63 FROM POET, SAGE AND HUMORIST. e sun went down on many a brow, Which, full of bloom and freshness then, ankling in the pest-house now, _nd ne'er will feel that sun again! doh! to see th' unburied heaps which the lonely midnight sleeps = very vultures turn away, I sicken at so foul a prey! y the fiercer hyæna stalks oughout the city's desolate walks midnight, and his carnage pliesFoe to the half-dead wretch, who meets glaring of those large blue eyes mid the darkness of the streets! or race of Men!" said the pitying Spirit, ut the trail of the Serpent is over them all!" kindly spirits weep for man! then, beneath some orange-trees, Ose fruit and blossoms in the breeze e wantoning together, free, - age at play with infancy eath that fresh and springing bower, who in life, where'er he moved, -ew after him the hearts of many; now, as though he ne'er were loved, es here, unseen, unwept by any! e to watch near him-none to slake e fire that in his bosom lies, ■e'en a sprinkle from that lake, hich shines so cool before his eyes. oice, will know through many a day, speak the last, the parting word, ch, when all other sounds decay, still like distant music heard. tender farewell on the shore is rude world, when all is o'er, ch cheers the spirit, ere its bark off into the unknown dark. rted youth! one thought alone as safe from this foul midnight's breath;— in her father's princely halls, he sweet wood from India's land, e pure as she whose brow they fann'd. But see, who yonder comes by stealth, Than live to gain the world beside! Her arms are round her lover now, His livid cheek to hers she presses, And dips, to bind his burning brow, In the cool lake her loosen'd tresses. Ah! once, how little did he think An hour would come, when he should shrink With horror from that dear embrace, Those gentle arms, that were to him Of Eden's infant cherubim! "Oh! let me only breathe the air, The blessed air, that's breathed by thee, And, whether on its wings it bear Am I not thine-thy own loved bride- In this dim world, from thee hath shone, Could bear the long, the cheerless night, That must be hers, when thou art gone? That I can live, and let thee go, hereafter to proceed from this new, quite external stimulus. The work of vegetation begins first in the irritability of the bark and leaf-buds. From exchanging glances, they advance to acts of courtesy, of gallantry, then to fiery passion, to plighting troth and marriage. Passion beholds its object as a perfect unit. The soul is wholly embodied, and the body is wholly ensouled. "Her pure and eloquent blood Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought, That one might almost say her body thought." Romeo, if dead, should be cut up into little stars to make the heavens fine. Life, with this pair, has no other aim, asks no more, than Juliet,—than Romeo. Night, day, studies, talents, kingdoms, religion, are all contained in this form full of soul, in this soul which is all form. The lovers delight in endearments, in avowals of love, in comparisons of their regards. When alone, they solace themselves with the remembered image of the other. Does that other see the same star; the same melting cloud, read the same book, feel the same emotion, that now delight me? They try and weigh their affections, and adding up all costly advantages, friends, opportunities, properties, exult in discovering that willingly, joyfully, they would give all as a ransom for the beautiful, the beloved head, not one hair of which shall be harmed. But the lot of humanity is on these children. Danger, sorrow and pain arrive to them as to all. Love prays. It makes covenants with Eternal Power in behalf of this dear mate. The union which is thus affected and which adds a new alue to every atom in nature, for it transmutes every thread throughout the whole web of relation into a golden ray, and bathes the soul in a new and sweeter element, is yet a temporary state Not always can flowers, pearls, poetry, protestations, nor even home in another heart, content the awful soul that dwells in clay. It arouses itself at last from these endearments, as toys, and puts on the harness and aspires to vast and universal aims. The soul which is in the soul of each, craving for a perfect beatitude, detects incongruities, defects and disproportion in the behavior of the other. Hence arise surprise, expostulation and pain. Yet that which drew them to each other was signs of loveliness, signs of virtue; and these virtues are there, however eclipsed. They appear and reappear and continue to attract; but the regard changes, quits the sign and attaches to the substance. This repairs the wounded affection. Meantime, as life wears on, it proves a game of permutation and combination of all possible positions of the parties, to extort all the resources of each and acquaint each with the whole strength and weakness of the other. For, it is the nature and end of this relation, that they should represent the human race to each other. All that is in the world, which is or ought to be known, is cunningly wrought into the texture of man, of woman. "The person love does to us fit, Like manna, has the taste of all in it." The world rolls: The circumstances vary every hour All the angels that inhabit this temple of the body appear at the windows, and all the gnomes and vices also. By all the virtues they are united. If there be virtue, all the vices are known as such; they confess and flee. Their once flaming regard is sobered by time in either breast, and losing in violence what it gains in extent, it becomes a thorough good understanding. They resign each other without complaint to the good offices which man and woman are severally appointed to discharge in time, and exchange the passion which once could not lose sight of its object, for a cheerful, disengaged furtherance, whether present or absent, of each other's designs. At last they discover that all which at first drew them together,—those once sacred features, that magical play of charms,-was deciduous, had a prospective end, like the scaffolding by which the house was built; and the purification of the intellect and the heart from year to year is the real marriage, foreseen and prepared from the first, and wholly above their consciousness. Looking at these aims with which two persons, a man and a woman, so variously and correlatively gifted, are shut up in one house to spend in the nuptial society forty or fifty years, I do not wonder at the emphasis with which the heart prophesies this crisis from early infancy, at the profuse beauty with which the instincts deck the nuptial bower, and nature and intellect and art emulate each other in the gifts and the melody they bring to the epithalamium. Thus are we put in training for a love which knows not sex, nor person, nor partiality, but which seeketh virtue and wisdom everywhere, to the end of increasing virtue and wisdom. We are by nature observers, and thereby learners. That is our permanent state. But we are often made to feel that our affections are but tents of a night. Though slowly and with pain, the objects of the affections change, as the objects of thought do. There are moments when the affections rule and absorb the man and make his happiness dependent on a person or persons. But in health the mind is presently seen again,—its overarching vault, bright with galaxies of immutable lights, and the warm loves and fears that swept over us as clouds must lose their finite character and blend with God, to attain their own perfection. But we need not fear that we can lose anything by the progress of the soul. The soul may be trusted to the end. That which is so beautiful and attractive as these relations, must be succeeded and supplanted only by what is more beautiful, and so on forever. TEMPTATION.-Arbitrary power is the natural object of temptation to a prince; as wine or women to a young fellow, or a bribe to a judge, or avarice to old age, or vanity to a woman.-Swift. THANATOPSIS. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. To him who in the love of nature holds, Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, To nature's teachings, while from all around— Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim To be a brother to the insensible rock Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, So shalt thou rest-and what if thou withdraw TO A WATERFOWL WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. Whither, 'midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way! Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, Seek'st thou the plashy brink There is a power whose care Lone wandering, but not lost. All day thy wings have fanned, And soon that toil shall end; Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart. SONNET-MIDSUMMER. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. A power is on the earth and in the air, From which the vital spirit shrinks afraid, And shelters him, in nooks of deepest shade, From the hot steam and from the fiery glare. Look forth upon the earth-her thousand plants Are smitten, even the dark sun-loving maize Faints in the field beneath the torrid blaze; The herd beside the shaded fountain pants; For life is driven from all the landscape brown; The bird has sought his tree, the snake his den, The trout floats dead in the hot stream and men Drop by the sun-stroke in the populous town; As if the Day of Fire had dawned and sent Its deadly breath into the firmanent. JOHN GIL PIN, WM. COWPER. John Gilpin was a citizen Of credit and renown, A train band captain eke was he John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear: Unto the Bell at Edmonton All in a chaise and pair. •My sister, and my sister's child, Myself and children three, Will fill the chaise; so you must ride He soon replied: 'I do admire And you are she, my dearest dear; 'I am a linen-draper bold, As all the world doth know, Quoth Mrs. Gilpin: That's well said; John Gilpin kissed his loving wife; O'erjoyed was he to find That, though on pleasure she was bent, She had a frugal mind. The morning came, the chaise was brought, But yet was not allowed To drive up to the door, lest all Should say that she was proud. So three doors off the chaise was stayed, Six precious souls, and all agog To dash through thick and thin. Smack went the whip, 'round went the wheels, John Gilpin at his horse's side Seized fast the flowing mane, And up he got, in haste to ride, But soon came down again; For saddle-tree scarce reached had he, So down he came; for loss of time, 'Twas long before the customers Were suited to their mind, When Betty screaming came down-stairs: 'The wine is left behind!' 'Good lack!' quoth he- yet bring it me, My leathern belt likewise, In which I bear my trusty sword Now Mrs. Gilpin-careful soul!- Each bottle had a curling ear, Through which the belt he drew, And hung a bottle on each side, To make his balance true. Then over all, that he might be His long red cloak, well brushed and neat, Now see him mounted once again But finding soon a smoother road So, 'Fair and softly,' John he cried, So stooping down, as needs he must Who cannot stoop upright, He grasps the mane with both his hands, His horse, which never in that sort The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, Till, loop and button failing both, Then might all people well discern A bottle swinging at each side, As hath been said or sung. The dogs did bark, the children screamed, And every soul cried out: 'Well done!' His fame soon spread around; And now, as he went bowing down Down ran the wine into the road, Most piteous to be seen, Which made his horse's flanks to smoke, As they had basted been. But still he seemed to carry weight, With leathern girdle braced; For all might see the bottle necks Still dangling at his waist. Thus all through merry Islington Of Edmonton so gay. And there he threw the wash about On both sides of the way, Just like unto a trundling mop, At Edmonton, his loving wife From the balcony spied Her tender husband, wondering much 'Stop, stop, John Gilpin-Here's the housel They all at once did cry; "The dinner waits, and we are tired! Said Gilpin: 'So am I!' But yet his horse was not a whit The calender, amazed to see His neighbor in such trim, 'What news? what news? your tidings tell; Say, why bareheaded you are come, In merry guise he spoke: 'I came because your horse would come; And, if I well forebode, My hat and wig will soon be here They are upon the road.' The calender, right glad to find But to the house went in; Whence straight he came with hat and wig, A wig that flowed behind, A hat not much the worse for wear, Each comely in its kind. He held them up, and in his turn They therefore need must fit. Said John: 'It is my wedding day, So turning to his horse, he said: "Twas for your pleasure you came here, |