General Chorus.

Maiden, maiden, joy!
On the wings of youth upborne,
Through the regions of the morn ;
Gladness, glory go with thee,

To eternity!

LIFE.

c. C. COLTON.

How long shall man's imprisoned spirit groan

'Twixt doubt of heaven and deep disgust of earth? Where all worth knowing never can be known,

And all that can be known, alas: is nothing worth.

Untaught by saint, by cynic, or by sage,

And all the spoils of time that load their shelves, We do not quit, but change our joys in ageJoys framed to stifle thought, and lead us from

ourselves.

The drug, the cord, the steel, the flood, the flame,

Turmoil of action, tedium of rest, And lust of change, though for the worst, proclaim

How dull life's banquet is-how ill at ease the guest.

Known were the bill of fare before we taste,

Who would not spurn the banquet and the board Prefer th' eternal, but oblivious past, To life's frail-fretted thread, and death's suspended He that the topmost stone of Babel plann'd,

And he that braved the crater's boiling bedDid these a clearer, closer view command Of heaven or hell, we ask, than the blind herd

they led ?

Or he that in Valdarno did prolong

The Night, her rich star-studded page to read Could he point out, 'midst all that brilliant throng,

His fixed and final home, from fleshly thraldom freed?

Minds that have scann'd Creation's vast domain,

And secrets solved, till then to sages seal’d, Whilst Nature own'd their intellectual reign Extinct, have nothing known, or nothing have re

vealed.

Devouring gravel we might the less deplore

Th' extinguish'd lights that in thy darkness dwell, Wouldst thou, from that lost zodiac, one restore, That might th’ enigma solve, and Doubt, man's

tyrant, quell.

To live in darkness-in despair to die

Is this indeed the boon to mortals given ? Is there no port-no rock of refuge nigh There is—to those who fix their anchor-hope in

Heaven,

Turn then, O man! and cast all else aside ;

Direct thy wandering thoughts to things aboveLow at the Cross bow down in that confide,

Till doubt be lost in faith, and bliss secured in love.

BRIGHT THOUGHTS FOR DARK HOURS.

R. F. HOUSMAN.

I would I were a Fairy, as light as falling snows,
To do whate'er my fancy bade, to wander where I chose :
I'd visit many a pleasant spot-a merry life I'd lead,
With all of bright and beautiful to serve me at my need.

I'd never give a single thought to misery or care-
My heart should have the gladness of a wild bird in

the airAnd if perchance a tempest should gather in the sky, I'd crouch beneath a lily-bell until the cloud passed by.

The violet—the cowslip—the little warbling bee,
That cannot for his life withold the music of his glee-
The butterfly, that silent thing of many gorgeous dyes,
The denizen of garden realms—a pilgrim of the skies.

The starry-twinkling glowworm, that like a drop of dew, Sheds faintly on the trembling grass a line of emerald

hue The daisy and the daffodil—the small gem on the leaOf these I'd make my playmates, and these my friends

should be.

I'd hie me to the greenwood—I'd sit me down and sing, Beneath the quiet curtain of the nightingale's soft wing! My pillow should be rose-leaves without a single thorn, And there I'd chaunt my roundelay until the blush of The world is full of sorrows-on every side I see Shadows instead of sunlight, and grief instead of glee; Or if I hear the truinpet-voice of Pleasure cleave the

sky, The mournful echo, Sadness, is certain to reply.

O would I were a Fairy, as light as falling snows,
To do whate'er my fancy bade-to wander where I

chose : I'd visit many a sunny spot, and far away I'd flee, Where Crime and Folly seldom come-beneath the

forest tree.

A STILL PLACE.

PROCTOR.

UNDER what beechen shade, or silent oak,
Lies the mute Sylvan now-mysterious Pan?

- Once (while rich Peneus and Ilissus ran
Clear from their fountains)—as the morning broke,
'Tis said, the satyr with Apollo spoke,

And to harmonious strife, with his wild reed,

Challenged the god, whose music was indeed
Divine, and fit for heaven.-Each play'd, and woke

Beautiful sounds to life, deep melodies :
One blew his pastoral pipe with such nice care

That flocks and birds all answer'd him; and one
Shook his immortal showers upon the air.

That music hath ascended to the sun ;-
But where the other?-Speak! ye dells and trees!

THE EVENING WIND.

BRYANT.

SPIRIT that breathest through my lattice, thou

That cool'st the twilight of the sultry, day, Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow;

Thou hast been out upon the deep at play, Riding all day the wild blue waves till now, Roughening their crests, and scattering high their

spray, And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea !

Nor I alone-a thousand bosoms round

Inhale thee in the fulness of delight;
And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound

Livelier, at coming of the wind of night;
And, languishing to hear thy grateful sound,

Lies the vast inland stretched beyond the sight. Go forth into the gathering shade ; go forth, God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth!

Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest,

Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse The wide old wood from his majestic rest,

Summoning from the innumerable boughs The strange, deep harmonies that havnt his breast;

Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass And 'twixt the o'ershadowing branches and the grass.