A resignation of the will, a calm

Derived from pure religion (that sweet balm
For wounded breasts) is seated on her brow,
And ever to the tempest bends she now,
Even as a drooping lily, which the wind
Sways as it lists. The sweet affections bind
Her sympathies to earth; her peaceful soul
Has long aspired to that immortal goal,
Where pain and anguish cease to be our lot,
And the world's cares and frailties are forgot!

THE SICILIAN VESPERS.

BY J. G. WHITTIER.

SILENCE o'er sea and earth

With the veil of evening fell,
Till the convent tower sent deeply forth
The chime of its vesper bell.
One moment, and that solemn sound
Fell heavily on the ear;

But a sterner echo passed around;
Which the boldest shook to hear.

The startled monks thronged up,
In the torchlight cold and dim;
And the priest let fall his incense cup,
And the virgin hushed her hymn;
For a boding clash, and a clanging tramp,
And a summoning voice were heard,
And fretted wall, and tombstone damp,
To the fearful echo stirred.

The peasant heard the sound,

As he sat beside his hearth;

And the song and the dance were hushed around,
With the fireside tale of mirth.

32

THE SICILIAN VESPERS.

The chieftain shook in his bannered hall,
As the sound of war drew nigh;

And the warder shrank from the castle wall,
As the gleam of spears went by.

Woe, woe, to the stranger then;
At the feast and flow of wine,
In the red array of mailéd men,
Or bowed at the holy shrine;
For the wakened pride of an injured land
Had burst its iron thrall;

From the plumed chief to the pilgrim band;
Woe, woe, to the sons of Gaul !

Proud beings fell that hour,

With the young and passing fair,

And the flame went up from dome and tower ;
The avenger's arm was there!

The stranger priest at the altar stood,
And clasped his beads in prayer,

But the holy shrine grew dim with blood;
The avenger found him there!

Woe, woe, to the sons of Gaul;

To the serf and mailed lord;
They were gathered darkly, one and all,
To the harvest of the sword;
And the morning sun, with a quiet smile,
Shone out o'er hill and glen,

On ruined temple and mouldering pile,
And the ghastly forms of men.

Ay, the sunshine sweetly smiled,
As its early glance came forth;
It had no sympathy with the wild
And terrible things of earth;
And the man of blood that day might read,
In a language freely given,

How ill his dark and midnight deed

Became the light of heaven.

A RETROSPECTIVE REVIEW.

BY THOMAS HOOD.

Он, when I was a tiny boy

My days and nights were full of joy,
My mates were blithe and kind!
No wonder that I sometimes sigh,
And dash the tear-drop from my eye,
To cast a look behind!

A hoop was an eternal round
Of pleasure. In those days I found
A top a joyous thing;-

But now those past delights I drop,
My head, alas! is all my top,

And careful thoughts the string!

My marbles once my bag was stored-
Now I must play with Elgin's lord,
With Theseus for a taw!
My playful horse has slipped his string,
Forgotten all his capering,

And harnessed to the law!

My kite-how fast and far it flew !
Whilst I, a sort of Franklin, drew
My pleasure from the sky!

'Twas papered o'er with studious themes,
The tasks I wrote-my present dreams
Will never soar so high.

My joys are wingless all and dead;
My dumps are made of more than lead;
My flights soon find a fall:

My fears prevail, my fancies droop,
Joy never cometh with a whoop,
And seldom with a call!

34

A RETROSPECTIVE REVIEW.

My football's laid upon the shelf ;-
I am a shuttlecock myself,

The world knocks to and fro-
My archery is all unlearned,
And grief against myself has turned
My arrows and my bow.

No more in noontide sun I bask;
My authorship's an endless task,
My head's ne'er out of school,-
My heart is pained with scorn and slight,
I have too many foes to fight,

And friends grown strangely cool!

The very chum that shared my cake
Holds out so cold a hand to shake
It makes me shrink and sigh-
On this I will not dwell and hang,
The changeling would not feel a pang
Though these should meet his eye!

No skies so blue, or so serene
As then :-no leaves look half so green
As clothed the play ground tree!
All things I loved are altered so,
Nor does it ease my heart to know
That change resides in me!

Oh, for the garb that marked the boy-
The trowsers made of corduroy,

Well inked with black and red;

The crownless hat-ne'er deemed an ill-
It only let the sunshine still
Repose upon my head!

Oh, for the riband round the neck!

The careless dogs' ears apt to deck

My book and collar both!

How can this formal man be styled
Merely an Alexandrine child,
A boy of larger growth?

Oh, for that small, small beer anew !
And (heaven's own type) that mild sky blue
That washed my sweet meals down;
The master even!-and that small Turk
That fagged me !-worse is now my work :
A fag for all the town!

Oh, for the lessons learned by heart!
Ay, though the very birch's smart
Should mark those hours again;
I'd "kiss the rod," and be resigned
Beneath the stroke-and even find
Some sugar in the cane !

The Arabian Nights rehearsed in bed!
The Fairy Tales in schooltime read,
By stealth, 'twixt verb and noun !-
The angel form that always walked
In all my dreams, and looked and talked
Exactly like Miss Brown!

The "

omne bene"-Christmas come ! The prize of merit won for homeMerit had prizes then!

But now I write for days and days-
For fame a deal of empty praise,

Without the silver pen!

Then home, sweet home!-the crowded coachThe joyous shout-the loud approach

The winding horns like rams'!

The meeting sweet that made me thrill-
The sweetmeats almost sweeter still,

No "satis" to the "jams!"