CHANGE SWEEPETH OVER ALL.

The Planter, under his roof of thatch,
Smoked thoughtfully and slow;
The Slaver's thumb was on the latch,
He seemed in haste to go.

He said, "My ship at anchor rides
In yonder broad lagoon;

I only wait the evening tides,

And the rising of the moon."

Before them, with her face upraised,
In timid attitude,

Like one half-curious, half-amazed,
A Quadroon maiden stood.

Her eyes were large and full of light,
Her arms and neck were bare;
No garment she wore save a kirtle bright,
And her own long raven hair.

And on her lips there played a smile
As holy, meek, and faint,

As lights in some cathedral aisle
The features of a saint.

"The soil is barren,-the farm is old,"
The thoughtful Planter said;
Then looked upon the Slaver's gold,
And then upon the maid.

His heart within him was at strife
With such accursed gains,

For he knew whose passions gave her life,

Whose blood ran in her veins.

But the voice of nature was too weak:
He took the glittering gold:

Then pale as death grew the maiden's cheek,
Her hands as icy cold.

The Slaver led her from the door,

He led her by the hand,

To be his slave and paramour
In a strange and distant land.

LONGFELLOW.

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XLIII. CHANGE SWEEPETH OVER ALL.

"LET us be assured, that the hand of the Lord has planned everything with the utmost wisdom. Look around; all is connected, everything

T

is in its proper place, and nothing owes its situation to chance. There is not a thing in the world that is useless, even when it falls into dust. Nothing is lost from nature, nothing perishes in it; not even the smallest leaf, nor a grain of sand, nor one of those insects which the naked eye cannot discover; nor any of those seeds which the breeze carries away. The majestic firmament where the sun shines with so much splendour, the dust which sports in his beams, and which we respire without perceiving it; all has appeared at the command of the Creator; all is placed in the most proper situation; all exists never to end; all is good and perfect in the world which the Most High has created."-Sturm's Reflections.

CHANGE Sweepeth over all!

In showers leaves fall
From the tall forest tree;
On to the sea

Majestic rivers roll,

It is their goal.

Each speeds to perish in man's simple seeming,—
Each disappears;

One common end o'ertakes life's idle dreaming—
Dust, darkness, tears.

Day hurries to its close:
The sun that rose

A miracle of light,
Yieldeth to night;

The skirt of one vast pall
O'ershadows all.

Yon firmamental cresset-lights forth shining,

Heaven's highest born!

Droop on their thrones, and, like pale spirits pining,
Vanish with morn.

O'er cities of old days

Dumb creatures graze;

Palace and pyramid

In dust are hid;

Yea, the sky-searching tower

Stands but its hour.

Oceans their wide-stretched beds are ever shifting-

Sea turns to shore;

And stars and systems through dread space are drifting-
To shine no more.

Names perish that erst smote

Nations remote

With panic, fear, or wrong;

Heroic song

AN ODE TO HOPE.

Grapples with time in vain ;
On to the main

Of dim forgetfulness, for ever rolling,
Earth's bubbles burst;

Time o'er the wreck of ages sternly tolling
The last accurst.

The world is waxing old,
Heaven dull and cold;
Nought lacketh here a close
Save human woes.

Yet they too have an end-
Death is man's friend:

Doomed for a while, his heart must go on breaking

Day after day,

But light, love, life,-all, all at last forsaking,

Clay claspeth clay !

315

MOTHERWELL.

XLIV. AN ODE TO HOPE.

"ONE man is continually led by the complexion of his temper to forbode evil to himself and to the world; while another, after a thousand disappointments, looks forward to the future with exultation, and feels his confidence in Providence unshaken."-Stewart's Active and Moral Powers.

HOPE! lively cheerer of the mind,
In lieu of real bliss designed,
Come from thy ever-verdant bower
To chase the dull and lingering hour:
Oh! bring, attending on thy reign,
All thy ideal fairy train,

To animate the lifeless clay,
And bear my sorrows hence away.

Hence! gloomy-featured, black Despair,
With all thy frantic furies fly,
Nor rend my breast with gnawing care,
For Hope in lively garb is nigh.

Let pining Discontentment mourn;
Let dull-eyed Melancholy grieve;
Since pleasing Hope must reign by turn,
And every bitter thought relieve.
Oh, smiling Hope! in adverse hour
I feel thy influencing power:

Though frowning Fortune fix my lot
In some defenceless lonely cot,
Where Poverty, with empty hands,
In pallid, meagre aspect stands,
Thou canst enrobe me 'midst the great,
With all the crimson pomp of state,
Where Luxury invites his guests
To pall them with his lavish feasts.
What cave so dark, what gloom so drear,
So black with horror, dread with fear,
But thou canst dart thy streaming ray,
And change close night to open day?
Health is attendant in thy radiant train ;
Round her the whispering zephyrs gentle play;
Behold her gladly tripping o'er the plain,
Bedecked with rural sweets and garlands gay!

When vital spirits are deprest,

And heavy languor clogs the breast,

With more than Esculapian power

Endued, blest Hope! 'tis thine to cure :

For oft thy friendly aid avails,

When all the strength of physic fails.

Nay, even though Death should aim his dart,
I know he lifts his arm in vain,
Since thou this lesson canst impart-
Mankind but die to live again.

Deprived of thee must banners fall:
But where a living Hope is found,

The legions shout at danger's call,

And victors are triumphant crowned. Come, then, bright Hope! in smiles arrayed, Revive us by thy quickening breath;

Then shall we never be afraid

To walk through danger and through death.

FERGUSON.

XLV. THE SPARTAN BOY.

"OUR culture, therefore, must not omit the arming of the man. Let him hear in season, that he is born into the state of war, and that the commonwealth and his own well-being require that he should not go dancing in the weeds of peace; but warned, self-collected, and neither defying nor dreading the thunder, let him take both reputation and

THE SPARTAN BOY.

317

life in his hand, and with perfect urbanity dare the gibbet and the mob, by the absolute truth of his speech, and the rectitude of his behaviour. Towards all this external evil, the man within the breast assumes a warlike attitude, and affirms his ability to cope single-handed with the infinite army of enemies. To this military attitude of the soul we give the name of Heroism. Its rudest form is the contempt for safety and ease, which makes the attractiveness of war. It is a selftrust which slights the restraints of prudence in the plentitude of its energy and power to repair the harms it may suffer. The hero is a mind of such balance, that no disturbances can shake his will, but pleasantly, and, as it were, merrily, he advances to his own music, alike in frightful alarms and in the tipsy mirth of universal dissoluteness."-Emerson's Essays.

WHEN I the memory repeat

Of the heroic actions great,

Which, in contempt of pain and death,
Were done by men who drew their breath
In ages past, I find no deed

That can in fortitude exceed
The noble boy, in Sparta bred,
Who in the temple ministered.
By the sacrifice he stands,
The lighted incense in his hands;
Through the smoking censer's lid
Dropped a burning coal, which slid
Into his sleeve, and passed in
Between the folds e'en to the skin.
Dire was the pain which then he proved,
But not for this his sleeve he moved,
Or would the scorching ember shake
Out from the folds, lest it should make
Any confusion, or excite

Disturbance at the sacred rite;
But close he kept the burning coal,
Until it ate itself a hole

In his flesh. The standers-by
Saw no sign, and heard no cry.
All this he did in noble scorn,
And for he was a Spartan born.

Young student, who this story readest,

And with the same thy thoughts now feedest,
Thy weaker nerves might thee forbid

To do the thing the Spartan did:
Thy feebler heart could not sustain
Such dire extremity of pain.
But in this story thou mayst see
That may useful prove to thee.