Still as you rise, the state exalted too,
Finds no distemper while 'tis changed by you,
Changed like the world's great scene! when, without
noise,

The rising sun night's vulgar lights destroys

Had you, some ages past, this race of glory

Run, with amazement we should read your story,
But living virtue, all achievements past,
Meets envy still to grapple with at last.

This Cæsar found; and that ungrateful age,
With losing him, went back to blood and rage;
Mistaken Brutus thought to break their yoke,
But cut the bond of union with that stroke.

That sun once set, a thousand meaner stars
Gave a dim light to violence and wars;
To such a tempest as now threatens all,
Did not your mighty arm prevent the fall?

If Rome's great senate could not wield that sword,
Which of the conquered world had made them lord,
What hope had ours, while yet their power was new,
To rule victorious armies, but by you?

You, that had taught them to subdue their foes,
Could order teach, and their high spirits compose,
To every duty could their minds engage,
Provoke their courage, and command their rage.

So when a lion shakes his dreadful mane,
And angry grows, if he that first took pain
To tame his youth approach the haughty beast,
He bends to him, but frights away the rest.

As the vexed world, to find repose, at last
Itself into Augustus' arms did cast;
So England now does, with like toil opprest,
Her weary head upon your bosom rest.

Then let the muses, with such notes as these,
Instruct us what belongs unto our peace.
Your battles they hereafter shall indite,
And draw the image of our Mars in fight.

EDMUND WALLER

WOLSEY'S ADVICE TO CROMWELL.

ROMWELL, I did not think to shed a tear
In all my miseries, but thou hast forced me,
Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman.
Let's dry our eyes: and thus far hear me,
Cromwell;

And-when I am forgotten, as I shall be,
And sleep in dull, cold marble, where no mention
Of me more must be heard of, say, I taught thee,
Say, Wolsey-that once trod the ways of glory,
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor—
Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ;
A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it.
Mark but my fall, and that that ruined me.

Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition:
By that sin fell the angels; how can man, then,
The image of his Maker, hope to win by 't?
Love thyself last: cherish those hearts that hate thee:
Corruption wins not more than honesty.
Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,

To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not:
Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's,

Thy God's, and truth's; then if thou fall'st, O Cromwell!

Thou fall'st a blessed martyr.

Serve the king, and-pr'ythee, lead me in.
There take an inventory of all I have,

To the last penny; 't is the king's: my robe,
And my integrity to Heaven, is all

I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell!
Had I but served my God with half the zeal

I served my king, He would not in mine age
Have left me naked to mine enemies!

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

LORD MACAULAY.

Turk.

'HE dreamy rhymer's measured snore Falls heavy on our ears no more, And by long strides are left behind The dear delights of womankind, Who wage their battles like their loves, In satin waistcoats and kid gloves, And have achieved the crowning work When they have trussed and skewered Another comes with stouter tread, And stalks among the statlier dead. He rushes on and hails by turns High-crested Scott, broad breasted Burns; And shows the British youth, who ne'er Will lag behind, what Romans were, When all the Tuscans and their Lars Shouted, and shook the towers of Mars. WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

a

JOSEPH MAZZINI

LIGHT is out in Italy,

A golden tongue of purest flame. We watched it burning, long and lone, And every watcher knew its name, And knew from whence its fervor came, That one rare light of Italy, Which put self-seeking souls to shame'

This light which burnt for Italy

Through all the blackness of her night, She doubted, once upon a time,

Because it took away her sight. She looked and said, "There is no light!" It was thine eyes, poor Italy! That knew not dark apart from bright.

This flame which burnt for Italy,
It would not let her haters sleep.
They blew at it with angry breath,
And only fed its upward leap,
And only made it hot and deep.

Its burning showed us Italy,
And all the hopes she had to keep.

This light is out in Italy,

Her eyes shall seek for it in vain! For her sweet sake it spent itself, Too early flickering to its waneToo long blown over by her pain. Bow down and weep, O Italy, Thou canst not kindle it again!

LAURA C. REDDEN (Howard Glyndon).

MARIA THERESA'S APPEAL TO HUNGARY.

ARIA Theresa was twenty-four years old, when she succeeded her father on the thrones of Austria, Hungary, and Bohemia. Notwithstanding the guarantee given her father by the European powers, she soon found her. self opposed by nearly all of them, who sought to wrest her dominions from her and divide them among themselves. The battle of Molwitz made the situa

tion of Maria Theresa almost desperate, and a little later an alliance was formed against her by France, Prussia, Bavaria, Spain and Saxony. A French army entered Germany and united with the Bavarian forces, while the Saxon army advanced into Bohemia. The Bavarians marched into upper Austria and occupied Linz, where the elector was proclaimed Archduke of Austria. He might have taken Vienna had he moved promptly against the city, but becoming jealous of the successes of the Saxons in Bohemia, he undertook the conquest of that country. He entered Prague and was proclaimed King of Bohemia. In January, 1742, he was chosen emperor by the electors at Frankfort, and took the title of Charles VII.

In the meantime Maria Theresa had exerted herself to repair her disasters. She fled to her kingdom of Hungary for protection, and hastening to the assembled diet, with her infant son, afterwards Joseph II., in her arms, presented herself before the nobles and deputies, and appealed to them to maintain her cause. The chivalric Hungarians were deeply moved by her trust in them, and the hall rang with the cry: "Let us die for our King, Maria Theresa!" An army of 100,000 men was raised, and was joined by a strong force of Tyrolese. This force at once took the field. One division not only reconquered upper Austria, but| invaded Bavaria, and captured Munich on the very day that Charles VII. was crowned emperor. A little later an Austrian army, under Prince Charles of Lorraine, was defeated by Frederick at Czaslau. This disaster induced the Queen to rid herself of her most

dangerous enemy by surrendering upper Silesia and a part of lower Silesia to him. Frederick was satisfied for the time, and peace was made between Austria and Prussia.

DANIEL BOONE.

F all men, saving Sylla the man-slayer,
Who passes for in life and death most lucky,
Of the great names which in our faces stare,
The General Boone, backwoodsman of
Kentucky,

Was happiest amongst mortals anywhere;
For, killing nothing but a bear or buck, he
Enjoyed the lonely, vigorous, harmless days
Of his old age in wilds of deepest maze.
Crime came not near him, she is not the child
Of solitude; health shrank not from him, for
Her home is in the rarely trodden wild,

Where if men seek her not, and death be more
Their choice than life, forgive them, as beguiled
By habit to what their own hearts abhor,
In cities caged. The present case in point I
Cite is, that Boone lived hunting up to ninety;
And, what's still stranger, left behind a name
For which men vainly decimate the throng,

Not only famous, but of that good fame,
Without which glory's but a tavern song—
Simple, serene, the antipodes of shame,
Which hate nor envy could e'er tinge with wrong;
An active hermit, even in age the child
Of nature, or the Man of Ross run wild.
'Tis true he shrank from men, even of his nation;
When they built up unto his darling trees,
He moved some hundred miles off, for a station
Where there were fewer houses and more ease;
The inconvenience of civilization

Is that you neither can be pleased nor please;
But where he met the individual man,
He showed himself as kind as mortal can.

Old acquaintances of thee.

Much we hold it thee to greet,
Gladly sit we at thy feet;

On thy features we would look,
As upon a living book,

And thy voice would grateful hear,
Glad to feel that Boz were near,
That his veritable soul
Held us by direct control:
Therefore, author loved the best,
Welcome, welcome to the West.
In immortal Weller's name,
By the rare Micawber's fame,

By the flogging wreaked on Squeers,
By Job Trotter's fluent tears,
By the beadle Bumble's fate
At the hands of shrewish mate,
By the famous Pickwick Club,
By the dream of Gabriel Grubb,
In the name of Snodgrass' muse,
Tupman's amorous interviews,
Winkle's ludicrous mishaps,
And the fat boy's countless naps;
By Ben Allen and Bob Sawyer,
By Miss Sally Brass, the lawyer,
In the name of Newman Noggs,
River Thames, and London fogs,
Richard Swiveller's excess,
Feasting with the Marchioness,
By Jack Bunsby's oracles,
By the chime of Christmas bells,
By the cricket on the hearth,
By the sound of childish mirth,
By spread tables and good cheer,
Wayside inns and pots of beer,
Hostess plump and jolly host,
Coaches for the turnpike post,
Chambermaid in love with Boots,
Toodles, Traddles, Tapley, Toots,
Betsey Trotwood, Mister Dick,
Susan Nipper, Mistress Chick,
Snevellicci, Lilyvick,
Mantalini's predilections

To transfer his warm affections,
By poor Barnaby and Grip,
Flora, Dora, Di, and Gip,
Perrybingle, Pinch, and Pip-
Welcome, long-expected guest,
Welcome to the grateful West.
In the name of gentle Nell,
Child of light, beloved well-
Weeping, did we not behold
Roses on her bosom cold?
Better we for every tear
Shed beside her snowy bier-

By the mournful group that played

Round the grave where Smike was laid By the life of Tiny Tim,

And the lesson taught by him,

Asking in his plaintive tone
God to "bless us every one."
By the sounding waves that bore
Little Paul to heaven's shore,
By thy yearning for the human
Good in every man and woman.
By each noble deed and word
That thy story-books record,
And each noble sentiment
Dickens to the world hath lent,
By the effort thou hast made
Truth and true reform to aid,
By thy hope of man's relief
Finally from want and grief,
By thy never-failing trust
That the God of love is just-
We would meet and welcome thee,
Preacher of humanity :

Welcome fills the throbbing breast
Of the sympathetic West.

W. H. VENABLE.

TO VICTOR HUGO.

ICTOR in poesy! Victor in romance!
Cloud-weaver of phantasmal hopes and fears!
French of the French and lord of human

tears!

Child-lover, bard, whose fame-lit laurels glance,
Darkening the wreaths of all that would advance
Beyond our strait their claim to be thy peers!
Weird Titan, by thy wintry weight of years
As yet unbroken! Stormy voice of France,
Who does not love our England, so they say;
I know not! England, France, all men to be,
Will make one people, ere man's race be run;
And I, desiring that diviner day,

Yield thee full thanks for thy full courtesy
To younger England in the boy, my son.
ALFRED TENNYSON.

MARIA DE MEDICIS RECEIVING THE REGENCY.

ARIA de Medicis, queen of France, was the daughter of Francis II., grand duke of Tuscany, and of Joan, archduchess of Austria. She was born at Florence in 1573. In 1630 she was married to Henry IV. Her son who became Louis XIII, was born the following year; his deplorable weakness as he grew up was the principal cause of his mother's misfortunes. The amours of her hus band rendered her life a wretched one, and, being of a violent temper, the peace of the royal household

was frequently disturbed. Her anxieties as a wife, and the absolute temper of Henry, prevented her from taking any part in state affairs during his lifetime; and when towards 1610, he contemplated taking the field against the house of Austria, and proposed making her regent in his absence, she manifested the greatest repugnance to the subject, always saying that it foreboded some great misfortune. Finally it was arranged that she should be entrusted with the regency by her royal husband, and should be formally crowned, a ceremony /which Henry, on one pretext or another, had always deferred. This being done, Henry was stabbed by Ravaillac the day following, when preparing for the Queen's entry into Paris. Thus fell Henry of Navarre, a man of great qualities, and the most popular monarch France has ever known.

Noiselessly as the spring-time
Her crown of verdure weaves,
And all the trees on all the hills
Open their thousand leaves-
So, without sound of music,

Or voice of them that wept,

Silently down from the mountain crown
The great procession swept.

Perchance the bald old eagle,
On gray Beth-peor's height,
Out of his rocky eyrie,

Looked on the wondrous sight.
Perchance the lion, stalking,

Still shuns the hallowed spot;

For beast and bird have seen and heard That which man knoweth not.

Lo! when the warrior dieth,

His comrades in the war,

With arms reversed, and muffled drum, Follow the funeral car.

They show the banners taken,
They tell his battles won,

And after him lead his masterless steed,
While peals the minute gun.

Amid the noblest of the land

Men lay the sage to rest,
And give the bard an honored place,
With costly marble dressed,
In the great minster transept,
Where lights like glories fall,
And the choir sings, and the organ rings
Along the emblazoned wall.

This was the bravest warrior
That ever buckled sword;
This the most gifted poet

That ever breathed a word;
And never earth's philosopher
Traced, with his golden pen,

On the deathless page, truths half so sage As he wrote down for men.

And had he not high honor?

The hill-side for his pall;

To lie in state while angels wait,

With stars for tapers tall;

And the dark rock pines, like tossing plumes Over his bier to wave;

And God's own hand, in that lonely land,

To lay him in the grave—

In that deep grave, without a name,
Whence his uncoffined clay

Shall break again-Oh wondrous though a
Before the judgment day;

And stand, with glory wrapped around,
On the hills he never trod,

And speak of the strife that won our hite,
With the incarnate Son of God.

O lonely tomb in Moab's land!
O dark Beth-peor's hill!

Speak to these curious hearts of ours,
And teach them to be still.

God hath his mysteries of grace

Ways that we cannot tell;

He hides them deep, like the secret sleep Of him he loved so well.

CECIL FRANCES ALEXANDER,

TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS HOOD.

AKE back into thy bosom, earth,

This joyous, May-eyed morrow,
The gentlest child that ever mirth
Gave to be reared by sorrow!

'Tis hard-while rays half green, half gold,
Through vernal bowers are burning,
And streams their diamond mirrors hoid
To summer's face returning-

To say we're thankful that his sleep Shall nevermore be lighter,

In whose sweet-tongued companionship
Stream, bower, and beam grow brighter!

But all the more intensely true

His soul gave out each feature Of elemental love-each hue

And grace of golden natureThe deeper still beneath it all

Lurked the keen jags of anguish ;
The more the laurels clasped his brow
Their poison made it languish.
Seemed it that, like the nightingale

Of his own mournful singing,
The tenderer would his song prevail
While most the thorn was stinging.

So never to the desert-worn

Did fount bring freshness deeper
Than that his placid rest, this morn,
Has brought the shrouded sleeper.
That rest may lap his weary head

Where charnels choke the city,
Or where, mid woodlands, by his bed
The wren shall wake its ditty;
But near or far, while evening's star
Is dear to hearts regretting,
Around that spot admiring thought
Shall hover, unforgetting.

BARTHOLOMEW SIMMONS.

THE LAND OF THE WEST.

We spread hospitality's board for the stranger,
And care not a fig for the king on his throne.
We never know want, for we live by our labor,
And in it contentment and happiness find;
We do what we can for a friend or a neighbor,

And die, boys, in peace and good will to mankind. Then enter, boys; cheerly, boys, enter and rest; You know how we live, boys, and die in the West! Oho, boys!—oho, boys!—oho!

GEORGE P. MORRIS

MONODY ON SAMUEL PATCH.

Samuel Patch was a boatman on the Erie Canal, in New York. He made himself notorious by leaping from the masts of ships, from the Falls of Niagara, and from the Falls in the Genesee River, at Rochester. He did this, as he said, to show "that some things can be done as well as others;" and hence this, now, proverbial phrase. His last feat was when, in the presence of many thousands, he jumped from above the highest rock over which the water falls in the Genesee, and was lost.

WOLL for Sam Patch! Sam Patch, who jumps

no more,

story

Merry and brief will the narrative be: Here, like a monarch, I reign in my gloryMaster am 1, boys, of all that I see. Where once frowned a forest a garden is smilingThe meadow and moorland are marshes no more; And there curls the smoke of my cottage, beguiling The children who cluster like grapes at the door. Then enter, boys; cheerly, boys, enter and rest, The land of the heart is the land of the West. Oho, boys!-oho, boys!—oho!

Talk not of the town, boys-give me the broad prairie, Where man, like the wind, roams impulsive and free; Behold how its beautiful colors all vary,

Like those of the clouds, or the deep-rolling sea. A life in the woods, boys, is even as changing;

With proud independence we season our cheer, And those who the world are for happiness ranging Won't find it at all, if they don't find it here. Then enter, boys; cheerly, boys, enter and rest; I'll show you the life, boys, we live in the West. Oho, boys!-oho, boys !-oho!

Here, brothers, secure from all turmoil and danger,
We reap what we sow, for the soil is our own;

That leads to fame, up heights of rough ascent, And having heard Pope and Longinus say,

That some great men had risen to falls, he went
And jumped where wild Passaic's waves had rent
The antique rocks; -the air free passage gave-
And graciously the liquid element
Upbore him, like some sea-god on its wave;
And all the people said that Sam was very brave.

Fame, the clear spirit that doth to heaven upraise,
Led Sam to dive into what Byron calls
The hell of waters. For the sake of praise,
He wooed the bathos down great waterfalls;
The dizzy precipice, which the eye appalls
Of travelers for pleasure, Samuel found

Pleasant, as are to women lighted halls Crammed full of fools and fiddles; to the sound Of the eternal roar, he timed his desperate bound. Sam was a fool. But the large world of such

Has thousands-better taught, alike absurd, And less sublime. Of fame he soon got much; Where distant cataracts spout, of him men heard Alas for Sam! Had he aright preferred The kindly element to which he gave Himself so fearlessly, we had not heard