And formless matter took the harmonious soul. The seeds, thy wars, thy pomp, and thy profusion, | Life, in thy life, suffused the conscious whole; Hail, Love! the Death-defier! age to age Glory and mystery since the world began. Ghost-like amid the unfamiliar Past, Dim shadows flit along the streams of Time ; Vainly our learning trifles with the vast Unknown of ages! Like the wizard's rhyme We call the dead, and from the Tartarus "Tis but the dead that rise to answer us! Voiceless and wan, we question them in vain; The link is found!—as we love, so loved they! Arch power, of every power most dread, most sweet, And, with the Graces, glide unseen the Fates; EPIGRAMS FROM THE GERMAN. TO THE MYSTICS. Life has its mystery;—True, it is that one THE KEY. To know thyself-in others self discern; MY BELIEF. What my religion? those thou namest-none? FRIEND AND FOE. Dear is my friend-yet from my foe, as from my friend, comes good; Thou, at whose birth broke forth the Founts of Light, My friend shows what I can do, and my foe shows And o'er Creation flushed the earliest morn! what I should. FORUM OF WOMEN. Woman-to judge man rightly-do not scan Each separate act;-pass judgment on the Man! SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. Give me that which thou know'st-I'll receive and attend; But thou giv'st me thyself-prithee,-spare me my friend! THE PROSELYTE MAKER. "A little earth from out the Earth-and I The Earth will move;" so spake the Sage divine. Out of myself one little moment-try Myself to take :-succeed, and I am thine! THE CONNECTING MEDIUM. What to cement the lofty and the mean CORRECTNESS. The calm correctness, where no fault we see, THE MASTER. The herd of scribes, by what they tell us, Show all in which their wits excel us; But the True Master we behold, In what his art leaves-just untold. SCIENCE. To some she is the Goddess great, to some the milchcow of the field; Their care is but to calculate-what butter she will yield. KANT AND HIS COMMENTATORS. How many starvelings one rich man can nourish! When monarchs build, the rubbish-carriers flourish. Sarah Flower Adams. Miss Flower (1805-1849), a native of London, was a younger daughter of Benjamin Flower, editor of the Cambridge Intelligencer, and a well-known politician of the Liberal school. Sarah was married to William B. Adams, eminent as a civil engineer. Her celebrated hymn, "Nearer, my God, to Thee," founded on Jacob's dream, recorded in Genesis, was contributed in 1841 to a Unitarian collection of "Hymns and Anthems," edited by William J. Fox, preacher and member of Parliament. Few hymns have been so widely popular. It has been adopted by all Christian sects, and translated into various languages, adapted to the tune of "Bethany." Professor Hitchcock relates that as he and his travelling companions rounded their way down the foot-hills of Mount Lebanon in 1870, they came in sight of a group of fifty Syrian students, who were singing in Arabic this beautiful hymn to this familiar tune. Mrs. Adams was also the author of a drama in five acts, founded on the martyrdom of Vivia Perpetua, and published in 1841; and of "The Flock at the Fountain," designed for children. NEARER, MY GOD, TO THEE. Still all my song shall be, Nearer to thee! Though like a wanderer, My rest a stone; Yet in my dreams I'd be Nearer, my God, to thee!— Nearer to thee! There let the way appear In mercy given; Then with my waking thoughts, Bethel I'll raise; So by my woes to be, Or if, on joyful wing, Cleaving the sky, Sun, moon, and stars forgot, Upward I'll fly Still all my song shall be, Nearer, my God, to theeNearer to thee! SARAH FLOWER ADAMS.-HENRY GLASSFORD BELL. THE WORLD MAY CHANGE. A PARAPHRASE FROM SCHILLER. The world may change from old to new, Yet hope and heaven, forever true, The dreams that bless the weary soul, Hope leads the child to plant the flower, The man to sow the seed; Nor leaves fulfilment to her hour, But prompts again to deed. And ere upon the old man's dust The grass is seen to wave, We look through fallen tears,-to trust Hope's sunshine on the grave. Oh no! it is no flattering lure, When hope would bid us rest secure In better life beyond: Nor loss nor shame, nor grief nor sin, THY WILL, NOT MINE. He sendeth sun, he sendeth shower, Can loving children e'er reprove A trusting, loving child to thee: As comes to me, or cloud or sun, Oh! ne'er will I at life repine- Henry Glassford Bell. 609 Bell (1805-1874) was a native of Glasgow, and educated at the University of Edinburgh. After leaving college he wrote a "Memoir of Mary Queen of Scots," which passed through several editions. He edited the Edinburgh Literary Journal for three years. In 1832 he was admitted to the Bar, became quite eminent as a lawyer, and in 1867 succeeded Sir Archibald Alison as Sheriff of Lanarkshire. His first volume of poems appeared in 1831; his last in 1865, with the title of "Romances, and other Minor Poems." Highly esteemed by all who knew him, "he had," says one of his biographers, “almost the innocence of a child with the fortitude of a sage." FROM "THE END." Dear friend, is all we see a dream? Does this brief glimpse of time and space Exhaust the aims, fulfil the scheme Intended for the human race? Shall even the star-exploring mind, Which thrills with spiritual desire, Be, like a breath of summer wind, Absorbed in sunshine and expire? Or will what men call death restore The living myriads of the past? Is dying but to go before The myriads who will come at last? If not, whence sprang the thought, and whence Perception of a Power divine, Who symbols forth Omnipotence In flowers that bloom, in suns that shine? "Tis not these fleshly limbs that think, "Tis not these filmy eyes that see; Though mind and matter break the link, Mind does not therefore cease to be. Such end is but an end in part, Such death is but the body's goal; Blood makes the pulses of the heart, But not the emotions of the soul. CADZOW. The birds are singing by Avon Bridge, O birds that sing by Avon Bridge, Why should your notes so richly flow? O tranquil sky of cloudless blue, Why shine so bright o'er Chatebrault? O Avon! rolling gently down, Why keep'st thou that old tuneful tone? Where is the voice so soft and low Whose music echoed back thy own? O Cadzow! why this rustling pomp Of leafy boughs that wave so high? Where is the light that gleamed through all Thy shadowy paths in days gone by? O summer airs! why thus recall The sweeter breath, that seemed to bring The balmy dews of summer skies, And all the roses of the spring! George Washington Bethune. AMERICAN. Dr. Bethune (1805-1862), an eloquent pulpit orator of the Dutch Church, was a native of the city of New York. Graduating at Dickinson College in the class of 1822, he studied theology at Princeton, and preached successively at Rhinebeck, Utica, Philadelphia, and Brooklyn. He published in 1848 "Lays of Love and Faith." IT IS NOT DEATH TO DIE. It is not death to die, to leave this weary road, And 'mid the brotherhood on high to be at home with God. It is not death to close the eye long dimmed by tears, And wake in glorious repose to spend eternal years. It is not death to bear the wrench that sets us free From prison-bars, to breathe the air of boundless lib erty. It is not death to fling aside this sinful dust, And rise on strong, exultant wing to live among the just. Jesus, thou prince of life! thy chosen cannot die; Like thee they conquer in the strife to live with thee on high. SONNET, INTRODUCING "LAYS," ETC. As one arranges in a single vase And trust them, gentle reader, to thy grace ; Nor hope that in my pages thou wilt trace Clothing with beauty even the desert place; John Edmund Reade. Reade (1805-1870) was a native of England. His first volume, "The Broken Heart, and other Poems," appeared in 1825. A diligent, if not a distinguished, writer, he published four collective editions of his poetical works (1851-1865). He also wrote several novels. His description of the Colosseum, though suggestive of Byron's "Childe Harold," is graphic and vigorous, showing no inconsiderable degree of original power. THE COLOSSEUM. FROM ITALY: A POEM." Hark! the night's slumberous air is musical How do their notes and nature's flowers redeem beast, If, Cain-like, brethren gloated o'er the steam Ages have cleansed the guilt, the unnatural strife hath ceased. Along its shattered edges on a sky Where human foot shall nevermore be based: Lighting as if with life those sockets of the dead! So stretches that Titanic skeleton: |