can thy life afford, that shall overweigh the ecstasies of death? Bears not every thing that inspires us the colours of the Night? Thee she cherishes with a mother's care; to her thou owest all thy majesty. Thou hadst melted in thyself, hadst been dissolved in endless space, had she not restrained and encircled thee, so that thou wert warm, and gavest life to the world. Verily, I was, before thou wert: the mother sent me with my sisters to inhabit thy world, to hallow it with love, so that it might be gazed on as a memorial for ever; to plant it with unfading flowers. As yet they have borne no fruit, these god-like thoughts; but few as yet are the traces of our revelation. The day shall come when thy timepiece pointeth to the end of time; when thou shalt be even as one of us; and, filled with longing and ardent love, be blotted out and die. Within my soul I feel the end of thy distracted power, heavenly freedom, hailed return. In wild sorrow I recognise thy distance from our home; thy hostility towards the ancient glorious heaven. In vain are thy tumult and thy rage. remains the cross; a victorious banner of our race.

I wander over,
And every tear
To gem our pleasure
Will then appear.
A few more hours,

And I find my rest

In maddening bliss,

On the loved one's breast.
Life, never ending,

Swells mighty in me;

I look from above down

Look back upon thee.

By yonder hillock

Expires thy beam;

Indestructible

And comes with a shadow,

The cooling gleam.
Oh, call me, thou loved one,
With strength from above;
That I may slumber,

And wake to love.
I welcome death's

Reviving flood;

To balm and to ether

It changes my blood.

I live through each day,

Filled with faith and desire;

And die when the Night comes

In heaven-born fire.

FROM HORACE.

FREE from the cares of state and pelf,

And only master of himself,

Blest is he who can daily say,

"Thank Heaven-I've lived another day."

THE MAGIC TREE.

In a garden, decked with lovely flowers, shaded by widely spreading trees, and watered by gently rippling streams, there grew one tree that far surpassed all its companions in beauty. Its roots were deep; its stem sturdy; and its luxuriant branches were covered with the most beautiful and delicate blossoms, that filled the whole garden with their rich and exquisite perfume. And not only in the spring-time and summer, when all the other trees were blooming, but even in the cold bleak winter, this tree blossomed in all its beauty; and it remained uninjured in the wildest storms, when the mighty wind bent down and broke all the trees around, and scattered their leaves and flowers away.

But there came a cold chilling breeze from the east, and its lovely blossoms withered and fell.

The name of this tree was LOVE; whose roots will remain unmoved, and stem unbroken, under the wildest storms of affliction; but whose flowers will all fade before the breath of unkindness.

PUCK.

SONG.

FILL the bowl; drown care with drinking:

Hence, away with moody thinking!
None but fools would, mad with folly,
While there's wine, be melancholy.
Fill, but know that grief and sorrow
May be thine, 'tis like, to-morrow.

Wreathe around the goblet's brim
Rosy chaplets, dewy dim.

Laugh and jest; and, while there's mirth,

Lose all thought of baser earth.

Laugh, but know thy flowers will die,

And thy laughter breed a sigh.

Sing, in music's liveliest strain,
Pleasure's songs,-then drink again:
Dance around a joyous measure;
Bask awhile in short-lived pleasure:
Dance and song will yield to-morrow
Hours of deep unceasing sorrow.

C. H. H.

FAITH AND FALSEHOOD.

How the moments flew by as I gazed on thy face,

And noted each lineament there,

And thought the bright myriads of heaven could place

None beside me more lovely or fair;

Those, those were the hours whose remembrance can stil Shed a glow o'er the desolate soul,

Which not even age nor desertion's sad chill

Can wholly or always control.

As enraptured I looked in thine answering eyes,
Not then so averted from mine,

I envied not angels their beautiful skies,

For methought they were far less divine; And thy voice's sweet music-it fell on my ear

As the tones of a rapturous dream,

Which entice the fond soul from its mansion to hear
What scarcely of earth it can deem.

But why should I strive to recall to my mind
The thoughts and the joys of the past?
Time soon leaves our happiness distanced behind,
And hope, too, will leave us at last.

Till taught to believe it by lasting despair

I never could think thee untrue;

But thy heart was as false as thy features were fair,
Which too late for my comfort I knew.

My youth's fairy vision has vanished away;—
Joy ever too soon would depart;

Now only the faint beams of memory play
Round my ruined and desolate heart:
From delusion awakened I fain would return
To that scene of delusion again,

Were it only to flee from suspicions that burn,

And the thoughts that would madden my brain

As the wretch whom the world and its troubles have torn

With misery's cankerous tooth,

In his sleep from the present is happily borne

To the scenes of his home and his youth;

When he wakes from his slumber to find it a dream,

He turns in his feverish bed,

And could weep to recall that too transient gleam

Of the moments of joy that have fled.

I. S. H.

LIFE.

“Bruder—ich habe die Menschen gesehen ihre Bienensorgen, und ihre Riesenprojekte ihre Götterplane und ihre Mäusegeschafte, das wunderseltsame Wettrennen nach Glückseligkeit;-Dieser dem Schwung seines Rosses anvertraut ein Anderer der Nase seines Esels ein Dritter seinen eigenen Beinen ; dieses bunte Lotto des Lebens worein so Mancher seine Unschuld, und-seinen Himmel setzt, einen Treffer zu haschen, und-Nullen sind der Auszug-am Ende war kein Treffer darin."-SCHILLER.

“This yellow slave

Will knit and break religions; bless the accursed;
Make the hoar leprosy adored; place thieves,

And give them title, knee, and approbation,

With senators on the bench."-TIMON OF ATHENS.

LIFE! What a word is that! What thoughts does it not suggest of childish innocence, soon to be corrupted; youthful hopes, soon to wither; manhood's gigantic plans, destined to fail; old age, with its waning powers and feeble limbs; and then death,—death which is so mixed up with all our life; which erects all the landmarks which point us on our way; which forms the steppingstones by which we rise to fame, or wealth, or titled name; and then, when it has given us the possessions of our ancestors, and made us the envied of others, lays its cold bony hand upon our heads, and gives our wealth to our successors. It is strange to mark the different characters men play in the pageant of life; from the beggar, who knows not whence he shall get bread to save himself from starvation, to the monarch, whose regal appetite palls with excess of luxury. Varied are their parts in the play, and different are their aims; and, while toiling and calculating on the success of their schemes and prospects, they consider not on what a frail thread hang all their hopes. The storm-wind has but to arise, and the ships laden with precious merchandize are sunken, and their owner, who was yesterday rolling in wealth, is to-day a beggar. The fire rages in its fury, and our homes are in ashes, our cities are a desolation. The rich man lies down on his luxurious couch, and draws the curtains of rich purple around his

head, and he glories in his gold and his silver, and in the splendour of his palace; but in the stillness of the night there is a cry of trouble and sorrow-his palace is in flames, his silver and his gold are melted and lost, and ere morning he also is a beggar.

And thus men, mighty as they deem themselves in their power of intellect, or strength of frame, are but the playthings of a higher destiny, ever to be made or marred at the sport of the elements. But these the consuming fire, or the destroying whirlwind, or the lightning's fearful stroke of death-these are merciful compared with that power which men have set up over themselves. From the dark gloomy depths of the earth, regions to which the pure holy light of heaven never guided him, man hath fetched forth Gold, and hath formed it into his god. And a fearful tyrant hath it proved. It hath bound men for its slaves with galling though gilded fetters; and they toil day and night, waste their youthful strength in its service, and bow down their manhood's pride before its shrine; and their reward may often be an old age of beggary and want. But a more fearful service doth it demand of its slaves than toil and labour. It giveth the word, and the heralds of war fly abroad, and the sword and fire and desolation walk through the land. At its command, children are torn from their parents, wives from their husbands, and the hearth of the aged man is left without consolation, when all that are dear to him are borne away into slavery. Oh! the elements in their wildest fury are merciful beside this tyrant; for they stir not up our hearts against one another, they poison not our affections, they enter not into the hidden life of a man's own breast.

How beautiful is the first dawn of life, when all is bright and innocent, before the fair smooth brow hath learnt aught of guile; when the heart knows not deceit; when the fresh air, and the glad sunlight, and the green fields are all that are wanting to minister delight and happiness! But this time of loveliness is not spared by the tyrant; and the fair round limbs, that should sport in healthful exercise, are chained down to drudgery and hard labour, and the brow wears wrinkles of another age, and the youthful form becomes a withered and unsightly object, like a flower blighted in its first budding.

But more certain is the tyrant's grasp as life goes on,-when it becomes a struggle often for the necessaries of life; and deep and deadly is the poison it then pours into our hearts. Gold! gold is the key that opens the door to all that men desire;

and, in pursuit