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I live for those who love me,

For those who know me true;
For the Heaven that smiles above me,
And awaits my spirit too;

For the cause that lacks assistance,
For the wrong that needs resistance,
For the future in the distance,

And the good that I can do.

G. LINNÆUS BANKS.

LOOK ALOFT.

This spirited piece was suggested by an anecdote related of a ship-boy who, growing dizzy, was about to fall from the rigging, but was saved by the mate's characteristic exclamation, "Look aloft, you lubber!"

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N the tempest of life, when the wave and the gale
Are around and above, if thy footing should fail,
If thine eye should grow dim, and thy caution
depart,

'Look aloft!" and be firm, and be fearless of heart.

If the friend who embraced in prosperity's glow,
With a smile for each joy and a tear for each woe,
Should betray thee when sorrows like clouds
arrayed,

"Look aloft" to the friendship which never shall

tain torrent. While all things else are compelled to subserve some useful purpose, it idles its sluggish life away in lazy liberty, without turning a solitary spindle, or affording even water-power enough to grind the corn that grows upon its banks.

The torpor of its movement allows it nowhere a bright, pebbly shore, nor so much as a narrow strip of glistening sand, in any part of its course. It slumbers between broad prairies, kissing the long meadow-grass, and bathes the overhanging boughs of elder-bushes and willows, or the roots of elm and ash trees, and clumps of maples. Flags and rushes grow along its plashy shore; the yellow water-lily spreads its broad, flat leaves on the margin; and the fragrant white pondlily abounds, generally selecting a position just so far from the river's bank that it cannot be grasped, save at the hazard of plunging in.

It is a marvel whence this perfect flower derives its loveliness and perfume, springing, as it does, from the black mud over which the river sleeps, and where lurk the slimy eel, and speckled frog, and the mud-turtle, whom continual washing cannot cleanse. It is the same black mud out of which the yellow lily sucks its rank life and noisome odur. Thus we see, too, in the are world, that some persons assimilate only what is ugly and evil from the same moral circumstances which supfade.ply good and beautiful results-the fragrance of celestial flowers-to the daily life of others.

Should the visions which hope spreads in light to thine eye,

Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighten to fly, Then turn, and through tears of repentent regret, "Look aloft" to the Sun that is never to set.

Should they who are dearest, the son of thy heart,
The wife of thy bossom, in sorrow depart,

The Old Manse!-we had almost forgotten it; but will return thither through the orchard. This was set out by the last clergyman, in the decline of his life, when the neighbors laughed at the hoary-headed man for planting trees from which he could have no prospect of gathering fruit. Even had that been the case, there was only so much the better motive for planting

"Look aloft," from the darkness and dust of the tomb, them, in the pure and unselfish hope of benefiting his To that soil where affection is ever in bloom.

And oh! when death comes in his terrors, to cast
His fears on the future, his pall on the past,
In that moment of darkness, with hope in thy heart
And a smile in thine eye, "look aloft,"—and depart.
JONATHAN LAwrence.

MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE

W

E stand now on the rivers's brink. It may well be called the Concord-the river of peace and quietness-for it is certainly the most unexcitable and sluggish stream that ever loitered imperceptibly towards its eternity, the sea. Positively, I had lived three weeks beside it, before it grew quite clear to my perception which way the current flowed. It never has a vivacious aspect, except when a north-western breeze is vexing its surface, on a sunshiny day.

From the incurable indolence of its nature, the stream is happily incapable of becoming the slave of human ingenuity, as is the fate of so many a wild, free, moun

successors an end so seldom achieved by more ambitious efforts. But the old minister, before reaching his patriarchal age of ninety, ate the apples from this orchard during many years, and added silver and gold to his annual stipend by disposing of the superfluity.

It is pleasant to think of him, walking among the trees in the quiet afternoons of early autumn, and picking up here and there a wind-fall; while he ob serves how heavily the branches are weighed down, and computes the number of empty flour-barrels that will be filled by their burden. He loved each tree, doubtless, as if it had been his own child. An orchard has a relation to mankind, and readily connects itself with matters of the heart. The tree possesses a domestic character; they have lost the wild nature of their forest kindred, and have grown humanized by receiving the care of man, as well as by contributing to his wants.

I have met with no other such pleasant trouble in the world, as that of finding myself, with only the two or three mouths which it was my privilege to feed, the sole inheritor of the old clergyman's wealth of fruits.

Throughout the summer, there were cherries and currants; and then came autumn, with his immense burden of apples, dropping them continually from his overladen shoulders as he trudged along. In the stillest afternoon, if I listened, the thump of a great apple was audible, falling without a breath of wind, from the mere necessity of perfect ripeness. And, besides, there were pear-trees, that flung down bushels upon bushels of heavy pears; and peach-trees, which, in a good year, tormented me with peaches, neither to be eaten nor kept, nor, without labor and perplexity, to be given

away.

The idea of an infinite generosity and inexhaustible bounty, on the part of our mother nature, was well

worth obtaining through such cares as these. That feeling can be enjoyed in perfection not only by the natives of summer islands, where the bread-fruit, the cocoa, the palm, and the orange grow spontaneously, and hold forth the ever-ready meal; but, likewise, almost as well, by a man long habituated to city life, who plunges into such a solitude as that of the Old Manse, where he plucks the fruit of trees that he did not plant; and which, therefore, to my heterodox taste, bear the closer resemblance to those that grew in Eden. Not that it can be disputed that the light toil requisite to cultivate a moderately sized garden imparts such zest to kitchen vegetables as is never found in those of the market-gardener. Childless men, if they would know something of the bliss of paternity, should plant a seed-be it squash, bean, Indian corn, or perhaps a mere flower, or worthless weed--should plant it with their own hands, and nurse it from infancy to maturity, altogether by their own care. If there be not too many of them, each individual plant becomes an object of separate interest.

My garden, that skirted the avenue of the Manse was of precisely the right extent. An hour or two of morning labor was all that it required. But I used to visit and revisit it a dozen times a day, and stand in deep contemplation over my vegetable progeny, with a love that nobody could share or conceive of, who had never taken part in the process of creation. It was one of the most bewitching sights in the world to observe a hill of beans thrusting aside the soil, or a row of early peas just peeping forth sufficiently to trace a line of delicate green. NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.

THE DEATH OF ABSALOM.

HE waters slept. Night's silvery veil hung low On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curled Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still, Unbroken beating of the sleeper's pulse. The reeds bent down the stream; the willow leaves, With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide, Forgot the lifting winds; and the long stems, Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse, Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way,

And leaned, in graceful attitudes, to rest.
How strikingly the course of nature tells,
By its light heed of human suffering,
That it was fashioned for a happier world!
King David's limbs were weary. He had fled
With his faint people, for a little rest
From far Jerusalem; and now he stood,
of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow
Upon the shores of Jordan. The light wind
To its refreshing breath; for he had worn
The mourner's covering, and he had not felt
That he could see his people until now.
And spoke their kindly words; and, as the sun
They gathered round him on the fresh green bank,

And bowed his head upon his hands to pray.
Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there,
Oh! when the heart is full-when bitter thoughts
Come crowding thickly up for utterance,
And the poor common words of courtesy
The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer!
Are such an empty mockery-how much

He prayed for Israel—and his voice went up
Strong and fervently. He prayed for those
Whose love had been his shield—and his deep tones
Grew tremulous. But, oh! for Absalom-
For his estranged, misguided Absalom-
The proud, bright being, who had burst away
The heart that cherished him-for him he poured,
In all his princely beauty, to defy
In agony that would not be controlled,
Before his God, for his deep sinfulness.
Strong supplication, and forgave him there,

The pall was settled. He who slept beneath
Was straightened for the grave; and, as the folds
Sank to the still proportions, they betrayed
The matchless symmetry of Absalom.
His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls
Were floating round the tassels as they swayed
To the admitted air, as glossy now
As when, in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing
The snowy fingers of Judæa's daughters.
His helm was at his feet; his banner, soiled
With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid,
Reversed, beside him; and the jeweled hilt,
Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade,
Rested, like mockery, on his covered brow.
The soldiers of the king trod to and fro,
Clad in the garb of battle; and their chief,
The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier,
And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly,
As if he feared the slumberer might stir.
A slow step startled him. He grasped his blade
As if a trumpet rang; but the bent form
Of David entered, and he gave command,
In a low tone, to his few followers,
And left him with his dead. The king stood still
Till the last echo died; then, throwing off
The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back

The pall from the still features of his child,
He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth
In the resistless eloquence of wce :—

"Alas! my noble boy! that thou shouldst die!
Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair!
That death should settle in thy glorious eye,

And leave his stillness in this clustering hair! How could he mark thee for the silent tomb! My proud boy, Absalom!

"Cold is thy brow, my son; and I am chill,

As to my bosom I have tried to press thee! How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill,

Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee, And hear thy sweet 'My father!' from these dumb And cold lips, Absalom!

"But death is on thee. I shall hear the gush Of music, and the voices of the young; And life will pass me in the mantling blush,

And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung; But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come To meet me, Absalom!

"And oh! when I am stricken, and my heart, Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, How will its love for thee, as I depart,

Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token! It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, To see thee, Absalom!

"And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up,
With death so like a gentle slumber on thee;—
And thy dark sin!--Oh! I could drink the cup,
If from this woe its bitterness had won thee.
May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home,
My lost boy, Absalom!"

He covered up his face, and bowed himself
A moment on his child; then, giving him
A look of melting tenderness, he clasped
His hands convulsively, as if in prayer;
And, as if strength were given him from God,
He rose up calmly, and composed the pall
Firmly and decently-and left him there-
As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.

NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS.

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I saw thee, and the passionate heart of man
Entered the breast of the wild-dreaming boy;
And from that hour I grew-what to the last
I shall be-thine adorer! Well, this love,
Vain, frantic-guilty, if thou wilt--became
A fountain of ambition and bright hope;

I thought of tales that by the winter hearth

Old gossips tell-how maidens sprung from kings Have stooped from their high sphere; how love, like

death,

Levels all ranks, and lays the shepherd's crook
Beside the scepter. Thus I made my home
In the soft palace of a fairy future!
My father died; and I, the peasant-born,
Was my own lord. Then did I seek to rise
Out of the prison of my mean estate;
And, with such jewels as the exploring mind
Brings from the caves of knowledge, buy my ransom
From those twin jailers of the daring heart—
Low birth and iron fortune. Thy bright image,
Glassed in my soul, took all the hues of glory,
And lured me on to those inspiring toils
By which man masters men! For thee, I grew
A midnight student o'er the dreams of sages!
For thee, I sought to borrow from each grace
And every muse such attributes as lend
Ideal charms to love. I thought of thee,
And passion taught me poesy-of thee,
And on the painter's canvas grew the life
Of beauty!--Art became the shadow
Of the dear starlight of thy haunting eyes!
Men called me vain-some, mad-I heeded not;
But still toiled on, hoped on-for it was sweet,
If not to win, to feel more worthy, thee!

At last, in one mad hour, I dared to pour
The thoughts that burst their channels into song.
And sent them to thee-such a tribute, lady,
As beauty rarely scorns, even from the meanest
The name-appended by the burning heart
That longed to show its idol what bright things
It had created-yea, the enthusiast's name,
That should have been thy triumph, was thy scorn!
That very hour-when passion, turned to wrath,
Resembled hatred most; when thy disdain
Made my whole soul a chaos-in that hour
The tempters found me a revengeful tool
For their revenge! Thou hadst trampled on the worm-
It turned, and stung thee!

W

LORD LYTTON. I

THE SHADED WATER.

HEN that my mood is sad, and in the noise
And bustle of the crowd I feel rebuke,
I turn my footsteps from its hollow joys
And sit me down beside this little brook,

The waters have a music to mine ear
It glads me much to hear.

It is a quiet glen, as you may see,

Shut in from all intrusion by the trees,
That spread their giant branches, broad and free,
The silent growth of many centuries;
And make a hallowed time for hapless moods,
A Sabbath of the woods.

Few know its quiet shelter-none, like me,
Do seek it out with such a fond desire.
Poring in idlesse mood on flower and tree,

And listening as the voiceless leaves respire-
When the far-traveling breeze, done wandering,
Rests here his weary wing.

And all the day, with fancies ever new,

And sweet companions from their boundless care Of merry elves bespangled all with dew,

Fantastic creatures of the old-time lore, Watching their wild but unobtrusive play, I fling the hours away.

A gracious couch-the root of an old oak

Whose branches yield it moss and canopy—
Is mine, and, so it be from woodman's stroke
Secure, shall never be resigned by me ;
It hangs above the stream that idly flies,
Heedless of any eyes.

There, with eye sometimes shut, but upward bent,
Sweetly I muse through many a quiet hour,
While every sense on earnest mission sent,

Returns, thought-laden back with bloom and flower;
Pursuing, though rebuked by those who moil,
A profitable toil.

And still the waters trickling at my feet

Wind on their way with gentlest melody, Yielding sweet music, which the leaves repeat, Above them, to the gay breeze gliding byYet not so rudely as to send one sound Through the thick copse around.

Sometimes a brighter cloud than all the rest

Hangs o'er the archway opening through the trees, Breaking the spell that, like a slumber, pressed On my worn spirit its sweet luxuries— And, with awakened vision upward bent,

I watch the firmament.

How like-its sure and undisturbed retreat,
Life's sanctuary at last, secure from storm-
To the pure waters trickling at my feet,

The bending trees that overshade my form i
Sc far as sweetest things of earth may seem
Like those of which we dream.

Such, to my mind, is the philosophy

The young bird teaches, who, with sudden fight Sails far into the blue that spreads on high,

Until I lose him from my straining sightWith a most lofty discontent to fly,

Upward, from earth to sky.

WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS.

COMING AND GOING

NCE came to our fields a pair of birds that had never built a nest nor seen a winter. O, how beautiful was everything! The fields were full of flowers, and the grass was growing tall, and the bees were humming everywhere. Then one of the birds fell to singing; and the other bird said, "Who told you to sing?" And he answered, "The flowers told me, and the bees told me, and the winds and leaves told me, and the blue sky told me, and you told me to sing." Then his mate answered, “When did I tell you to sing?" And he said, "Every time you brought in tender grass for the nest, and every time soft wings fluttered off again for hair and feathers to line the nest." Then his mate said, "What are you singing about?" And he answered, "I am singing about everything and nothing. It is because I am so happy that I sing."

By and by, five little speckled eggs were in the nest; and his mate said, "Is there anything in all the world as pretty as my eggs?" Then they both looked down on some people that were passing by, and pitied them because they were not birds, and had no nests with eggs in them. Then the father-bird sang a melancholy song because he pitied folks that had no nests, but had to live in houses.

In a week or two, one day, when the father-bird came home, the mother-bird said, "O, what do you think has happened?" "What?" "One of my eggs has been peeping and moving!" Pretty soon another egg moved under her feathers, and then another, and an other, till five little birds were born.

Now the father-bird sung louder and louder than ever. The mother-bird, too, wanted to sing; but she had no time, so she turned her song into work. So hungry were these little birds, that it kept both parents busy feeding them. Away each one flew. The moment the little birds heard their wings fluttering again among the leaves, five yellow mouths flew open so wide that nothing could be seen but five yellow mouths.

"Can anybody be happier?" said the father-bird to the mother-bird. "We will live in this tree always; for there is no sorrow here. It is a tree that always bears joy."

The very next day one of the birds dropped out of the nest, and a cat ate it up in a minute, and only four remained; and the parent-birds were very sad, and there was no song all that day, nor the next. Soon the little birds were big enough to fly; and great was their parents' joy to see them leave the nest, and sit crumpled up upon the branches. There was then a great time. One would have thought the two old birds were two French dancing-masters, talking and chattering, and scolding the little birds to make them go alone. The first bird that tried flew from one branch to another, and the parents praised him; and the other little birds wondered how he did it. And he was so vain of it that he tried again, and flew and

Who confessed her when she died.

flew, and couldn't stop flying, till he fell plump down | But the good young priest with the Raphacl-face, by the house-door; and then a little boy caught him and carried him into the house, and only three birds were left. Then the old birds thought that the sun was not as bright as it used to be, and they did not sing as often.

In a little time the other birds had learned to use their wings; and they flew away and away, and found their own food, and made their own beds; and their parents never saw them any more.

Then the old birds sat silent, and looked at each other a long while.

At last the wife-bird said"Why don't you sing?"

And he answered

"I can't sing: I can only think and think." "What are you thinking of?"

"I am thinking how everything changes. The leaves are falling down from off this tree, and soon there will be no roof over our heads; the flowers are all gone, or going; last night there was a frost; almost all the birds are flown away, and I am very uneasy. Something calls me, and I feel restless as if. I would fly far away."

"Let us fly away together!"

Then they rose silently; and, lifting themselves far up in the air, they looked to the north: far away they saw the snow coming. They looked to the south: there they saw green leaves. All day they flew, and all night they flew and flew, till they found a land where there was no winter; where there was summer all the time; where flowers always blossom, and birds always sing.

But the birds that staid behind found the days shorter, the nights longer, and the weather colder. Many of them died of cold; others crept into crevices and holes, and lay torpid. Then it was plain that it was better to go than to stay.

HENRY WArd Beecher.

THE PORTRAIT.

IDNIGHT past! Not a sound of aught

That good young priest is of gentle nerve,
And my grief had moved him beyond control,
For his lips grew white as I could observe,
When he speeded her parting soul.

I sat by the dreary hearth alone;
I thought of the pleasant days of yore;

I said, "The staff of my life is gone,
The woman I loved is no more.

"On her cold dead bosom my portrait lies,
Which next to her heart she used to wear-
Haunting it o'er with her tender eyes

When my own face was not there.

"It is set all around with rubies red,

And pearls which a peri might have kept;
For each ruby there my heart hath bled,

For each pearl my eyes have wept."

And I said, "The thing is precious to me;
They will bury her soon in the churchyard clay :
It lies on her heart, and lost must be
If I do not take it away."

I

lighted my lamp at the dying flame,

And crept up the stairs that creaked for fright,
Till into the chamber of death I came,
Where she lay all in white.

The moon shone over her winding sheet;
There stark she lay on her carven bed;
Seven burning tapers about her feet,
And seven about her head.

As I stretched my hand I held my breath;
I turned as I drew the curtains apart :

I dared not look on the face of death:
I knew where to find her heart.

I thought at first as my touch fell there
It had warmed that heart to life, with love;

Through the silent house, but the wind at For the thing I touched was warm, I swear,

his prayers,

I sat by the dying fire, and thought
Of the dear dead woman up stairs.

A night of tears! for the gusty rain

Had ceased, but the eaves were dripping yet; And the moon looked forth, as though in pain, With her face all white and wet.

Nobody with me my watch to keep

But the friend of my bosom, the man I love:
And grief had sent him fast to sleep
In the chamber up above.

Nobody else in the country place

All round, that knew of my loss beside,

And I could feel it move.

'Twas the hand of a man that was moving slow

O'er the heart of the dead-from the other sideAnd at once the sweat broke over my brow, "Who is robbing the corpse?" I cried.

Opposite me, by the taper's light,

The friend of my bosom, the man I loved,
Stood over the corpse and all as white,
And neither of us moved.

"What do you here my friend?" The man
Looked first at me, and then at the dead.
"There is a portrait here," he began:
"There is. It is mine,” I said.

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