A THING OF BEAUTY IS A JOY FOREVER.

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THING of beauty is a joy forever:

Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep

Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing;
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'erdarkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such, too, is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read.

JOHN KEATS.

THE EMIGRANT'S FAREWELL.

UR native land—our native valeA long and last adieu ! Farewell to bonny Teviotdale, And Cheviot mountains blue.

Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds,

And streams renowned in songFarewell, ye braes and blossomed meads, Our hearts have loved so long.

The mossy cave and mouldering tower That skirt our native dell

The martyr's grave, and lover's bower, We bid a sad farewell!

Home of our love! our father's home!
Land of the brave and free!
The sail is flapping on the foam
That bears us far from thee!

We seek a wild and distant shore,
Beyond the western main-
We leave thee to return no more,
Nor view thy cliffs again!

Our native land—our native vale-
A long and last adieu!
Farewell to bonny Teviotdale,

And Scotland's mountains blue !
THOMAS PRingle.

LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY.

THEOLOGY IN THE QUARTERS.

OW, I's got a notion in my head dat when you come to die,

An' stan' de 'zamination in de Cote-house in de sky,

You'll be 'stonished at de questions dat de angel's gwine to ax

When he gits you on de witness-stan' an' pin you to de fac's;

'Cause he'll ax you mighty closely 'bout your doin's in de night,

An' de water-milion question's gwine to bodder you a sight!

Den your eyes'll open wider dan dey ebber done befo' When he chats you 'bout a chicken-scrape dat hap

Robed in the dreamy light of distant years,
Are clustered joys serene of other days.
Upon its gently sloping hillsides bend

The weeping willows o'er the sacred dust
Of dear departed ones; yet in that land,
Where'er our footsteps fall upon the shore,
They that were sleeping rise from out the dust
Of death's long, silent years, and round us stand
As erst they did before the prison tomb
Received their clay within its voiceless halls.
The heavens that bend above that land are hung
With clouds of various hues. Some dark and chill,
Surcharged with sorrow, cast their sombre shade
Upon the sunny, joyous land below.

Others are floating through the dreamy air,
White as the falling snow, their margins tinged
With gold and crimson hues; their shadows fall
Upon the flowery meads and sunny slopes,
Soft as the shadow of an angel's wing.
When the rough battle of the day is done,
And evening's peace falls gently on the heart,
I bound away, across the noisy years,
Unto the utmost verge of memory's land,
Where earth and sky in dreamy distance meet,
And memory dim with dark oblivion joins;
Where woke the first remembered sounds that fell
Upon the ear in childhood's early morn;
And, wandering thence along the rolling years,
I see the shadow of my former self
Gliding from childhood up to man's estate;
The path of youth winds down through many a vale,
And on the brink of many a dread abyss,
From out whose darkness comes no ray of light,
Save that a phantom dances o'er the gulf
And beckons toward the verge. Again the path
Leads o'er the summit where the sunbeams fall;
And thus in light and shade, sunshine and gloom,
Sorrow and joy this life-path leads along...
JAMES ABRAM GARFIELD.

THE WEIGHT OF A WORD.

AVE you ever thought of the weight of a word
That falls in the heart like the song of a bird,
That gladdens the springtime of memory and
youth,

And garlands with cedar the banner of truth,
That moistens the harvesting spot of the brain,
Like dewdrops that fall on a meadow of grain,
Or that shrivels the germ and destroys the fruit
And lies like a worm at the lifeless root?

I saw a farmer at break of day
Hoeing his corn in a careful way';
An enemy came with a drouth in his eye,
Discouraged the worker and hurried by.
The keen-edged blade of the faithful hoe
Dulled on the earth in the long corn row;
The weeds sprung up and their feathers tossed
Over the field, and the crop was-lost.

A sailor launched on an angry bay
When the heavens entombed the face of the day;
The wind arose, like a beast in pain,

And shook on the billows his yellow mane;
The storm beat down as if cursed the cloud,
And the waves held up a dripping shroud--
But, hark! o'er the waters that wildly raved
Came a word of cheer, and he was-saved.

A poet passed with a song of God
Hid in his heart, like a gem in a clod.

His lips were framed to pronounce the thought,
And the music of rhythm its magic wrought;
Feeble at first was the happy trill,

Low was the echo that answered the hill,
But a jealous friend spoke near his side,
And on his lips the sweet song-died.

A woman paused where a chandelier
Threw in the darkness its poisoned spear;
Weary and footsore from journeying long,

She had strayed unawares from the right to the wrong.
Angels were beck'ning her back from the den,
Hell and its demons were beck'ning her in;
The tone of an urchin, like one who forgives,
Drew her back, and in heaven that sweet word-lives.
Words! words! They are little, yet mighty and brave;
They rescue a nation, an empire save-
They close up the gaps in a fresh bleeding heart
That sickness and sorrow have severed apart.
They fall on the path, like a ray of the sun,
Where the shadows of death lay so heavy upon;
They lighten the earth over our blessed dead.
A word that will comfort, oh! leave not unsaid.

ORIENTAL MYSTICISM.

The following passage is translated from a German version of the Dschau har Odsat, a Persian poem of the thirteenth century, and is here offered as a specimen of the mystic writings of the East-a single sprig brought to town from a distant and unfrequented garden. These writings are characterized by wildness of fancy, a philosophy extremely abstruse, and especially by a deep spiritual life. They prove, as will be seen in the lines which follow, that the human mind has strong religious instincts; which, however, unless guided by a higher wisdom, are liable to great perversion-Extravagant as the conception of the passage here selected must appear to us, it has still its foundation in truth. That the ideas of infinite and divine things, which slumber in the mind, are often violently awakend by external objects, is what every one has experienced. Says a modern poet, in prospect of "clear, placid Leman," "It is a thing

Which warns me, by its stillness, to forsake
Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring."

And what is the story of Rudbari and Hassan, but an exhibition, a la mode orientale, of the same truth?

●N ancient days as the old stories run, Strange hap befell a father and his son. Rudbari was an old sea-faring man

And loved the rough paths of the ocean; And Hassan was his child-a boy as bright

As the keen moon, gleaming in the vault of night.

Rose-red his cheek, Narcissus-like his eye,

He spake, and plunged, and as quickly sunk beneath

Godly Rudbari was, and just and true,
And Hassan pure as a drop of early dew.-
Now, because Rudbari loved this only child,
He was feign to take him o'er the waters wild.

The ship is on the strand-friends, brothers, parents,

there

Take the last leave with mingled tears and prayer.
The sailor calls, the fair breeze chides delay,
The sails are spread, and all are under way.
But when the ship, like a strong-shot arrow, flew,
And the well-known shore was fading from the
view,

Hassan spake, as he gazed upon the land,
Such mystic words as none could understand:-
"On this troubled wave in vain we seek for rest.
Who builds his house on the sea, or his palace on its
breast?

Let me but reach yon fixed and steadfast shore,

And the bounding wave shall never tempt me more." Then Rudbari spake :-"And does my brave boy fear

The ocean's face to see, and his thundering voice to hear?

He will love, when home returned at last,
To tell, in his native cot, of dangers past."

Then Hassan said: "Think not thy brave boy fears When he sees the ocean's face, or his voice of thunder hears;

But on these waters I may not abide ;
Hold me not back; I will not be denied.”
Rudbari now wept o'er his wildered child :

"What mean these looks, and words so strangely wild?

Dearer, my boy, to me than all the gain

That I've earned from the bounteous bosom of the main !

Nor heaven, nor earth, could yield one joy to me,
Could I not, Hassan, share that joy with thee."

But Hassan soon, in his wandering words, betrayed The cause of the mystic air that round him played : "Soon as I saw these deep, wide waters roll, A light from the INFINITE broke in upon my soul!" "Thy words, my child, but ill become thine age, And would better suit the mouth of some star-gazing sage."

"Thy words, my father, cannot turn away
Mine eye, now fixed on that supernal day."
"Dost thou not, Hassan, lay these dreams aside,
I'll plunge thee headlong in this whelming tide."
"Do this, Rudbari, only not in ire,

'Tis all I ask, and all I can desire.
For on the bosom of this rolling flood,
Slumbers an awful mystery of good ;

And he may solve it, who will self expunge,
And in the depths of boundless being plunge."

A moment Rudbari stood, as fixedly bound
As the pearl is by the shell that clasps it round.
Then he followed his Hassan with a frantic leap,
And they slumber both on the bottom of the deep!
LEONARD WOODS.

THE SEASONS OF LIFE.

SPRING.

HE soft green grass is growing,
O'er meadow and o'er dale;
The silvery founts are flowing
Upon the verdant vale;
The pale snowdrop is springing,
To greet the glowing sun;
The primrose sweet is flinging

Perfume the fields among;
The trees are in the blossom,

The birds are in their song,
As spring upon the bosom
Of nature's borne along.

So the dawn of human life doth green and verd
spring;

It doth little ween the strife that after years will bring: Like the snowdrop it is fair, and like the primrose

sweet;

But its innocence can't scare the blight from its re

treat.

SUMMER.

The full ripe corn is bending
In waves of golden light;
The new-mown hay is sending
Its sweets upon the night;
The breeze is softly sighing,

To cool the parched flowers;
The rain, to see them dying,
Weeps forth its gentle showers;
The merry fish are playing,
Adown yon crystal stream;
And night from day is straying,

As twilight gives its gleam.

And thus manhood, in its prime, is full and ripe and strong;

And it scarcely deems that time can do its beauty

wrong.

Like the merry fish we play adown the stream of life; And we wreck not of the day that gathers what is rife.

AUTUMN.

The flowers all are fading,

Their sweets are rifled now; And night sends forth her shading Along the mountain brow; The bee hath ceased its winging, To flowers at early morn;

The birds have ceased their singing,

Sheafed is the golden corn;
The harvest now is gathered,

Protected from the clime;

The leaves are seared and withered,
That late shone in their prime.

Thus when fourscore years are gone o'er the frail life

of man,

Time sits heavy on his throne, as near his brow we scan;

Like the autumn leaf that falls, when winds the branches

wave,

Like night-shadows daylight palls, like all, he finds a

grave.

WINTER.

The snow is on the mountain,

The frost is on the vale,

The ice hangs o'er the fountain,
The storm rides on the gale;
The earth is bare and naked,

The air is cold—and drear,
The sky with snow-clouds flaked,
And dense foul fogs appear;
The sun shines not so brightly
Through the dark murky skies,
The nights grow longer-nightly,
And thus the winter dies.

hus falls man, his season past, the blight has ta'en his bloom;

Summer gone, the autumn blast consigns him to the tomb;

1nen the winter cold and drear, with pestilential breath,

Blows upon nis silent bier, and whispers―"This is r death."

B

THOMAS JOHN Ouseley.

THE VILLAGE SCHOOL-MASTER.

way.

ESIDE yon straggling fence that skirts the
With blossom furze unprofitably gay,
There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule,
The village master taught his little school:
A man severe he was, and stern to view :
I knew him well, and every truant knew;
Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace
The day's disasters in his morning face;
Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he;
Full well the busy whisper, circling round,
Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned.

Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught,
The love he bore to learning was in fault;
The village all declared how much he knew-
'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too;
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,
And e'en the story ran that he could gauge.

In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill,
For e'en though vanquished, he could argue still;
While words of learned length and thundering sound
Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around;
And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew,
That one small head could carry all he knew.
But past is all his fame. The very spot
Where many a time he triumphed is forgot.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

THE INQUIRY.

ELL me, ye winged winds, that round my path way roar,

Do ye not know some spot where mortals weep no more?

Some lone and pleasant dell, some valley in the West, Where, free from toil and pain, the weary soul may rest?

The loud wind dwindled to a whisper low, And sighed for pity as it answered-"No." Tell me, thou mighty deep, whose billows round me play,

Knowest thou some favored spot, some island far away,

Where weary man may find the bliss for which he sighs

Where sorrow never lives, and friendship never dies? The loud waves, rolling in perpetual flow, Stopped for awhile, and sighed to answer

"No."

And thou, serenest moon, that, with such lovely face, Dost look upon the earth, asleep in night's embrace; Tell me, in all thy round, hast thou not seen some spot Where miserable man might find a happier lot?

Behind a cloud the moon withdrew in woe, And a voice, sweet, but sad, responded—“No.” Tell me, my secret soul;-oh! tell me, hope and faith, Is there no resting place from sorrow, sin, and death?

Is there no happy spot, where mortals may be blessed, Where grief may find a balm, and weariness a rest?

Faith, hope and love, best boons to mortals given,

Waved their bright wings, and whispered— "Yes, in HEAVEN!"

CHARLES MACKAY. FROM CHILDHOOD TO OLD AGE.