which he himself will be sacrificed.

But is it true that, after

we have formed the temple, and fitted it for the shrine of the heavenly passion, the celestial power,—at the moment in which our fondest hopes are realised, when the bright one appears who answers to our ideal love, and by her presence makes all that was fair before more fair, all that was pure more pure, all that was holy more holy, then, when the fire of love begins to burn on our altar, must its flame consume the edifice? Must every creation and beauty of mortality be seared and crumbled to ashes by the intensity of that heavenly beam? Oh! I can never believe, that the power which, in the immensity of its perfection, accomplished the greatest wonder eternity ever saw, and saved millions of human beings from everlasting destruction, can, with its less perfect and less brilliant shining, only destroy the share of happiness which still remains to man on earth,—that the same power which leads man to heaven can poison his existence here below.

Perfect happiness is a stranger to this world; it is a phantom which men through all their lives pursue, but ever, as they seem to have reached it, it eludes their grasp it lures them on through a rough and weary course, till it vanishes in the mists of disappointment and woe. But there is a world of happiness,-and that world is a spiritual world, and its pleasures are spiritual pleasures, and its God is a spiritual God; and when we enter that world, with our spirits purified and made holy, restored to their original likeness to the Almighty Spirit of their Creator, may not our happiness consist in a unison and harmony in the feelings of our minds with the Spirit of Him whose presence is the light and glory of heaven? And when we are all filled with the fulness of that eternal Spirit, we shall see in others but the reflection of that Spirit; so that, not only will those ties that connected us on earth be purified and strengthened, but our capacities will be so enlarged that we shall take into the same bond all the inhabitants of that bright world, and, forming one united family, our voices will rise in a full chorus of praise to the Father we love. There the philosopher will seek for the hand of the Creator in the wonders of the universe, with an intellect capable of understanding it all: there the poet will find all the creations of his earthly imagination embodied in the bright glories of heaven,—all that was fair and beautiful upon earth in its perfection, freed from the dross, the corruption, the pollution of sin.

The world of the imagination is a dangerous world; it is a sea, under the smooth surface of which lie hidden many dangerous rocks. But if we keep our vessel pointed to the pole-star of heaven, and take for our pilot the word of its God, we shall avoid those rocks and quicksands that would wreck our ship, and sink us into the abyss of despair, steering a clear course through a world of happiness to a haven of eternal joy.

IF, Phyllis, on thy votive hearth,
At silvery Luna's monthly birth,
Shall bleed the ravening swine;
While gifts from bounteous Ceres' store,
And incense from Arabia's shore,
O'erspread thy household shrine ;

No arid blast shall smite thy vine,
Whose verdant tendrils closely twine
Around the lofty trees;

No blasting mildew sear thy crop;
Nor shall thy tender firstlings drop,
'Neath Autumn's sickening breeze.

Let the rich victims idly rove
In snow-capp'd Algidon's deep grove,
Far from all sounds of strife;
Or graze in rich Albania's plains,
Till their red blood the altar stains,
Beneath the pontiff's knife.

For thee no hecatomb must bleed;
Thy Gods no splendid victims need,
To sooth their wrath divine;
The wreath of fragile myrtle, twin'd
With fragrant herbs of every kind,
Suffice to crown their shrine.

The pious cake and crackling salt
Atone the humbler votary's fault,
When richer gifts would fail;
And off'rings of a stainless hand,
Appease th' inexorable band,

And woo the fav'ring gale.

8.

PUCK.

THE TREMBLING POPLAR.

A BOTANICAL LEGEND.

(Translated from the German of Weissflog.)

WOULD you know why the aspen trembles, when no breath is stirring in the sultry summer, and the other trees of the forest rest their thickly-leaved boughs, and spread cooling shadows? Hear

its story.

In the awful hour when our Lord hung upon the cross, and the sun folded a veil of mourning around its brightness, there went forth a trembling through all living nature. Man, mute with horror, awaited, with a fearful spirit, the termination of the strange and unheard-of event; the beasts of the forest crept into their hiding-places, and dared not move out of their secure retreats; there was no sound heard of the humming of insects, or of the chirping of birds-all was dumb, oppressed, and mourning. Only the flowers, the shrubs, and the trees, murmured yet in their speech, and told the story of the holy time. The tall cedars of Lebanon faintly murmured their fearful chorus in the air, while a darkness, as that of the night, overshadowed the woods.

"Alas! now is it past," gently whispered the willow of Babylon, and bowed down her mourning branches into the Euphrates. The vine-dresser passed through his vineyard, and saw how the vine-branches wept. As the fruit was now ripe, and the juice was pressed, they called it the "tears of Christ."

But around Golgotha there arose a sweet perfume. The violet of the night sent it forth to cool the suffering Son of God; and the Iris Susiana said to her sister the Cypress, "In mourning will I clothe myself from henceforth." "And I," answered the Cypress, "will dwell by the grave for a memorial of this hour." Then there was a light breeze through the sultry twilight. It was Astaroth, the angel of death, as he passed by to the cross. And when the voice now sounded from thence, "My God! My God! why hast thou forsaken me?" all the boughs, all the flowers, all the leaves trembled.

But the Aspen, a proud, high, cold tree, stood unmoved at the foot of Golgotha. "What hath thine agony to do with us?" it spake. "We are yet free, we trees, and blossoms, and plants; we have not sinned!"

Then Astaroth, the angel of death, took a black cup with the

Redeemer's blood, and poured it out at the root of the proud Aspen. Then was the unhappy tree benumbed. Its leaves sank down. Never more came rest again into its branches; and, when all is still, happy, and peaceful, it quivers and trembles, and is called the Trembling Poplar to this day. PUCK.

THE CONVENT BELL.

OH! thou Convent Bell, thou Convent Bell,
Why art thou ringing, what dost thou tell?
Hath a spirit flown

To its last long home,

And art thou ringing its funeral knell ?

Or hath some girl, with a troubled breast,
Sought in thy cells for a place of rest?
And are they flinging,

While thou art ringing,

Over her shoulders the nun's sombre vest?

Is it a maiden of noble birth,

Whose voice once did sound with innocent mirth ?
Whose gladness hath past,

ON SHAKING HANDS.

It is in vain that we turn over the records of the past, the histories of years gone by, to find the origin of the custom above-named; Homer and Herodotus, Virgil and Livy, the curious Ovid, and the elegant Plutarch, find other matter to discuss; nor let their pens warm, and their imaginations fire, on this most ancient rite. But we will endeavour (unworthy though we be) to clear up the mystery that hangs around it, and trace it to its source through all the labyrinths of innumerable authors, till we discover whence it sprung, a fertile source of gratification and delight!

It would appear from ancient story, that the renowned Semiramis, queen of Babylon and good temper, when first she reigned supreme, thought the best way to greet her friends was to embrace them tenderly. It happened, however, one unlucky day, that a courtier, as he passed his arm around her neck, struck her comb (for queens even at that time thought such adjuncts necessary) so forcibly, as to cause her royal majesty severe pain; whereupon she issued a proclamation, that the embrace should no longer be the mode of salutation; offering, at the same time, a high reward to him who should discover a new method, one that should not be accompanied with much personal inconvenience. Whereupon her prime minister, Candleend Phagus, set his imagination to work, and invented, in the stead thereof, shaking the right hand, at which her majesty was graciously pleased to express her approbation, seeing that this plan did not involve rumpling her finery, or rising from her

seat.

Since her time, the practice has been greatly improved; and modern art has introduced many changes, not originally contemplated. With the march of intellect, shaking has progressed likewise. We have now music to express all the changes of the chase, the baying of the beagles, the neighing of the horse, and the shouts of the riders; or all the history of the terrific massacre of the Huguenots; nay, according to an eminent artiste, there is not a feeling of the human mind that music cannot express. Who can then wonder that we should have a shake of introduction and departure, of friendship and enmity, of cordiality and carelessness, of warm-heartedness and the coldest frigidity.

But lest our readers should be unacquainted with the nice shades