Thus spake the tender, pitying angels. But their leader said. There is a beauty far transcending innocence-a beauty which childhood and innocence may never possess. Shall we wait, my brethren, for this, or offer to our God an imperfect gift?"

And so the angels waited until the child became a -for to immortal spirits, whose inheritance is eternal, the life of man is but an hour.

man

Then pain and sorrow came upon the man, and drove the rose from his cheek, and the light from his heart; and anguish bowed his frame, and care planted furrows on his brow. Then, when all his soul was dark, the angels drew near and whispered of unspeakable bliss, so that his heart grew strong and earnest, and faith was the first gem in his crown of beauty. Now temptations gathered thickly about him-now his guardians hovered near his path, watching his struggles, answering his thoughts, raising him when nearly trodden down, yet keeping him encompassed with tribulations, until he cast away his own strength-and the beauty of humility was perfected.

Still they poured temptation upon his pathwayfor without temptation there can be no victory. Still, as he rose triumphant from every struggle, his countenance grew more angelic, his beauty more godlike, till at last, when they had breathed into his spirit of that joy with which they were filled, and his soul melted with love and great adoration, they looked with awe upon their work and pronounced it fit for Heaven!

And when those who had loved him looked upon his withered, lifeless form, they were sad, and mourned his departed beauty. And it was so; for the soul, so strengthened and purified—that soul, so intensely beautiful, whose light its earthly covering could no longer obscure, was borne rejoicing by the angels to the throne, resting not in the joy of spirits innocent and untried, but mounting high, higher, to dwell forever in the presence of the fountain of all joy, and all truth, and all knowledge, and all glory.

Spirits sadder and more dread
Than from out the clay have fled:
Spirits buried dark and deep
In a grave where never sleep,-
The cold dew of Paradise,-
Drops upon their burning eyes,
Buried, beyond hope or light,
In the body's haunted night!

See ye not that woman pale?
There are bloodhounds on her trail!
Bloodhounds, too, all gaunt and lean,
For the soul their scent is keen,
Want and Sin, and Sin is last,
They have followed far and fast;
Want gave tongue, and, at her howl,
Sin awakened with a growl.
'Twas the World, and the World's law
Let them slip and cried, Hurrah!
Ah, poor girl! she had a right
To a blessing from the light,
Title deeds to sky and earth
God gave to her at her birth!
But before they were enjoyed,
Poverty had made them void,
And had drunk the sunshine up
From all nature's ample cup,
Leaving her a first-born's share
In the dregs of darkness there.
Often, on the sidewalk bleak,
Hungry, all alone, and weak,
She has seen, in night and storm,
Rooms o'erflow with firelight warm,
Which outside the window glass
Doubled all the cold, alas!
Till each ray that on her fell
Stabbed her like an icicle,
And she almost loved the wail
Of the bloodhounds on her trail.
Till the flood becomes her bier,
She shall feel their pantings near,
Close upon her very heels,
'Spite of all the din of wheels;
Shivering on her pallet poor,
She shall hear them at the door
Whine and scratch to be let in,
Sister bloodhounds, Want and Sin!

Hark! that rustle of a dress,

Stiff with lavish costliness!

Here comes one whose cheek would flush

But to have her garments brush
'Gainst the girl whose fingers thin
Wove the weary broidery in;
Who went backward from her toil,
Lest her tears the silk might soil,
And, in midnight chill and murk,
Stitched her life into the work.
Little doth the wearer heed
Of the heart-break in the brede;

95

A hyena by her side

kulks, downlooking-it is Pride.
He digs for her in the earth,
Where lie all her claims of birth,
With his foul paws rooting o'er
Some long buried ancestor,
Who, most like, a statue won
By the ill deeds he had done.

Round her heart and round her brain
Wealth had linked a golden chain,
Which doth close and closer press
Heart and brain to narrowness.
Every morn and every night
She must bare that bosom white,
Which so thrillingly doth rise
'Neath its proud embroideries,
That its mere heave lets men know
How much whiter 'tis than snow,-
She must bare it, and, unseen,
Suckle that hyena lean;—

Ah! the fountain's angel shrinks,
And forsakes it while he drinks!

There walks Judas, he who sold
Yesterday his Lord for gold,
Sold God's presence in his heart
For a proud step in the Mart;

He hath dealt in flesh and blood

At the Bank, his name is good,
At the Bank, and only there,
"Tis a marketable ware.

In his eyes that stealthy gleam
Was not learned of sky or stream,
But it has the cold, hard glint
Of new dollars from the Mint.
Open now your spirit's eyes,
Look through that poor clay disguise
Which has thickened, day by day,
Till it keeps all light away,
And his soul in pitchy gloom
Gropes about its narrow tomb,
From whose dank and slimy walls,
Drop by drop the horror falls.
Look! a serpent, lank and cold,
Hugs his spirit, fold on fold:
From his heart all day and night
It doth suck God's blessed light.
Drink it will, and drink it must,
Till the cup holds naught but dust;
All day long he hears it hiss,
Writhing in its fiendish bliss;
All night long he sees its eyes
Flicker with strange ecstasies,
As the spirit ebbs away
Into the absorbing clay.

Who is he that skulks, afraid
Of the trust he has betrayed,
Shuddering if perchance a gleam
Of old nobleness should stream

Through the pent, unwholesome room,
Where his shrunk soul cowers in gloom,-
Spirit sad beyond the rest

By more instinct for the Best?
'Tis a poet who was sent,
For a bad world's punishment,
By compelling it to see
Golden glimpses of To Be,
By compelling it to hear
Songs that prove the angels near ;
Who was sent to be the tongue
Of the weak and spirit-wrung,
Whence the fiery-winged Despair
In men's shrinking eyes might flare.
'Tis our hope doth fashion us

To base use or glorious:

He who might have been a lark
Of Truth's morning, from the dark
Raining down melodious hope
Of a freer, broader scope,
Aspirations, prophecies,

Of the spirit's full sunrise,-
Chose to be a bird of night,
Which, with eyes refusing light,
Hooted from some hollow tree

Of the world's idolatry.
'Tis his punishment to hear
Fluttering of pinions near,
And his own vain wings to feel
Drooping downward to his heel,
All their grace and import lost,
Burthening his weary ghost:
Ever walking by his side
He must see his angel guide,
Who at intervals doth turn
Looks on him so sadly stern,
With such ever-new surprise
Of hushed anguish in her eyes,
That it seems the light of day
From around him shrinks away,
Or drops blunted from the wall
Built around him by his fall.

Then the mountains whose white peaks
Catch the morning's earliest streaks,
He must see, where prophets sit,
Turning East their faces lit,
Whence, with footsteps beautiful,
To the earth, yet dim and dull,
They the gladsome tidings bring
Of the sunlight's hastening.
Never can those hills of bliss
Be o'erclimbed by feet like his!

But enough! Oh, do not dare
From the next his mask to tear,
Which, although it moves about
Like a human form without,
Hath a soul within, I ween,
Of the vulture's shape and mein.

THE LADY'S DREAM.

BY THOMAS HOOD.

The lady lay in her bed,

Her couch so warm and soft,

But her sleep was restless and broken still;
For turning often and oft

From side to side, she muttered and moaned,
And toss'd her arms aloft.

At last she started up,

And gazed on the vacant air,

With a look of awe, as if she saw

Some dreadful phantom there

And then in the pillow she buried her face

From visions ill to bear.

The very curtain shook,

Her terror was so extreme,

And the light that fell on the broider'd quilt
Kept a tremulous gleam;

And her voice was hollow, and shook as she cried ;
Oh me! that awful dream!

That weary, weary walk,

In the church-yard's dismal ground!

And those horrible things, with shady wings,
That came and flitted round,—

Death, death, and nothing but death,

In every sight and sound!

And oh! those maidens young,

Who wrought in that dreary room,

With figures drooping and spectres thin,

And cheeks without a bloom ;

And the voice that cried, "For the pomp of pride, We haste to an early tomb!

"For the pomp and pleasure of pride,

We toil like Afric slaves,

And only to earn a home at last,

Where yonder cypress waves;"And then he pointed-I never saw

A ground so full of graves! And still the coffins came,

With their sorrowful trains and slow;
Coffin after coffin still,

A sad and sickening show;
From grief exempt, I never had dream'd

Of such a world of woe!

Of the hearts that daily break,
Of the tears that hourly fall,
Of the many, many troubles of life
That grieve this earthly ball-
Disease and Hunger, Pain and Want-
But now I dream'd of them all!

I drank the richest draughts:

And ate whatever is good

Fish and flesh, and fowl and fruit,
Supplied my hungry mood;

But I never remembered the wretched ones
That starve for want of food.

I dressed as the nobles dress,
In cloth of silver and gold,
With silk, and satin, and costly furs,
In many an ample fold;

But I never remembered the naked limbs
That froze with winter's cold.

The wounds I might have healed! The human sorrow and smart! And yet it never was in my soul

To play so ill a part;

But evil is wrought by want of thought,
As well as want of Heart!'

She clasped her fervent hands,
And the tears began to stream;
Large and bitter, and fast they fell,

Remorse was so extreme :

And yet, oh yet, that many a Dame, Would dream the Lady's Dream!

MOUNTAIN CHILDREN.

BY MARY HOWITT.

Dwellers by lake and hill! Merry companions of the bird and bee! Go gladly forth and drink of joy your fill, With unconstrained step and spirit free!

No crowd impedes your way;

No city wall proscribes your further bounds; Where the wild flock can wander, ve may stray, The long day through, 'mid summer sights and sounds.

The sunshine and the flowers,

And the old trees that cast a solemn shade;

The pleasant evening, the fresh dewy hours, And the green hills whereon your fathers play'd ;

The grey and ancient peaks,

Round which the silent clouds hang day and night;
And the low voice of water, as it makes,
Like a glad creature, murmurings of delight,—

These are your joys! go forth,—
Give your hearts up unto their mighty power;
For in His spirit God has clothed the earth,
And speaketh solemnly from tree and flower.

The voice of hidden rills,

Its quiet way into your spirit finds;
And awfully the everlasting hills
Address you in their many-toned winds.

Ye sit upon the earth,

Twining its flowers, and shouting, full of glee;

And a pure mighty influence, 'mid your mirth, Moulds your unconscious spirit silently.

Hence is it that the lands

Of storm and mountain have the noblest sons; Whom the world reverence-the patriot bands Were of the hills like you, ye little ones!

Children of pleasant song Are taught within the mountain solitudes; For hoary legends to your wilds belong, And yours are haunts where inspiration broods.

Then go forth; earth and sky

To you are tributary; joys are spread
Profusely like the summer flowers that lie
In the green path beneath your gamesome tread!

LETTER TO THE UNKNOWN PURCHASER AND NEXT OCCUPANT OF GLENMARY.

BY N. P. WILLIS.

SIR In selling you the dew and sunshine ordained to fall hereafter on this bright spot of earth-the waters on their way to this sparkling brook-the tints mixed for the flowers of that enamelled meadow, and the songs bidden to be sung in coming summers by the feathery builders in Glenmary, I know not whether to wonder more at the omnipotence of money, or at my own impertinent audacity toward Nature. How you can buy the right to exclude at will every other creature made in God's image from sitting by this brook, treading on that carpet of flowers, or lying listening to the birds in the shade of these glorious trees-how I can sell it you, is a mystery not understood by the Indian, and dark, I must say, to me.

"Lord of the soil," is a title which conveys your privileges but poorly. You are master of waters flowing at this moment, perhaps, in a river of Judea, or floating in clouds over some spicy island of the tropics, bound hither after many changes. There are lilies and violets ordered for you in millions, acres of sunshine in daily instalments, and dew nightly in proportion. There are throats to be tuned with song, and wings to be painted with red and gold, blue and yellow; thousands of them, and all tributaries to you. Your corn is ordered to be sheathed in silk, and lifted high to the sun. Your grain is to be duly bearded and stemmed. There is perfume distilling for your clover, and juices for your grasses and fruits. Ice will be here for your wine, shade for your refreshment at noon, breezes and showers and snow-flakes; all in their season, and all deeded to you for forty dollars the acre!" Gods! what a copyhold of property for a fallen world!

Mine has been but a short lease of this lovely and well endowed domain (the duration of a smile of fortune, five years, scarce longer than a five act play); but as in a play we sometimes live through a life, it seems to me that I have lived a life at Glenmary. Allow me this, and then you must allow me the privilege of those who, at the close of life, leave something behind them: that of writing out my will. Though I depart this life, I would fain, like others, extend my ghostly hand into the future; and if wings are to be borrowed or stolen where I go, you may rely on my hovering around and haunting you, in visitations not restricted by cock-crowing.

Trying to look at Glenmary through your eyes, sir, I see too plainly that I have not shaped my ways as if expecting a successor in my lifetime. I did not, I am free to own. I thought to have shuffled off my mortal coil tranquilly here; flitting at last in company with some troop of my autumn leaves, or some bevy of spring blossoms, or with snow in the thaw; my tenants at my back, as a