I live for those who love me, For those who know me true; For the cause that lacks assistance, 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!" N the tempest of life, when the wave and the gale 'Look aloft!" and be firm, and be fearless of heart. If the friend who embraced in prosperity's glow, "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 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 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. And bowed his head upon his hands to pray. He prayed for Israel—and his voice went up The pall was settled. He who slept beneath The pall from the still features of his child, "Alas! my noble boy! that thou shouldst die! 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, He covered up his face, and bowed himself NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. I saw thee, and the passionate heart of man 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 At last, in one mad hour, I dared to pour W LORD LYTTON. I THE SHADED WATER. HEN that my mood is sad, and in the noise The waters have a music to mine ear It is a quiet glen, as you may see, Shut in from all intrusion by the trees, Few know its quiet shelter-none, like me, And listening as the voiceless leaves respire- 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— There, with eye sometimes shut, but upward bent, Returns, thought-laden back with bloom and flower; 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, The bending trees that overshade my form i 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, I sat by the dreary hearth alone; I said, "The staff of my life is gone, "On her cold dead bosom my portrait lies, 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 pearl my eyes have wept." And I said, "The thing is precious to me; I lighted my lamp at the dying flame, And crept up the stairs that creaked for fright, The moon shone over her winding sheet; As I stretched my hand I held my breath; I dared not look on the face of death: I thought at first as my touch fell there 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 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: 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, "What do you here my friend?" The man |