No sigh, no murmur the wide world shall hear,— From every face He wipes off every tear.

Rise, crowned with light, imperial Salem, rise!
Exalt thy towering head, and lift thine eyes!
See a long race thy spacious courts adorn;
See future sons, and daughters yet unborn,
In crowding ranks, on every side arise,
Discarding life, impatient for the skies!
See barbarous nations at thy gates attend,
Walk in thy light, and in thy temple bend!

III.—THE FUTURE MERCIFULLY CONCEALED.

(POPE.)

HEAVEN from all creatures hides the book of Fate,
All but the page prescribed, their present state:
From brutes what men, from men what spirits know:
Or who could suffer being here below?

The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day,

Had he thy reason, would he skip and play?
Pleased to the last, he crops the flowery food,
And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood.
Oh, blindness to the future! kindly given,
That each may fill the circle marked by Heaven:
Who sees with equal eye, as God of all,
A hero perish, or a sparrow fall,

Atoms or systems into ruin hurled,

And now a bubble burst, and now a world.

Hope humbly, then; with trembling pinions soar, Wait the great teacher, Death; and God adore. What future bliss, he gives not thee to know, But gives that hope to be thy blessing now. Hope springs eternal in the human breast; Man never Is, but always To be blest: The soul, uneasy, and confined from home, Rests and expatiates in a life to come.

HUMAN LIFE.

185

IV.-HUMAN LIFE.
(ROGERS.)

THE lark has sung his carol in the sky,
The bees have hummed their noontide lullaby
Still, in the vale, the village bells ring round,
Still, in Llewelyn-hall, the jests resound:
For, now, the caudle-cup1 is circling there;
Now, glad at heart, the gossips breathe their prayer,
And, crowding, stop the cradle, to admire

The babe, the sleeping image of his sire!

A few short years, and then these sounds shall hail The day again, and gladness fill the vale;

So soon the child a youth, the youth a man,
Eager to run the race his fathers ran:

Then, the huge ox shall yield the broad sirloin;
The ale (now brewed) in floods of amber shine;
And, basking in the chimney's ample blaze,
'Mid many a tale told of his boyish days,
The Nurse shall cry, of all her ills beguiled,
""Twas on these knees he sat so oft and smiled!"
And soon, again, shall music swell the breeze:
Soon, issuing forth, shall glitter through the trees
Vestures of nuptial white; and hymns be sung,
And violets scattered round: and old and young,
In every cottage porch, with garlands green,
Stand still to gaze, and, gazing, bless the scene;
While her dark eyes declining, by his side,
Moves, in her virgin veil, the gentle bride.

And once, alas! nor in a distant hour,
Another voice shall come from yonder tower;
When, in dim chambers, long black weeds are seen,
And weepings heard, where only joy hath been;
When, by his children borne, and from his door
Slowly departing to return no more,

He rests in holy earth, with them who went before.
And such is Human Life! So gliding on,

It glimmers, like a meteor-and is gone!

1 Warm drink mixed with wine.

V.-SPIRIT OF BEAUTY.

(RUFUS DAWES.)

Mr. Dawes is an American poet. He is the son of Judge Thomas Dawes, and was born in Boston in 1803.

THE Spirit of Beauty unfurls her light,
And wheels her course in a joyous flight!
I know her track through the balmy air,
By the blossoms that cluster and whiten there:
She leaves the tops of the mountains green,
And gems the valley with crystal sheen.

At morn I know where she rested at night,
For the roses are gushing with dewy delight;
Then she mounts again, and around her flings
A shower of light from her purple wings,
Till the spirit is drunk with the music on high,
That silently fills it with ecstasy!

At noon she hies to a cool retreat,

Where bowering elms over waters meet;

She dimples the wave, where the green leaves dip,
That smiles as it curls like a maiden's lip,
When her tremulous bosom would hide, in vain,
From her lover the hope that she loves again.

At eve she hangs o'er the western sky
Dark clouds for a glorious canopy;

And round the skirts of each sweeping fold,
She paints a border of crimson and gold,
When the lingering sunbeams love to stay,
Where their god in his glory has passed away.

She hovers around us at twilight hour,

When her presence is felt with the deepest power;
She mellows the landscape and crowds the stream
With the shadows that flit like a fairy dream;
Still wheeling her flight through the gladsome air,
The Spirit of Beauty is everywhere.

PADDLE YOUR OWN CANOE.

187

VI.-PADDLE YOUR OWN CANOE.

(ANONYMOUS.)

VOYAGER upon life's sea, to yourself be true,

And where'er your lot may be, “Paddle your own canoe!” Never, though the winds may rave, falter nor look back; But upon the darkest wave leave a shining track.

Nobly dare the wildest storm, stem the hardest gale; Brave of heart and strong of arm, you will never fail. When the world is cold and dark, keep an aim in view; And toward the beacon-mark "Paddle your own canoe!"

Every wave that bears you on to the silent shore,
From its sunny source has gone, to return no more.
Then let not an hour's delay cheat you of your due;
But, while it is called to-day, "Paddle your own canoe!”

If your birth denied you wealth, lofty state and power,
Honest fame and hardy health are a better dower.
But, if these will not suffice, golden gain pursue;
And to gain the glittering prize, "Paddle your own canoe!”

Would you wrest the wreath of fame from the hand of fáte?
Would you write a deathless name with the good and great?
Would you bless your fellow-mén? Heart and soul imbue
With the holy task, and then "Paddle your own canoe!”

Would you crush the tyrant wrong, in the world's free fight?
With a spirit brave and strong, battle for the right.
And to break the chains that bind the many to the few-
To enfranchise slavish mind-" Paddle your own canoe!"

Nothing great is lightly won, nothing won is lost;
Every good deed, nobly done, will repay the cost.
Leave to Heaven, in humble trust, all you will to do;

But, if you succeed, you must " PADDLE YOUR OWN CANOE!"

VII.-BRUCE AND THE SPIDER; OR, TRY AGAIN.

(ELIZA COOK.)

KING BRUCE of Scotland flung himself down in a lonely mood to think;

'Tis true he was monarch, and wore a crown, but his heart was beginning to sink.

For he had been trying to do a great deed to make his people glad,

He had tried and tried, but couldn't succeed, and so he became quite sad.

He flung himself down in low despair, as grieved as man could be;

And after a while as he pondered there, "I'll give it all up,”

said he.

Now just at the moment a spider dropped, with its silken cobweb clue,

And the king in the midst of his thinking stopped to see what the spider would do.

'Twas a long way up to the ceiling dome, and it hung by a rope so fine,

That how it would get to its cobweb home, King Bruce could not divine.

It soon began to cling and crawl straight up with strong endeavour,

But down it came, with a slipping sprawl, as near to the ground as ever.

Up, up it ran, not a second it stayed, to utter the least com

plaint,'

Till it fell still lower, and there it laid, a little dizzy and faint.

Its head grew steady-again it went, and travelled a half yard higher,

"Twas a delicate thread it had to tread, and a road where its feet would tire.