health, he said, was a constant trial to his temper; the consciousness that he could do more than he had ever done, was a never-ending source of irritation. “I am not heartless," said he, " as you know, my dear fellow; those, who say I am, utterly mistake and misjudge me." I eagerly assented; heartless, to me at least, he had never been, He went on,-" if I did not revolt from the moral indecency of laying bare one's inmost feelings, I would say to others what I say to you, that cold and caustic words may flow from the tenderest hearts, if there be uneasiness within. The finest harp in the world, if it is untuned, gives forth not harmony, but discord.” Courtland," I was beginning,-" I know what you would tell me," said he, "this is palliation, not excuse. I feel it. My conduct is wrong, is unworthy, and I pray daily that in this, as in other things, God will give me grace to conform more and more to the genuine model of a Christian life."

"But,

He said he would alter, and he did. He became gentler, humbler, truer. He had always been a delightful companion when alone. Often, as he sat by you, his dark blue eyes looking into your very soul, the stream of his conversation would flow musically and gently on, no opposition lashing it into fury, but by its very easiness, giving the idea of quiet strength. Poetic fancies, dim imaginings, half-disclosed thoughts, "embryo conceptions," floated with the stream, but scarce rose above it, and made you aware of their presence without marking themselves clearly out, reminding you of the play of moonlight upon the rippling tide, or of "jewels shining tremulously at the bottom of the deep." But let two or three others come in, and there was a change at once. All became hard, dry, logical, angular; sentiment fled away, and

disputation awoke.

The unconscious poet and philosopher of the minute before, became the captious, pertinacious, disagreeable, though powerful arguer. Such was he in former times-but all this was altered for the better. Whether alone or in company he was earnest and simple. I spent an evening with him not long ago, and came away pleased and soothed from communing with his calm, clear, and healthy intellect. The next thing I heard of him was his death.

Whether he would ever have been a great man, I cannot tell; he was certainly a remarkable one. Few were aware of the earnestness of his nature, and the warmth of his feelings. Many will call him insincere, many cold-hearted. I knew better, and can say that he was neither the one nor the other. I always loved him, and at last I deeply respected him. I shall never think of him without gratitude and regret. But he has left a doubtful name behind him, and his example should teach us that, without truth and simplicity, the highest talents are useless; that pride and vanity are the worst of follies, that the best impulses and the highest feelings are not enough to make us loved and respected without the habitual control of religious selfdenial and Christian charity.

T. D. C. R.

NUNC DIMITTIS.

He stood upon the margin of the grave,
Upon the brink of that dark stream, whose waves
Roll between time, and dread eternity.

It was the evening of old Simeon's life,

An evening without clouds! No angry storm,

No darkling mist of guilt, no conscious crime
Lowered o'er the bright horizon; all was peace!
For oh! what lofty faith, what ardent love
Had blazed in the bright mid-day of his life,
What frank submission to the will of heaven!
And now, if haply feebler were the ray,
There were, who spoke it a far purer light,
A holier than the hot noontide of youth!
'Twas the calm radiance of a summer's eve,
Which bids creation wear a lovelier hue,
Beneath its gentle beams, than when the sun
Drives in mid domination thro' the heaven.
For Passion's voice dies in the aged breast,
Leaving the mind to meditation free,

And holiest thoughts of scenes beyond the grave.
So Simeon, waiting for eternity,

Stood in the hallowed threshold, Spirit-led,

To meet his God! O with what rapturous joy,
Embraced he in his arms that Holy Child,
Whom, with the eye of faith, he could discern
The everlasting ruler of the world,

The one primeval cause, at whose command
Earth into being sprang, whose highest praise
Attuned the earliest music of the spheres !

And he was come to accomplish that great scheme,
Which, formed before the birth of ages, made

Archangels envy uncreated man!

And haply, while he by God's altar stood,

Such visions were vouchsafed as hurried on

His ravished soul into futurity!

He saw the untutored band of Galilee

Confound the wisdom of the ignorant sage,

Trample the heathen's pride, and send their Gods,*

*Alluding to the old idea, that the Heathen Deities were actual Demons.

Before whom erst the censerous world did bow,
Back to the infernal lake, from whence they came:
He saw the sacred banner of the cross
Outbrave the Roman eagle, and extend
Its peaceful triumph o'er the universe,
'Till every land in one glad anthem joined
Of rapturous praise, till every darkness fled,
And one bright flood of glory covered all!
Then haply too, before his tranced gaze
The Martyrs' white-robed host might pass along,
That glorious host, who trampled on the world,
Triumphant o'er the Pagan's bootless rage.
And he, whom their enraptured pæan hymned,
(O! thought ineffable, oh wondrous hour!)
Lay in his arms, a new-born, helpless babe!
Well might he then exclaim, "O Holy Lord,
Now lettest thou thy servant part in peace."

LYCOPHRON OF CORINTH.

CANTO II.

There is no sound for human ear

More fraught with hollow, sickening fear,
More consonant with thoughts of ill,

And restless toil, and fettered will,

For one that lives in passion's thrall

More ominously musical,

Than homeless wanderer's foot-fall heard

In the dead void of "poring night;"

What time each noise, though brief and light,

Hath meaning as a very word,

Heard by himself alone

Unheeded for a while-anon
Intruding on the stricken sense,
And as he creeps or hurries on,
Uttering a voice of malison,

As if the heartless earth were stirred
To deep and dismal eloquence,

'Tis so with thee, young heir of crime !
Stern votarist of a tearless woe!
Beneath thy feet, that to and fro
Tread the deserted portico,
Moves on that melancholy chime,
Constantly following pace by pace,
As if thy shadow, which the moon
Is limning on the marble's face,
Held power of converse, meet for one
Whom all, save stars and phantoms, shun.

All! said I all? Oh no-not all!

Else were there need to ask one boon
From yon celestial lords of fate,
And that, death's viewless pall,
To come in mercy, and full soon,
On one quite lost, quite desolate,
In folds of peace to fall.

Not yet-that end is far away,
And must be earned by longer strife-
While there is love, there will be life,
And if there be but one soft ray,
One golden shred of broken light,

We may not call it utter night.

True, the young sufferer's brow is dark,

And on his brow is burnt the mark