Here will I hold. If there's a Power above us,

And that there is, all nature cries aloud

Through all her works, he must delight in virtue;

And that which he delights in must be happy.

But when? or where? This world was made for Cæsar.
I'm weary of conjectures - this must end them.

Thus I am doubly armed. My death and life,
My bane and antidote, are both before me.
This in a moment brings me to an end;
But this informs me I shall never die!
The soul, secured in her existence, smiles
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point.
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself
Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years;
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,
Unhurt amidst the war of elements,

The wreck of matter and the crush of worlds.

THE SPACIOUS FIRMAMENT

JOSEPH ADDISON

HE spacious firmament on high,

THE

With all the blue ethereal sky,

And spangled heavens, a shining frame,

Their great Original proclaim.

Th' unwearied sun, from day to day,
Does his Creator's power display,

And publishes to every land
The work of an almighty hand.

Soon as the even shades prevail,

The moon takes up the wondrous tale,

And nightly to the listening earth
Repeats the story of her birth.

While all the stars that round her burn,
And all the planets in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,

And spread the truth from pole to pole.

What though, in solemn silence, all
Move round the dark terrestrial ball;
What though no real voice nor sound,
Amid their radiant orbs be found:
In reason's ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice,
Forever singing as they shine,

"The hand that made us is divine."

OH, WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD

NOTE TO THE PUPIL.

WILLIAM KNOX.

William Knox was a Scotch poet born in 1788, who died early, having written but little. “ The Lonely Hearth' and "Songs of Israel" being the most noted of his works. The following poem was a great favorite of President Lincoln's.

H, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?

Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,

A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,
Man passes from life to his rest in the grave.

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,
Be scattered around and together be laid;

And the young and the old, and the low and the high,
Shall molder to dust, and together shall lie.

The infant, a mother attended and loved,

The mother, that infant's affection who proved,

The husband, that mother and infant who blessed,
Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest.

The maid, on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye
Shone beauty and pleasure her triumphs are by;
And the memories of those who have loved her and praised
Are alike from the minds of the living erased.

The hand of the king that the scepter hath borne,
The brow of the priest that the miter hath worn,
The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave,
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.

The peasant, whose lot was to sow and to reap,
The herdsman, who climbed with his goats up the steep,
The beggar, who wandered in search of his bread,

Have faded away like the grass that we tread.

The saint, who enjoyed the communion of Heaven,
The sinner, who dared to remain unforgiven,
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.

So the multitude goes, like the flower or the weed,
That withers away to let others succeed;
So the multitude comes, even those we behold,
To repeat every tale that has often been told.

For we are the same that our fathers have been;
We see the same sights that our fathers have seen;
We drink the same stream, and we view the same sun,
And run the same course that our fathers have run.

The thoughts we are thinking, our fathers would think;
From the death we are shrinking, our fathers would shrink;
To the life we are clinging, they also would cling;
But it speeds for us all, like a bird on the wing.

They loved, but the story we cannot unfold;

They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold;
They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers will come;
They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.

They died-ah! they died-and we things that are now,
Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow,
Who make in their dwelling a transient abode,
Meet the changes they met on their pilgrimage road.

Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,
We mingle together in sunshine and rain;

And the smiles and the tears, the song and the dirge,
Still follow each other like surge upon surge.

'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath,
From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud,
Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?

THE HOUR OF DEATH

MRS. FELICIA HEMANS

LEAVES have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath,

And stars to set, but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh, Death!

Day is for mortal care,

Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth,
Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer, -
But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth.

The banquet hath its hour,

Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine; There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power, A time for softer tears, but all are thine.

Youth and the opening rose

May look like things too glorious for decay,
And smile at thee, - but thou art not of those
That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath,
And stars to set, but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh, Death!

We know when moons shall wane, When summer birds from far shall cross the sea, When Autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain, But who shall teach us when to look for thee?

Is it when Spring's first gale

Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie?
Is it when roses in our paths grow pale?
They have one season, - all are ours to die.

Thou art where billows foam,

Thou art where music melts upon the air,

Thou art around us in our peaceful home,

And the world calls us forth, — and thou art there.