And, as he mused in his watch,
He noted, half in a dream,
A spider swinging under the thatch,
Swaying from beam to beam:
Six times in its aim it fail'd,—

A seventh-and lo! the poor imp has prevail'd
Through stout perseverance in right;
And the Bruce leapt up at the humble sight,
And the fortunate omen hail'd,

And straightway shouted, eager for fight,
"Once more,—once more, for me-'
And onward he march'd in his royal might
Till the land of his love was free!

III.

And so, faint wrestler of life,

Many times foil'd and thrown,

If thou wouldst stand like a man in the strife
Where each must struggle alone,
Remember this word, "Once More,"
Be it seven, or seven times seven ;
Knock yet again at The Father's door;
Energy makes all Victory sure,-

Away with the faithless leaven!

Onward, upward, never give in !

"Once more" is ever the watchword to win The crowns of Earth and Heaven!

NATHANIEL

P. WILLIS.

(An American Poet and Essayist.)

BORN 1817.

DIED 1867.

-0

OTHER WRITINGS:-Scripture Sketches; Pencillings by the way (an account of his travels in Europe).

-0

A Child's first impression of a $tar.

HE had been told that God made all the stars That twinkled up in heaven, and now she stood Watching the coming of the twilight on, As if it were a new and perfect world, And this were its first eve. How beautiful Must be the work of nature to a child In its first fresh impression! Laura stood By the low window, with the silken lash Of her soft eye upraised, and her sweet mouth Half parted with the new and strange delight Of beauty that she could not comprehend, And had not seen before. The purple folds Of the low sunset clouds, and the blue sky That looked so still and delicate above, Filled her young heart with gladness, and the eve Stole on with its deep shadows, and she still Stood looking at the west with that half smile, As if a pleasant thought were at her heart.

Presently, in the edge of the last tint
Of sunset, where the blue was melted in
To the faint golden mellowness, a star
Stood suddenly. A laugh of wild delight
Burst from her lips, and, putting up her hands,
Her simple thought burst forth expressively—
Father, dear father, God has made a star!”

Absalom.

THE pall was settled. He who slept beneath
Was straightened for the grave; and, as the folds
Sunk 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.

His helm was at his feet: his banner, soiled
With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid,
Reversed, beside him; and the jewelled 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,
d in the garb of battle; and their chief,
hty Joab, stood beside the bier,
ed upon the dark pall steadfastly,
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 woe :-

"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, Ilow 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!

"The grave hath won 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, shall 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 erring 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 a strength were given him of 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.