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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

of it, they sacrifice but too often even their very souls. The beggar hath it not; in the pressure of stern necessity he steals to save himself from starvation. Imprisoned for his petty crime, he there learns the mysteries of systematic guilt; and scarcely is his punishment over than he commences a course that leads him ere long to the gallows. The tradesman, scarcely able to support his family, is tempted, by fraud and dishonesty, to increase the profits of his business. The lawyer, with his "quiddits, his quillets, his cases, his tenures, and his tricks," grinds down his clients to the last farthing. The sick and dying may perish in their wretchedness, if there is no gold to buy them aid. And this is LIFE!

Would that the tyrant's power extended no farther,—that it influenced only our relation to the world! But there is an inner, a more sacred life, a life of mysteries, understood only by our own hearts; and even here is his power felt. I speak not of those cold hearts, in which all the affections have been dried up, and all kindly feelings withered, by contact with the world; but of those that are unseared, that are full of high and lovely thoughts, that are overflowing with a love that could make even this earth a heaven. And how often have such hearts been sacrificed at the shrine of wealth! How often has the gorgeous bridal garment been folded round a breaking heart!

But it is to this inner life, (where the tyrant's rule is not so absolute,) that we owe all our happiness in this world. We may turn our thoughts from the cold realities that surround us, and let them dwell upon holier things. And while we cherish that flower of a better land within our hearts, whose blossoms, woven into a fairy-like garland, bind together husband and wife, father and child, sister and brother, we may also bathe our wearied spirits in those springs of deep and mysterious thought, which, flowing through a fairy land, have many bright and heavenly flowers upon their banks. And if we guide our bark along these streams of meditation by a right compass, they will lead us at last to another and better life. For who loves to separate from this outward life, and communes so much with his own heart, as he whose mental eye hath learned to mark

"Th' exceeding grace

Of highest God, that loves his creatures so,
And all his works with mercy doth embrace,
That blessed angels he sends to and fro,

To serve to wicked man, to serve his wicked foe!"

Viewing this life as a pathway to another, his mind is fixed upon the home to which he is journeying; and many bright dreams, and visions of glories yet unseen, fill his imagination; and many sweet communings doth his spirit hold with the messengers of mercy from above. Living a life that is unseen, he goes on his pilgrimage, as a stranger travelling through a country, in whose changing fortunes he hath but a passing interest,towards his native land, -a land of life eternal.'

PUCK.

TO THE SPRING.

I WILL not rob thee, beautiful Spring,
Of a single flower of thy cherishing;
I will not gather the violet blue,
Or the delicate cowslip of golden hue.
No! I'll not rob thee, beautiful Spring,
Of a single flower of thy cherishing.

Many a child of thy fruitful womb
Opes to the sunlight her tender bloom;
Under the hedge is the pale primrose,,
And in the meadow the oxlip grows.
Yet I'll not rob thee, beautiful Spring,
Of a single flower of thy cherishing.

Oh! that the rude wind would prove like me
Gentle, and kind, and good to thee ;—
Oh! that its blasts would pity and spare
All the sweet blossoms that scent the air,`
And never steal from thee, beautiful Spring,
One of the flowers of thy cherishing.

Oh! that the Winter, whose iron arm
Withers the forest, would cease to harm;
Hanging upon them its icy gem,

Like crystal stars of a diadem ;

Yet never steal from thee, beautiful Spring,
One of the flowers of thy cherishing.

Oh! that the winter of life were kind,

Sparing life's flowers its killing wind;
Leaving Youth, Beauty, and all things gay;-
Vain is the wish-for they wither away-

Fleeting and fading, beautiful Spring,
E'en as the flowers of thy cherishing.

C. H. H.

PROMETHEUS BOUND.

A TRAGEDY.

(Translated from the Greek of Æschylus.)

(Continued from p. 110.)

CHORUS.

Он, never may my stubborn will
Be thus opposed to Jove's decree;
For he in heaven supreme is still,
And all things own his sov'reignty!
And when the gods their holy feast
In Ocean's sea-green palace keep;
And on their purple couches rest,
'Neath the wild dashing of the deep;
Then ne'er may I reluctant be
To join the glad solemnity;
Nor ever at the sacred board
My unguarded tongue offend in word :
Deep engraven in my brain

May this high resolve remain.

Long life is sweet, if Hope will lend
Her cheering light to soothe the way;
If joys their mingled radiance blend,
And shine on man's neglected day:
But thine-I shudder thus to see
A fellow-being doomed to woe;
To view thy hopeless misery,
And gnawing grief torment thee so.
Prometheus, ah! thou didst not fear

The power of Jove, though great it were;

For men thou rashly durst defy

STROPHE 1.

ANTISTR. 1.

The ruthless tyrant of the sky:

Too generous to deserve thy lot,

Though gods despised man, thou wouldst not!

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