Learned sophs, in systems jaded, Who for new ones daily call, Youths, though yet no losses grieve you, Venerable sires, grown hoary, Yearly in our course returning, On the Tree of Life eternal, Man, let all thy hope be stay'd, Which alone, for ever vernal, Bears the Leaf that shall not fade. DR HORNE. -Poetical Register, 1806-7. THE BUILDERS. ALL are architects of Fate, Working in these walls of Time; Some with massive deeds and great, Some with ornaments of rhyme. Nothing useless is or low: Each thing in its place is best : And what seems but idle show Strengthens and supports the rest. For the structure that we raise, Our to-days and yesterdays Are the blocks with which we build. Truly shape and fashion these; Leave no yawning gaps between ; Think not, because no man sees, Such things will remain unseen. In the elder days of Art, Builders wrought with greatest care Each minute and unseen part; For the gods see everywhere. Let us do our work as well, Both the unseen and the seen; Else our lives are incomplete, Build to-day, then, strong and sure, Shall to-morrow find its place. Thus alone can we attain To those turrets, where the eye H. W. LONGFELLOW, 1807— -American. THE DARKEST HOUR. DESPAIR not, Poet, whose warm soul aspires So that thy song may consecrate thy name : Sing on, and hope, nor murmur that the crowd Despair not, Genius, wheresoe'er thou art, And doubts and dangers may obstruct thy way; But light oft pierces through the heaviest haze ;The darkest hour is on the verge of day. Despair not, Patriot, who, in dreams sublime, We seem to travel on a sunward way, And what seems dubious now, may yet be clear;— The darkest hour is on the verge of day. Despair not, Virtue, who in sorrow's hour Sigh'st to behold some idol overthrown, And from the shade of thy domestic bower Some green branch gone, some bird of promise flown: God chastens but to prove thy faithfulness, And in thy weakness He will be thy stay; Trust and deserve, and He will soothe and bless ;The darkest hour is on the verge of day. Despair not, Man, however low thy state, Nor scorn small blessings that around thee fall; Learn to disdain the impious creed of fate, And own the Providence that governs all. If thou art baffled in thy earnest will, Thy conscience clear, thy reason not astray, Be this thy faith and consolation still,— The darkest hour is on the verge of day. J. C. PRINCE, 1808 BESSY AND HER SPINNIN' WHEEL.. OH, LEEZE me on my spinnin' wheel, On ilka hand the burnies trot, |