"It drove her mad-yet not his death; For she had clung to hope when all "I am thy uncle, child-why stare So frightfully aghast ? The arras waves, but knowst thou not I too have had my fears like these, "I'll show thee what thy mother saw- "It has a secret spring; the touch A sudden crash-the lid fell down- That night they laid him on his bed, He gnash'd his teeth, and with wild oaths And ere the light of morning broke H. G. Bell. THE SEVEN AGES OF WOMAN. THE world's a stage, and men have seven ages— That woman plays her part as well as man. First, how the infant heart with triumph swells, Next, little miss, in pinafore so prim, A schoolgirl, then, she curls her hair in papers, About the death of her old tabby puss! She wears black stockings! Ha! ha! what a pother, Next, riper miss, who, nature more disclosing, Now finds some tracts of art are interposing; And with blue laughing eyes behind the fan, First acts her part with that great actor-man. Behold her now-an ogling, vain coquette, Catching male gudgeons in her silver net; All things reversed-the neck cropt close and bare, Then comes that sober character-the wife, At last the dowager, in ancient flounces, They say, we have no souls; but what more odd is, And my fourth died as happy as my first !" Truce to such splenetic and rash designs, As child or sister, parent, friend, or wife- What is your boast, male rulers of the land? Anon. WHAT IS THAT, MOTHER? WHAT is that, mother? The lark, my child. The morn has but just looked out, and smiled, Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise. What is that, mother? The dove, my son ; And that low, sweet voice, like a widow's moan, Ever, my son, be thou like the dove, In friendship as faithful, as constant in love. What is that, mother? The eagle, boy; Proudly careering his course of joy, Firm on his own mountain vigour relying, What is that, mother? The swan, my love : He is floating down from his native grove ; He is floating down by himself to die; Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings, Live so, my love, that when Death shall come, M Doane. THE NATURAL BRIDGE; OR, ONE NICHE THE HIGHEST. THE Scene opens with a view of the great Natural Bridge in Virginia. There are three or four lads standing in the channel below, looking up with awe to that vast arch of unhewn rocks, which the Almighty bridged over those everlasting butments, "when the morning stars sang together." The little piece of sky spanning those measureless piers is full of stars, although it is mid-day. It is almost five hundred feet from where they stand, up those perpendicular bulwarks of limestone, to the key of that vast arch, which appears to them only the size of a man's hand. The silence of death is rendered more impressive by the little stream that falls from rock to rock down the channel. The sun is darkened, and the boys have uncovered their heads, as if standing in the presence-chamber of the Majesty of the whole earth. At last this feeling begins to wear away; they look around them, and find that others have been there before them. They see the names of hundreds cut in the limestone butments. A new feeling comes over their young hearts, and their knives are in their hands in an instant. "What man hath done man can do," is their watchword, while they draw themselves up, and carve their names a foot above those of a hundred fullgrown men who have been there before them. They are all satisfied with this feat of physical exertion except one, whose example illustrates perfectly the forgotten truth, that there is "no royal road to learning." This ambitious youth sees a name just above his reach-a name which will be green in the memory of the world, when those of Alexander, Cæsar, and Bonaparte, shall rot in oblivion. It was the name of Washington. Before he marched with Braddock to that fatal field, he had been there and left his name, a foot above any of his predecessors. It was a glorious thought to write his name side by side with that great father of his country. He grasps his knife with a firmer hand, and, clinging to a little jutting crag, he cuts again into the limestone, about a foot above where he stands; he then reaches up and cuts another for his hands. 'Tis a dangerous adventure; but as he puts his feet and hands into those gains, and draws himself up carefully to his full length, he finds himself a foot above every name |