Ah, yes! beneath the beams of brighter skies, They woke; their cottage blazed; the victims fled; The same. NIGHT. Night is the time for rest; How sweet, when labors close, To gather round an aching breast The curtain of repose, Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head Upon our own delightful bed! Night is the time for dreams; The gay romance of life, When truth that is and truth that seems, Blend in fantastic strife; Ah! visions less beguiling far Than waking dreams by daylight are! Night is the time for toil; ' To plough the classic field, Its wealthy furrows yield; Night is the time to weep; To wet with unseen tears Those graves of memory, where sleep Hopes that were angels in their birth, But perish'd young, like things on earth! Without any wish to make pedantic objections, we may be allowed to remark that this stanza is inconsistent with natural truth and a just economy of life. Day is the time for toil-night is more proper for repose; and, if spent in mental labor, in addition to other duties pursued during the day, must redound to the injury of health. Night is the time to watch; The full moon's earliest glance, Night is the time for care; Brooding on hours misspent, To see the spectre of despair Come to our lonely tent; Like Brutus, midst his slumbering host, Startled by Cæsar's stalwart ghost. Night is the time to muse; Then from the eye the soul Takes flight, and, with expanding views, Descries, athwart the abyss of night, Night is the time to pray; Our Saviour oft withdrew So will his followers do; Steal from the throng to haunts untrod, And hold communion there with God. Night is the time for death; When all around is peace, Calmly to yield the weary breath, From sin and suffering cease: Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign To parting friends-such death be mine! ASPIRATIONS OF YOUTH. Higher, higher will we climb, Up to the mount of glory, That our names may live through time Happy, when her welfare calls, Deeper, deeper let us toil In the mines of knowledge; Nature's wealth and learning's spoil Than the stars of diadems. Onward, onward may we press Excellence true beauty. Closer, closer let us knit Hearts and hands together, Oh! they wander wide who roam, THE COMMON LOT. Once, in the flight of ages past, Unknown the region of his birth, The land in which he died unknown: That joy, and grief, and hope, and fear, The bounding pulse, the languid limb, He suffer'd-but his pangs are o'er; Had friends-his friends are now no more; He loved-but whom he loved the grave He saw whatever thou hast seen; The rolling seasons-day and night, To him exist in vain. The clouds and sunbeams, o'er his eye That once their shades and glory threw, Have left in yonder silent sky No vestige where they flew. The annals of the human race, Their ruins, since the world began, Of him afford no other trace Than this-there lived a man! PRAYER. Prayer is the soul's sincere desire That trembles in the breast. Prayer is the burden of a sigh The upward glancing of an eye, Prayer is the simplest form of speech Prayer the sublimest strains that reach The Majesty on high. Prayer is the Christian's vital breath, The Christian's native air; His watchword at the gates of death: Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice While angels in their songs rejoice, The saints in prayer appear as one, Nor prayer is made on earth alone; And Jesus, on the eternal throne, O Thou, by whom we come to God, FRIEND AFTER FRIEND DEPARTS. Friend after friend departs; Who hath not lost a friend? There is no union here of hearts That finds not here an end: Were this frail world our final rest, Beyond this flight of time,- There is a world above Form'd for the good alone: Thus star by star declines, As morning high and higher shines, Nor sink those stars in empty night, HUMILITY. The bird that soars on highest wing When Mary chose "the better part," She meekly sat at Jesus' feet; And Lydia's gently-open'd heart Was made for God's own temple meet; -Fairest and best adorn'd is she Whose clothing is humility. The saint that wears heaven's brightest crown In deepest adoration bends; The weight of glory bows him down Then most when most his soul ascends; The footstool of humility. THE SUPERIORITY OF POETRY OVER SCULPTURE AND PAINTING. Let us bring-not into gladiatorial conflict, but into honorable competition, where neither can suffer disparagement-one of the masterpieces of ancient sculpture, and two stanzas from "Childe Harold," in which that very statue is turned into verse, which seems almost to make it visible : THE DYING GLADIATOR. "I see before me the Gladiator lie: He leans upon his hand; his manly brow The arena swims around him, he is gone, Ere ceased the inhuman shout that hail'd the wretch who won," |