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When our eclipse passed partly by and we stood

in the sun; The fee was fifty dollars—'twas the work of half

a year First captive, lean and scraggy, of my legal bow

I was far up the rising road; she, poor girl! where

we started. I had tried my speed and mettle, and gained

strength in every race; I was far up the heights of life-she drudging at

the base.

and spear.

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I well remember when my coat (the only one I

had,) Was seedy grown and threadbare, and in fact,

most “shocking bad,” The tailor's stern remark when I a modest order

made: “Cash is the basis, sir, on which we tailors do our

trade!" Her winter cloak was in his shop by noon that

very day; She wrought on hickory shirt at night that tailor's

skill to pay; I got a coat, and wore it; but alas, poor Hannah

Jane! Ne'er went to church or lecture till warm weather

came again. Our second season she refused a cloak of any

sort, That I might have a decent suit in which t'appear

in court; She made her last year's bonnet do, that I might

have a hat; Talk of the old-time flame-enveloped martys after

that!

She made me take each fall the stump; she said

'twas my career; The wild applause of list'ning crowds w

was music to my ear. What stimulus had she to cheer her dreary soli

tude? For me she lived, and gladly, in unnatural widow

hood. She couldn't read my speech, but when the papers

all agreed Twas the best one of the session, those com ents

she could read; And with a gush of pride thereat, which I had

never felt, She sent them to me in a note with half the words

misspelt. I to the legislature went, and said that she should

go To see the world with me, and what the world was

doing, know. With tearful smile she answered "No! four dollars

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that sum per day.”

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At twenty-eight the State House, on the bench at

thirty-three; At forty every gate in life was opened wide to me. I nursed my powers, and grew, and made my

point in life; but sheBearing such pack-horse weary loads, what could

a woman be?

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No negro ever worked so hard, a servant's pay to

save, She made herself most willingly a household

drudge and slave. What wonder that she never read a magazine or

book, Combining as she did in one, nurse, housemaid,

seamstress, cook! What wonder that the beauty fled that I once so

adored! Her beautiful complexion my fierce kitchen fire

devoured; Her plump, fair, soft, rounded arm was once too

fair to be concealed; Hard work for me that softness into sinewy

strength congealed. I was her altar and her love the sacrificial flame: Oh! with what pure devotion she to that altar

came, And tearful, Aung thereon-alas! I did not know it

thenAll that she was, and more than that, all that she

might have been. A: last I won success. Ah! then our lives were

wide parted;

What could she be? O shame! I blush to think

what she has been The most unselfish of all wives to the selfishest of

men. Yes, plain and homely now she is; she's ignorant,

'tis true; For me she rubbed herself quite out; I represent

the two. Well, I suppose that I might do as other men

have doneFirst break her heart with cold neglect, then

shove her out alone. The world would say 'twas well, and more, would

give great praise to me For having borne with “such a wife" so uncom

plainingly. And shall I? No! The contract 'twixt Hannah,

God, and me,

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E. C. STEDMAN.

Was not for one or twenty years, but for eternity. Maxims like these are very cheaply said; No matter what the world may think; I know But, ere you make yourself a fool or fowl, down in my heart,

Pray just inquire about his rise and fall, That if either, I'm delinquent. She has bravely And whether larks have any beds at all! done her part.

"The time for honest folks to be abed" There's another world beyond this, and on the Is in the morning, if I reason right; final day,

And he who cannot keep his precious head Will intellect and learning 'gainst such devotion Upon his pillow till it's fairly light, weigh?

And so enjoy his forty morning winks, When the great one made of us two, is torn apart Is up to knavery, or else—he drinks! again,

Thomson, who sung about the "Seasons," said I'll fare the worst, for God is just, and He knows

It was a glorious thing to rise in season;
Hannah Jane.

But then he said it-lying-in his bed,

At ten o'clock A, M.,—the very reason

He wrote so charmingly. The simple fact is, THE UNDISCOVERED COUNTRY. His preaching wasn't sanctioned by his practice.

'Tis doubtless well to be sometimes awake,

Awake to duty, and awake to truth,-
Could we but know

But when, alas! a nice review we take
The land that ends our dark, uncertain travel,

Of our best deeds and days, we find, in sooth, Where lie those happier hills and meadows The hours that leave the slightest cause to weep low,

Are those we passed in childhood or asleep! Ah, if beyond the spirit's utmost cavil,

'Tis beautiful to leave the world awhile Aught of that country could we surely know, Who would not go?

For the soft visions of the gentle night;

And free, at last, from mortal care or guile,
Might we but hear

To live as only in the angels' sight,
The hovering angels' high imagined chorus,

In sleep's sweet realm so cosily shut in,
Or catch, betimes, with wakeful eyes and clear,

Where at the worst, we only dream of sin!
One radiant vista of the realm before us,-
With one rapt moment given to see and hear,

So let us sleep and give the Maker praise.

I like the lad who, when his father thought Ah, who would fear?

To clip his morning nap by hackneyed phraseWere we quite sure

Of vagrant worm by early songster caught, To find the peerless friend who left us lonely, Cried, “Served him right!—it's not at all surprise Or there, by some celestial stream as pure,

ing: To gaze in eyes that were love-lit only,

The worm was punished, sir, for early rising!" This weary mortal coil, were we quite sure,

Who would endure?

LONGING

EARLY RISING.

JAMES BUSSELL LOWELL.

J. G. SAXE.

"God bless the man who first invented sleep!"

So Sancho Panza said, and so say I;
And bless him, also, that he didn't keep

His great discovery to himself, nor try
To make it, as the lucky fellow might-
A close monopoly by patent right!
Yes-bless the man who first invented sleep,

(I really can't avoid the iteration;)
But blast the man with curses loud and deep,

What'er the rascal's name or age or station,
Who first invented, and went round advising,
That artificial cut-off,-early rising!
“Rise with the lark, and with the lark to bed,"

Observes some solemn, sentimental owl;

Of all the myriad moods of mind

That through the soul come thronging,
What one was e'er so dear, so kind,

So beautiful, as longing?
The thing we long for, that we are

For one transcendent moment,
Before the present, poor and bare,

Can make its sneering comment.
Still through our paltry stir and strife

Glows down the wished ideal,
And longing moulds in clay what Life

Carves in the marble real.
To let the new life in, we know,

Desire must ope the portal;
Perhaps the longing to be so

Helps make the soul immortal.

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The cold blast at the casement beats:

The window panes are white;
The snow whirls through the empty streets:

It is a dreary night!
Sit down, old friend; the wine-cups wait;

Fill, to o'erflowing fill!
Though winter howleth at the gate,

In our hearts 'tis summer still!

Wasted! Gifts of doubtless mind, By the Hand Eternal given; They had mounted to the skies, Meet and reverent sacrifice, To the Majesty of Heaven. But that spirit-lyre, erst strung To sweet harmonies unspoken, Shivered, and its deep chords broken, Murmureth but of songs unsung. Of rich melodies flung wildly On fame's gorgeous altar fire, One brief moment in its brightness, Flashing quickly to expire: Of high purposes all blasted, Talents hidden, treasures wasted, Consecrate at Mammon's shrine, Owning not the land divine.

For we full many summer joys

And greenwood sports have shared, When, free and ever-roving boys,

The rocks, the streams, we dared! And, as I look upon thy face,

Back, back o'er years of ill,
My heart flies to that happy place,

Where it is summer still!

Yes, though like sere leaves on the ground

Our eary hopes are strown,
And cherished flowers lie dead around,

And singing birds are flown,
The verdure is not faded quite,

Not mute all tones that thrill; And seeing, hearing thee to-night,

In my heart 'tis summer still.

Wasted!
Founts of deepest Love,
Gifts of mercy from above,
Lavished on a human breast,
Striving for an earthly rest;
On a human idol pouring

Treasures from affections deep:
At a human shrine adoring

Waking but to writhe and weep; Starting from a dream of rapture

At the touch of mortal care,
On its shivered idols gazing

In the frenzy of despair.
Heart sore-stricken! Love eternal

Woo thee from a heavenly throne; He, the world's Redeemer, asks thee

Now to trust the unchanging One.

Fill up! The olden times come back

With light and life one more; We scan the Future's sunny track

From youth's enchanted shore;-
The lost return: through fields of bloom

We wander at our will;
Gone is the winter's angry gloom-
In our heart's 'tis summer still.

DAYS OF MY YOUTH.

ST. GEORGE TUCKER.

Wasted-youth's rich, golden hours, Wasted-loftiest, mightiest powers; Wasted-manhood's glorious prime, Hopes and aims and thoughts sublime. Weep'st thou? Ere life's setting sun, Ere time's fleeting sands be run,

Days of my youth, ye have glided away;
Hairs of my youth, ye are frosted and gray;
Eyes of my youth, your keen sight is no more;
Cheeks of my youth, ye are furrowed all o'er;

Strength of my youth, all your vigor is gone; Thoughts of my youth, your gay visions are flown.

Days of my youth, I wish not your recall;
Hairs of my youth, I'm content ye shall fall;
Eyes of my youth, you much evil have seen;
Cheeks of my youth, bathed in tears you have

been; Thoughts of my youth, ye have led me astray; Strength of my youth, why lament your decay?

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Days of my age, ye will shortly be past;
Pains of my age, yet awhile ye can last;
Joys of my age, in true wisdom delight;
Eyes of my age, be religion your light;
Thoughts of my age, dread ye not the cold sod;
Hopes of my age, be ye fixed on your God.

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THE VISION OF MIRZA.

JOSEPH ADDISON.

On the fifth day of the moon, which, according to the custom of my forefathers, I always keep holy, after having washed myself, and offered

up my morning devotions, I ascended the high hills of Bagdat, in order to pass the rest of the day in meditation and prayer. As I was here airing myself on the tops of the mountains, I fell into a profound contemplation on the vanity of human life; and passing from one thought to another, “Surely," said I, “man is but a shadow, and life a dream." Whilst I was thus musing, I cast my eyes toward the summit of a rock that was not far from me, where I discovered one in the habit of a shepherd, with a little musical instrument in his hand. As I looked upon him, he applied it to his lips, and began to play upon it.

The sound of it was exceeding sweet, and wrought into a variety of tunes that were inexpressibly melodious, and altogether different from anything I had ever heard; they put me in mind of those heavenly airs that are played to the departed souls of good men upon their first arrival in Paradise, to wear out the impressions of the last agonies, and qualify them for the pleasures of that happy place. My heart melted away in secret raptures.

I had been often told that the rock before me was the haunt of a genius; and that several had been entertained with that music, who had passed by it, but never heard that the musician had before måde himself visible. When he had raised my thoughts, by those transporting airs which he played, to taste the pleasures of his conversation, as I looked upon him like one astonished, he

beckoned to me, and, by the waving of his hand, directed me to approach the place where he sat. I drew near with that reverence which is due to a superior nature; and as my heart was entirely subdued by the captivating strains I had heard, I fell down at his feet, and wept. The genius smiled upon me with a look of compassion and affability that familiarized him to my imagination, and at once dispelled all the fears and apprehensions with which I approached him. He lifted me from the ground, and taking me by the hand,—“Mirza," said he, “I have heard thee in thy soliloquies; fol low me."

He then led me to the highest pinnacle of the rock, and placing me on the top of it, "Cast thy eyes eastward,” said he, "and tell me what thou seest."-"I see,” said I, "a huge valley, and a prodigious tide of water rolling through it."-"The valley that thou seest," said he, “is the vale of misery, and the tide of water that thou seest, is part of the great tide of eternity."--"What is the reason." said, I, “that the tide I see rises out of a thick mist at one end, and again loses itself in a thick mist at the other?"-"What thou seest,” said he, “is that portion of eternity which is called Time, measured out by the sun, and reaching from the beginning of the world to its consummation. "Examine now," said he, “this sea, that is bounded with darkness at both ends, and tell me what thou discoverest in it.”—"I see a bridge,” said I, “standing in the midst of the tide.”—“The bridge thou seest,” said he, "is human life; consider it attentively." Upon a more leisurely survey of it, I found it consisted of threescore and ten entire arches, with several broken arches, which, added to those that were entire, made up the number about an hundred. As I was counting the arches, the genius told me that this bridge consisted at first of a thousand arches; but that a great flood swept away the rest, and left the bridge in the ruinous condition I now beheld it. “But tell me further," said he, "what thou discoverest on it""I see multitudes of people passing over it,” said I, "and a black cloud hanging on each end of it." As I looked more attentively, I saw several of the passengers dropping through the bridge into the great tide that flowed underneath it; and upon farther examination, perceived there were innumer. able trap doors that lay concealed in the bridge, which the passengers no sooner trod upon, but they fell through them into the tide, and immediately disappeared. These hidden pit-falls were set very thick at the entrance of the bridge, so that throngs of people no sooner broke though the cloud, but many of them fell into them. They grew thinner toward the middle, but multipled and lay closer together toward the end of the arches that were entire.

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There were indeed some persons, but their num. them. I could see persons dressed in glorious habits, ber was very small, that continued a kind of hob- with garlands upon their heads, passing among the bling march on the broken arches, but fell through trees, lying down by the sides of fountains, or restone after another, being quite tired and spent with so ing on beds of flowers; and could hear a confused long a walk.

harmony of singing birds, falling waters, human I passed some time in the contemplation of this voices, and musical instruments. Gladness grew in wonderful structure, and the great variety of objects me at the discovery of so delightful a scene. I which it presented. My heart was filled with a wished for the wings of an eagle, that I might fly deep melancholy, to see several dropping unexpect- away to those happy seats; but the genius told me edly in the midst of mirth and jollity, and catching there was no passage to them, except through the at everything that stood by them, to save themselves. gates of death that I saw opening every moment Some were looking up towards the heavens in a upon the bridge. “The islands,” said he, “that lie thoughtful posture, and, in the midst of a speculation, so fresh, and green before thee, and with which the stumbled and fell out of sight. Multitudes were whole face of the ocean appears spotted as far as very busy in the pursuit of bubbles, that glittered in thou canst see, are more in number than the sands their eyes, and danced before them; but often, when on the sea-shore; there are myriads of islands behind they thought themselves within the reach of them, those which thou here discoverest, reaching further their footing failed and down they sunk. In this con- than even thine eye, or even thine imagination, can fusion of objects, I observed some with scimitars in exist itself. These are the mansions of good men their hands, and others with urinals, who ran to and after death, who, according to the degree and kinds fro upon the bridge, thrusting several persons on of virtue in which they excelled, are distributed trap doors which did not seem to lie in their way, among these several islands, which abound with and which they might have escaped had they not pleasures of different kinds and degrees, suitable to been forced upon them.

the relishes and perfections of those who are settled The genius seeing me indulge myself in this mel. in them; every island is a paradise accommodated to ancholy prospect, told me I had dwelt long enough its respective inhabitants. Are not these, O Mirza, upon it: “Take thine eyes off the bridge,” said he, habitations worth contending for? Does life appear " and tell me if thou seest anything thou dost not miserable, that gives thee opportunities of earning comprehend." Upon looking up,—“What mean,” such a reward? Is death to be feared, that will consaid I, “those great flights of birds that are perpetu- vey thee to so happy an existence? Think not man ally hovering about the bridge, and settling upon it was made in vain, who has such an eternity restrved from time to time? I see vultures, harpies, ravens, for him.” I gazed with inexpressible pleasure on cormorants, and among many other feathered these happy islands. At length, said I," Show me creatures, several little winged boys, that perch in now, I beseech thee, the secrets that lie hid under great numbers upon the middle arches.”—“ These,” those dark clouds, which cover the ocean on the said the genius, “are envy, avarice, superstition, other side of the rock of adamant.”

The genius despair, love, with the like cares and passions that making me no answer, I turned about to address infest human life.”

myself to him a second time, but I found that he had Y here fetched a deep sigh: “Alas,” said I, “ man left me. I then turned again to the vision which I was made in vain! How is he given away to misery had been so long contemplating; but instead of and mortality! Tortured in life, and swallowed up in the rolling tide, the arched bridge, and the happy death!” The genius being moved with compassion islands, I saw nothing but the long, hollow valley of towards me, bid me quit so uncomfortable a prospect. Bagdat, with oxen, sheep, and camels grazing upon “ Look no more," said he, "on man in the first stage the sides of it. of his existence, in his setting out for eternity; but cast thine eye on that thick mist into which the

THE WIDOW AND HER SON. tide bears the several generations of mortals that fall into it.” I directed my sight as I was ordered, and (whether or no the good genius strengthened it with

During my residence in the counıry, I used fre

quently to attend at the old village church. Its any supernatural force, or dissipated part of the mist that was before too thick for the eye to pene

shadowy aisles, its mouldering monuments, its dark trate) I saw the valley opening at the farther end,

oaken panelling, all reverend with the gloom of and spreading forth into an immense ocean, tha had

departed years, seemed to fit it for the haunt of solemn

meditation. A Sunday, too, in the country, is so a huge rock of adamant running through the midst of it and dividing it into two equal parts. The clouds

holy in its repose-such a pensive quiet reigns over still rested on one half of it, insomuch that I could

the face of Nature, that every restless passion is discover nothing in it. But the other appeared to me

charmed down, and we feel all the natural religion d vast ocean, planted with innumerable islands, that

of the soul gently springing up within us. were covered with fruits and flowers, and interwoven “Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright, with a thousand little shining seas that ran among The bridal of the earth and sky!”

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WASHINGTON IRVING.

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