A PSALM OF LIFE.

'ELL me not, in mournful numbers,
"Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,

And things are not what they seem."

Life is real life is earnest !

And the grave is not its goal; "Dust thou art, to dust returnest," Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow,
Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating

Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of life,

Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead past bury its dead!
Act-act in the living present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead.
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time:
Footprints, that perhaps another,

Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;

Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

THOSE EVENING BELLS.

HOSE evening bells! those evening bells!
How many a tale their music tells
Of youth, and home, and that sweet time
When last I heard their soothing chime!
Those joyous hours are passed away;
And many a heart that then was gay,
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those evening bells.

And so 'twill be when I am gone-
That tunefeul peal will still ring on;
While other bards shall walk these dells,
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells.
THOMAS MOORE.

THE MAGICAL ISLE.

'HERE 'S a magical isle in the River of Time, Where softest of echoes are straying; And the air is as soft as a musical chime, Or the exquisite breath of a tropical clime When June with its roses is swaying.

'Tis where memory dwells with her pure golden hue, And music forever is flowing:

While the low-murmured tones that come trembling through

Sadly trouble the heart, yet sweeten it too,

As the south wind o'er water when blowing.

There are shadowy halls in that fairy-like isle,
Where pictures of beauty are gleaming;

Yet the light of their eyes, and their sweet, sunny

smile,

Only flash round the heart with a wildering wile, And leave us to know 'tis but dreaming.

And the name of this isle is the Beautiful Past,
And we bury our treasures all there :

There are beings of beauty too lovely to last;
There are blossoms of snow, with the dust o'er them

cast;

There are tresses and ringlets of hair.

There are fragments of song only memory sings,
And the words of a dear mother's prayer;
There's a harp long unsought, and a lute without
strings-

Hallowed tokens that love used to wear.

E'en the dead-the bright, beautiful dead-there arise, With their soft, flowing ringlets of gold:

Though their voices are hushed, and o'er their sweet eyes,

The unbroken signet of silence now lies,
They are with us again, as of old.

In the stillness of night, hands are beckoning there,
And, with joy that is almost a pain,

We delight to turn back, and in wandering there,
Through the shadowy halls of the island so fair,
We behold our lost treasures again.

Oh! this beautiful isle, with its phantom-like show,
Is a vista exceedingly bright:

And the River of Time, in its turbulent flow,
Is oft soothed by the voices we heard long ago,
When the years were a dream of delight.

TRUE NOBILITY.

'OWE'ER it be, it seems to me,

'Tis only noble to be good;
Kind hearts are more than coronets,
And simple faith than Norman blood.
ALFRED TENNYSON.

A THING OF BEAUTY IS A JOY FOREVER.

a

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 carth,

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.

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

pened long ago!

De angels on de picket-line erlong de Milky Way Keeps a-watchin' what you're dribin' at, an' hearin'

what you say;

No matter what you want to do, no matter whar you's gwine,

Dey's mighty ap' to find it out an' pass it 'long de

line;

An' of en at de meetin', when you make a fuss an' laugh,

Why, dey send de news a-kitin' by de golden telegraph;

Den, de angel in de orfis, what's a settin' by de gate, Jes' reads de message wid a look an' claps it on de slate!

Den you better do your juty well an' keep your conscience clear,

An' keep a-lookin straight ahead an' watchin' whar' you steer;

'Cause arter while de time'll come to journey fum de lan',

An' dey'll take you way up in de a'r an' put you on de stan';

Den you'll hab to listen to de clerk an' answer mighty straight,

Ef you ebber 'spec' to trabble froo de alaplaster gate! J. A. MACON.

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 cust
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;