standing the examples of the fate of so many that have gone before them, they make the hazardous leap. And why? Not from inclination, or with a willing mind, but because, being solicited, urged, and entreated, they know not how to say, No. If they had learned not only to pronounce that monosyllable, but to make use of it on all proper occasions, it might have saved from ruin themselves and their wives and children.

But the worst of it is still behind. The ruin of character, of morals, and of the very heart and soul of man, originates often in a passive yieldingness of temper and disposition, or in the want of the resolution to say, No. Thousands and many thousands, through this weakness, have been the victims of craft and deceit. Thousands and many thousands, once of fair promise, but now sunk in depravity and wretchedness, owe their ruin to the act of consenting, against their better judgments, to the enticement of evil companions and familiars. Had they said, No, when duty, when honor, when conscience, when every thing sacred demanded it of them, happy might they now have been the solace of their kindred and the ornaments of society.

Sweetness of temper, charitableness of heart, gentleness of demeanor, together with a strong

disposition to act obligingly, and even to be yielding in things indifferent, or of trifling moment, are amiable and estimable traits of the human character; but there must be withal, and as the groundwork of the whole, such a firmness of resolution as will guaranty it against yielding, either imprudently or immorally, to solicitations and enticements. Else one has very little chance, in passing down the current of life, of escaping the eddies and quicksands that lie in his way.

Firmness of purpose is one of the most necessary sinews of character, and one of the best instruments of success; without it, genius wastes its efforts in a maze of inconsistencies, and brings to its possessor disgrace rather than honor.

THE VILLAGE CLOCK.

WRITTEN IN THE BELFRY OF AN OLD CHURCH.

FROM here we catch its measured stroke, Artistic as a minstrel's rhyme;

List to its ceaseless tick, tick, tick
It is the pulse of Time!
With every tick our seconds pass,
Our heart-beats are the falling sands
Within an unseen hour-glass.

There is a heart in this old clock, –
Its tongue speaks hourly to the town,-
Which has, since first it 'gan to throb,

Seen many a heart run down,

Seen many a human clock grow dumb,

Seen many a life sway to and fro,
As restless as the pendulum.

In the still graveyard, in the dell, There slumber hundreds who have heard The music of this sweet old bell.

And when we join the group which sleeps
So calmly in the sunshine there,
This pulse will tick the same as now,
And, in the twilight air,

This bell to other, stranger ears,
Will say the same odd words it said,
Sweet words to us, in other years.

The swallow in the belfry high,
Each summer time, will build its nest;
The ring-dove seek it in the storm,
To smooth its ruffled breast;

The busy spider in the light

Will spin quaint fancies round the posts;
The mournful curfew sound at night.

The shadows on the antique porch
Will come and go in silent waves;
The moss will grow upon the roof,

The daisies on our grave;

The clock will tick, St. Agnes chime The Sunday in - but not for us;

We will not heed the pulse of Time!

THE TWO PALACES.

I HAD been trying to exclude outward objects from my mind, and turn my thoughts inward upon the soul. I endeavored to think of its origin, of its capacities, of its never-ending existence; my mind became bewildered by the subject, and I fell asleep, and dreamed.

A form of divine beauty stood beside me, and pointed towards a noble palace, that at a little distance rose before me. It was vast, and symmetrical in its proportions, and of a dazzling whiteness: Clear, rosy light hovered above it like a cloud, and air bracing as that of the mountains, yet soft as in early June, floated around it.

"Enter!" said my guide. In another moment I stood within the palace, astonished at its splendor. Above me rose a crystal dome, through which a flood of morning light streamed. The floor was inlaid with gems that reflected the light in a thousand hues, so that there was no hiding-place for