Heart to heart was never known;
Mind with mind did never meet;
We are columns left alone
Of a temple once complete.

Like the stars that gem the sky,
Far apart though seeming near,
In our light we scattered lie;
All is thus but starlight here.

What is social company

But a babbling summer stream?
What our wise philosophy
But the glancing of a dream?

Only when the sun of love

Melts the scattered stars of thought,
Only when we live above

What the dim-eyed world hath taught,

Only when our souls are fed

By the fount which gave them birth, And by inspiration led

Which they never drew from earth,

We, like parted drops of rain,
Swelling till they meet and run,
Shall be all absorbed again,
Melting, flowing into one.

CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCHI.

THE TABLES TURNED.

UP! up, my friend! and quit your books,
Or surely you'll grow double;
Up! up, my friend! and clear your looks;
Why all this toil and trouble?

The sun, above the mountain's head,
A freshening lustre mellow
Through all the long green fields has spread,

His first sweet evening yellow.

Books! 't is a dull and endless strife; Come, hear the woodland linnetIlow sweet his music! on my life,

There's more of wisdom in it!

And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!
He, too, is no mean preacher;
Come forth into the light of things-
Let nature be your teacher.

She has a world of ready wealth,

675

Our minds and hearts to bless,-Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, Truth breathed by cheerfulness.

One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man,
Of moral evil and of good,

Than all the sages can.

Sweet is the lore which nature brings;
Our meddling intellect

Misshapes the beauteous forms of things-
We murder to dissect.

Enough of science and of art;

Close up those barren leaves;

Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

THE FOUNTAIN.

A CONVERSATION.

WE talked with open heart, and tongue Affectionate and true

A pair of friends, though I was young And Matthew seventy-two.

We lay beneath a spreading oak,

Beside a mossy scat;

And from the turf a fountain broke,
And gurgled at our feet.

"Now, Matthew!" said I, "let us match
This water's pleasant tune
With some old border-song or catch,
That suits a summer's noon;

"Or of the church clock and the chimes
Sing here, beneath the shade,
That half-mad thing of witty rhymes
Which you last April made!"

In silence Matthew lay, and eyed
The spring beneath the tree;
And thus the dear old man replied,
The gray-haired man of glee:

"No check, no stay, this streamlet fears, How merrily it goes!

'T will murmur on a thousand years, And flow as now it flows.

"My days, my friend, are almost gene; My life has been approved,

And many love me; but by nono
Am I enough beloved!"

„b-Dliy Bus foliovým

"Now both himself and me he wrongs.

The man who thus complains!

I live and sing my idle songs mod and be bo Upon these happy plains; many wond How Bistude qui 998 2

"And, Matthew, for thy children dead, I'll be a son to thee!" od m To m At this he grasped my hand, and said "Alas! that cannot be."LA

MORTAL mixed of middle clay,
Attempered to the night and day,
Interchangeable with things,
Needs no amulets or rings.
Guy possessed the talisman
That all things from him began ;
And as, of old, Polycrates
Chained the sunshine and the breeze,
So did Guy betimes discover
Fortune was his guard and lover-
In strange junctures felt, with awe,
His own symmetry with law;
So that no mixture could withstand
The virtue of his lucky hand.
He gold or jewel could not lose,
Nor not receive his ample dues.
In the street, if he turned round,
His eye the eye 't was seeking found.
It seemed his genius discreet
Worked on the maker's own receipt,
And made each tide and element
Stewards of stipend and of rent;
So that the common waters fell
As costly wine into his well.

He had so sped his wise affairs
That he caught nature in his suares;
Early or late, the falling rain
Arrived in time to swell his grain;
Stream could not so perversely wind
But corn of Guy's was there to grind;
The siroc found it on its way

To speed his sails, to dry his hay;
And the world's sun seemed to ris
To drudge all day for Guy the wise.
In his rich nurseries timely skill
Strong crab with nobler blood did fill;
The zephyr in his garden rolled
From plum trees vegetable gold;
And all the hours of the year

With their own harvests honored were.
There was no frost but welcome came,
Nor freshet, nor midsummer flame.
Belonged to wind and world the toil
And venture, and to Guy the oil.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

TEMPERANCE, OR THE CHEAP PIIY-
SICIAN.

Go now! and with some daring drug
Bait thy disease; and, whilst they tug,
Thou, to maintain their precious strife,
Spend the dear treasures of thy life.
Go! take physic—dote upon
Some big-named composition,
The oraculous doctor's mystic bills-
Certain hard words made into pills;
And what at last shalt gain by these?
Only a costlier disease.

That which makes us have no need
Of physic, that 's physic indeed.
Hark, hither, reader! wilt thou see
Nature her old physician be?
Wilt see a man all his own wealth,
His own music, his own health-
A man whose sober soul can tell
How to wear her garments well-
Her garments that upon her sit
As garments should do, close and fit-
A well-clothed soul that's not oppressed
Nor choked with what she should be dressed-
A soul sheathed in a crystal shrine,
Through which all her bright features shine:
As when a piece of wanton lawn,

A thin aerial veil is drawn

O'er beauty's face, seeming to hide,

More sweetly shows the blushing bride-
A soul whose, intellectual beams
No mists do mask, no lazy streams-
A happy soul, that all the way

To heaven hath a summer's day?

Wouldst see a man whose well-warmed blood Bathes him in a genuine flood?—

A man whose tuned humors be

A seat of rarest harmony?

Wouldst see blithe looks, fresh cheeks, be

And when life's sweet fable ends,
Soul and body part like friends—
No quarrels, murmurs, no delay——
A kiss, a sigh, and so away?
This rare one, reader, wouldst thou see?
Bark, hither! and thyself be he.

RICHARD CRASHAW.

BACCHUS.

BRING me wine, but wine which never grew

In the belly of the grape,

Wine which inusic is,—
Music and wine are one,-
That I, drinking this,

Shall hear far chaos talk with me;
Kings unborn shall walk with me;
And the poor grass shall plot and plan
What it will do when it is man.
Quickened so, will I unlock
Every crypt of every rock.

I thank the joyful juice
For all I know:-
Winds of remembering
Of the ancient being blow,

through

Under the Andes to the Cape,

Suffered no savor of the earth to 'scape.

Let its grapes the morn salute

From a nocturnal root,
Which feels the acrid juice
Of Styx and Erebus;

And turns the woe of night,

By its own craft, to a more rich delight.

We buy ashes for bread,
We buy diluted wine;
Give me of the truc,-

Whose ample leaves and tendrils curled
Among the silver hills of heaven,
Draw everlasting dew;

Wine of wine,

Blood of the world,

Form of forms and mould of statures.
That I intoxicated,

And by the draught assimilated,

May float at pleasure through all natures; The bird-language rightly spell,

And that which roses say so well.

Wine that is shed

Like the torrents of the sun

Up the horizon walls,

Or like the Atlantic streams, which run

When the South Sea calls.

Water and bread,

Food which needs no transmuting, Rainbow-flowering, wisdom-fruiting Wine which is already man,

Food which teach and reason can.

Open and flow.

679

And write my old adventures with the pen Which on the first day drew,

Upon the tablets blue,

The dancing Pleiads and eternal men.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

SMOKING SPIRITUALIZED.

PART I.

THIS Indian weed, now withered quite, Though green at noon, cut down at night. Shows thy decay

All flesh is hay:

Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

The pipe, so lily-like and weak,
Docs thus thy mortal state bespeak;
Thou art e'en such-

Gone with a touch:

Thus think, and smoke tobacco.