opinion, and yet may be a mere sophist, because he only sees one-half of a subject. Another may feel the whole weight of a question; nothing relating to it may be lost upon him; and yet he may be unable to give any account of the manner in which it affects him, or to drag his reasons from their silent lurking places. This last will be a wise man, though neither a logician, nor a rhetorician. Common sense is the just result of the sum total of such unconscious impressions, in the ordinary occurrences of life, as they are treasured up by the memory and called out by the occasion. Genius and taste depend much upon the same principle, exercised in loftier ground, and in more unusual combinations."

THE FAVOURITE PIGEON.

WOULD that I had wings like thine,

Gentle bird, to mount afar,

Where the glist'ning cloudwreaths shine,
Where the morn's fair chambers are;

O'er the heaving ocean's breast,

O'er the stately hills to roam,

And, when felt the wish for rest,
Scarce to seek, ere find my home.

Rock, nor stream, nor mountain height,
Sternly reared, obstructs thy way,
Speeding through the sunny light
Of the peaceful summer-day.
Thine is freedom,-thine content,
And the power to trace at will
Every valley's dim descent,
Every lightly-sparkling rill.