'WE ARE WISER THAN WE KNOW.'

The Author is indebted for this phrase, and to the train of thought which suggested the following Poem, to one of the noble Essays of Ralph Waldo Emerson.

THOU, who in the midnight silence
Lookest to the orbs on high,

Feeling humbled, yet elated,

In the presence of the sky;

Thou, who minglest with thy sadness

Pride ecstatic, awe divine,

That ev'n thou canst trace their progress

And the law by which they shine

Intuition shall uphold thee,

Even though reason drag thee low;
Lean on faith, look up rejoicing,
We are wiser than we know.

Thou, who hearest plaintive music,
Or sweet songs of other days;
Heaven-revealing organs pealing,
Or clear voices hymning praise,

And wouldst weep, thou know'st not wherefore,

Though thy soul is steep'd in joy;

And the world looks kindly on thee,
And thy bliss hath no alloy -

Weep, nor seek for consolation,
Let the heaven-sent droplets flow,
They are hints of mighty secrets,
We are wiser than we know.

Thou, who in the noon-time brightness

Seest a shadow undefined;

Hear'st a voice that indistinctly

Whispers caution to thy mind:

Thou, who hast a vague foreboding

That a peril may be near,

Even when Nature smiles around thee,

And thy Conscience holds thee clear

Trust the warning — look before thee

Angels may the mirror show,

Dimly still, but sent to guide thee,
We are wiser than we know.

Countless chords of heavenly music,
Struck ere earthly time began,
Vibrate in immortal concord
To the answering soul of man :
Countless rays of heavenly glory
Shine through spirit pent in clay,
On the wise men at their labors,
On the children at their play.
Man has gazed on heavenly secrets,
Sunned himself in heavenly glow,
Seen the glory, heard the music,
We are wiser than we know.

THE PHANTOMS OF ST. SEPULCHRE.*

'DIDST ever see a hanging?' 'No, not one; Nor ever wish to see such, scandal done.

But once I saw a wretch condemned to die :

A lean-faced, bright-eyed youth; who made me sigh At the recital of a dream he had.

He was not sane

and yet he was not mad;

Fit subject for a mesmerist he seemed;

For when he slept, he saw; and when he dreamed,

His visions were as palpable to him

As facts to us. My memory is dim
Upon his story, but I'll ne'er forget

The dream he told me, for it haunts me yet,
Impressed upon me by his earnest faith

That 'twas no vision, but a sight which Death
Opened his eyes to see, an actual glimpse
Into the world of spectres and of imps,

Vouchsafed to him on threshold of the grave-
List! and I'll give it, in the words he gave:

* It may be necessary to inform the reader, unacquainted with London, that the church of St. Sepulchre is close to the jail of Newgate; and that its bell is tolled when a criminal is executed. Few will need to be reminded that the three stories related are not fabulous.

'Ay, you may think that I am crazed,
But what I saw, that did I see.

These walls are thick, my brain was sick,
And yet mine eyes saw lucidly.

Through the joists and through the stones
I could look as through a glass;
And from this dungeon, damp and cold,
I watched the motley people pass.
All day long, rapid and strong,
Rolled to and fro the living stream;
But in the night, I saw a sight-
I cannot think it was a dream.

'Old St. Sepulchre's bell will toll
At eight to-morrow, for my soul;
And thousands, not much better than I,
Will throng around to see me die;
And many will bless their happy fate,
That they ne'er fell from their high estate,
Or did such deed as I have done;

Though, from the rise to the set of sun,
They cheat their neighbors all their days,

And gather gold in slimy ways.

But my soul feels strong, and my sight grows clear,

As my death-hour approaches near,

And in its presence I will tell

The very truth, as it befell.

"The snow lies on the house-tops cold,
Shrill, and keen the March winds blow;
The rank grass of the churchyard mould
Is covered o'er with drifted snow;

THE PHANTOMS OF ST. SEPULCHRE.

The graves in old St. Sepulchre's yard

Were white last night, when I looked forth,

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And the sharp clear stars seemed to dance in the sky,

Rocked by the fierce winds of the north.

'The houses dull seemed numb with frost,
The streets seemed wider than of yore,
And the straggling passengers trod, like ghosts,
Silently on the pathway frore,

When I look'd through that churchyard rail,
And thought of the bell that should ring my doom,
And saw three women, sad and pale,

Sitting together on a tomb.

'A fearful sight it was to see,
As up they rose and looked at me :
Sunken were their cheeks and eyes,
Blue-cold were their feet, and bare;
Lean and yellow were their hands,
Long and scanty was their hair;
And round their necks I saw the ropes
Deftly knotted, tightly drawn;

And knew they were not things of earth,
Or creatures that could face the dawn.

'Seen dimly in th' uncertain light,
They multiplied upon my sight;

And things like men and women sprung-
Shapes of those who had been hung-
From the rank and clammy ground.