Behold through each lack-lustre, eyeless hole
The gay recess of Wisdom and of Wit,

And Passion's host, that never brooked control:

Can all saint, sage, or sophist ever writ,
People this lonely tower, this tenement refit?

Yet if, as holiest men have deemed, there be
A land of souls beyond that sable shore,
To shame the doctrine of the Sadducee,
And sophists, madly vain of dubious lore;
How sweet it were in concert to adore

With those who made our mortal labors light! To hear each voice we feared to hear no more! Behold each mighty shade revealed to sight, The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all who taught the right!

MIGNON'S SONG.

FROM "WILHELM MEISTER."

LORD BYRON.

KNOW'ST thou the land where bloom the citron

bowers,

Where the gold-orange lights the dusky grove? High waves the laurel there, the myrtle flowers, And through a still blue heaven the sweet winds

rove.

Know'st thou it well?

There, there with thee O friend, O loved one! fain my steps would flee.

Know'st thou the dwelling? - there the pillars rise,

Soft shines the hall, the painted chambers glow;
And forms of marble seem with pitying eyes
To say, "Poor child! what thus hath wrought
thee woe?"

Know'st thou it well?

There, there with thee, O my protector! homewards might I flee!

Know'st thou the mountain?-high its bridge is hung,

Where the mule seeks through mist and cloud

his way;

There lurk the dragon-race, deep caves among, O'er beetling rocks there foams the torrent spray. Know'st thou it well?

With thee, with thee,

There lies my path, O father! let us flee!

From the German of GOEthe,

by FELICIA HEMANS.

INDIAN NAMES.

YE say they all have passed away,

That noble race and brave;

That their light canoes have vanished From off the crested wave;

That mid the forests where they roamed
There rings no hunter's shout;
But their name is on your waters,
Ye may not wash it out.

"T is where Ontario's billow
Like ocean's surge is curled,
Where strong Niagara's thunders wake
The echo of the world.
Where red Missouri bringeth

Rich tribute from the West,
And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps
On green Virginia's breast.

Ye say their cone-like cabins,

That clustered o'er the vale,
Have fled away like withered leaves
Before the autumn gale;

But their memory liveth on your hills,
Their baptism on your shore,
Your everlasting rivers speak
Their dialect of yore.

Old Massachusetts wears it
Upon her lordly crown,

And broad Ohio bears it

Amid his young renown; Connecticut hath wreathed it Where her quiet foliage waves; And bold Kentucky breathed it hoarse Through all her ancient caves.

Wachusett hides its lingering voice
Within his rocky heart,
And Alleghany graves its tone
Throughout his lofty chart;
Monadnock on his forehead hoar
Doth seal the sacred trust;
Your mountains build their monument,
Though ye destroy their dust.

Ye call these red-browed brethren
The insects of an hour,

Crushed like the noteless worm amid
The regions of their power;

Ye drive them from their fathers' lands,
Ye break of faith the seal,
But can ye from the court of Heaven
Exclude their last appeal?

Ye see their unresisting tribes,
With toilsome step and slow,
On through the trackless desert pass,
A caravan of woe;

Think ye the Eternal Ear is deaf?

His sleepless vision dim?

Think ye the soul's blood may not cry From that far land to him?

LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY.

THE POET OF TO-DAY.

MORE than the soul of ancient song is given To thee, O poet of to-day! thy dower Comes, from a higher than Olympian heaven, In holier beauty and in larger power.

To thee Humanity, her woes revealing,

Would all her griefs and ancient wrongs rehearse;

Would make thy song the voice of her appealing, And sob her mighty sorrows through thy verse.

While in her season of great darkness sharing, Hail thou the coming of each promise-star Which climbs the midnight of her long despairing,

And watch for morning o'er the hills afar.

Wherever Truth her holy warfare wages,

Or Freedom pines, there let thy voice be heard; Soun 1 like a prophet-warning down the ages The human utterance of God's living word.

But bring not thou the battle's stormy chorus, The tramp of armies, and the roar of fight, Not war's hot smoke to taint the sweet morn o'er us,

Nor blaze of pillage, reddening up the night.

O, let thy lays prolong that angel-singing,
Girdling with music the Redeemer's star,
And breathe God's peace, to earth 'glad tidings'
bringing

From the near heavens, of old so dim and far!
SARAH J. LIPPINCOTT (GRACE GREENWOOD).

ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE.

YE distant spires, ye antique towers,
That crown the watery glade,
Where grateful Science still adores

Her Henry's holy shade;

And ye, that from the stately brow

Of Windsor's heights the expanse below

Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey;

Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among Wanders the hoary Thames along

His silver-winding way!

Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade!

Ah, fields beloved in vain!

Where once my careless childhood strayed,

A stranger yet to pain :

I feel the gales that from ye blow

A momentary bliss bestow,

As, waving fresh their gladsome wing,
My weary soul they seem to soothe,
And, redolent of joy and youth,
To breathe a second spring.

Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen
Full many a sprightly race,
Disporting on thy margent green,

The paths of pleasure trace,
Who foremost now delight to cleave
With pliant arm thy glassy wave?
The captive linnet which inthrall?
What idle progeny succeed

To chase the rolling circle's speed,
Or urge the flying ball?

While some, on earnest business bent,
Their murmuring labors ply
'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint
To sweeten liberty,

Some bold adventurers disdain

The limits of their little reign,
And unknown regions dare descry:
Still as they run, they look behind;
They hear a voice in every wind,
And snatch a fearful joy.

Gay hope is theirs, by fancy fed,

Less pleasing when possessed; The tear forgot as soon as shed,

The sunshine of the breast. Theirs buxom health of rosy hue, Wild wit, invention ever new, And lively cheer of vigor born;

The thoughtless day, the easy night,
The spirits pure, the slumbers light,
That fly the approach of morn.

Alas! regardless of their doom,
The little victims play ;
No sense have they of ills to come,
Nor care beyond to-day;

Yet see how all around them wait

The ministers of human fate,

And black Misfortune's baleful train.

Ah! show them where in ambush stand, To seize their prey, the murderous band; Ah, tell them they are men!

These shall the fury passions tear,
The vultures of the mind,
Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear,

And Shame, that skulks behind;
Or pining Love shall waste their youth,
Or Jealousy with rankling tooth,
That inly gnaws the secret heart;
And Envy wan, and faded Care,
Grim-visaged, comfortless Despair,
And Sorrow's piercing dart.

O THAT those lips had language! Life has passed
With me but roughly since I heard thee last,
Those lips are thine, -thy own sweet smile I see,
The same that oft in childhood solaced me;
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,
"Grieve not, my child; chase all thy fears
away!"

The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Blest be the art that can immortalize,
The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim
To quench it!) here shines on me still the same.
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear!

O welcome guest, though unexpected here!
Who bid'st me honor with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long.

My mother when I learned that thou wast dead,

Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?
Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?
Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss;
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss-
Ah, that maternal smile! it answers - Yes.
I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day;

I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away;

And, turning from my nursery window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu !

But was it such? It was. - Where thou art

gone

Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown;
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting word shall pass my lips no more.
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return;
What ardently I wished I long believed,
And, disappointed still, was still deceived,
By expectation every day beguiled,
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent,

I learned at last submission to my lot;
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.
Where once we dwelt our name is heard no

more,

Children not thine have trod my nursery floor;
And where the gardener Robin, day by day,
Drew me to school along the public way,-
Delighted with my bawble coach, and wrapped
In scarlet mantle warm and velvet cap,
'Tis now become a history little known
That once we called the pastoral house our own.
Short-lived possession! but the record fair
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there
Still outlives many a storm that has effaced
A thousand other themes, less deeply traced:
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,
That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid;
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,
The biscuit, or confectionery plum ;
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and
glowed,

All this, and, more endearing still than all,
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks
That humor interposed too often makes;
All this, still legible in memory's page,
And still to be so to my latest age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honors to thee as my numbers may,
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,

Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here.

I would not trust my heart, - the dear delight
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might.
But no,
- what here we call our life is such,
So little to be loved, and thou so much,
That I should ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.

Thou- as a gallant bark, from Albion's coast,
(The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed,)
Shoots into port at some well-havened isle,
Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile;
There sits quiescent on the floods, that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
While airs impregnated with incense play
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay,
So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached the
shore

"Where tempests never beat nor billows roar
And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide
Of life long since has anchored by thy side.
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,
Always from port withheld, always distressed, -
Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed,
Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass

lost;

REVENGE OF INJURIES.

THE fairest action of our human life
Is scorning to revenge an injury:
For who forgives without a further strife
His adversary's heart to him doth tie:
And 't is a firmer conquest truly said
To win the heart than overthrow the head.
If we a worthy enemy do find,

But if of baser metal be his mind,
To yield to worth, it must be nobly done;

In base revenge there is no honor won. Who would a worthy courage overthrow? And who would wrestle with a worthless foe?

Has suffered it, that he may rise

And take a firmer, surer stand;
Or, trusting less to earthly things,
May henceforth learn to use his wings.

And judge none lost; but wait and see,
With hopeful pity, not disdain ;
The depth of the abyss may be

The measure of the height of pain
And love and glory that may raise
This soul to God in after days!

ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.

FLOWERS WITHOUT FRUIT.

PRUNE thou thy words; the thoughts control
That o'er thee swell and throng;

They will condense within thy soul,
And change to purpose strong.

But he who lets his feelings run
In soft luxurious flow,

Shrinks when hard service must be done,

And faints at every woe.

Faith's meanest deed more favor bears,
Where hearts and wills are weighed,
Than brightest transports, choicest prayers,
Which bloom their hour, and fade.
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN.

THE DOORSTEP.

THE Conference-meeting through at last,
We boys around the vestry waited,
To see the girls come tripping past,
Like snowbirds willing to be mated.

Not braver he that leaps the wall
By level musket-flashes litten,
Than I, who stepped before them all,

Who longed to see me get the mitten.

But no; she blushed, and took my arm! We let the old folks have the highway, And started toward the Maple Farm Along a kind of lover's by-way.

I can't remember what we said,

"T was nothing worth a song or story; Yet that rude path by which we sped Seemed all transformed and in a glory.

The snow was crisp beneath our feet,

The moon was full, the fields were gleaming; By hood and tippet sheltered sweet,

Her face with youth and health was beaming.