to Thee, And bend in fervent homage where no eye but Thine can see; I seek Thee, and it cannot be that seeking will be vain, Because Thy servant does not stand within a clois derson; and at length Mr. Paxton's plan | Far from the busy world, alone, I bring my heart was tendered by them as an "improvement" on the Committee's design, and their offer proved to be the lowest. It will be recollected what followed: the Crystal Palace was eventually chosen unanimously, not only by the Building Committee but by the Royal Commission; and the many thousands who assembled within the fairy-like structure at its inauguration, on Thursday last, must have been impressed with the soundness of this decision. Such is a brief résumé of the circumstances which led to this fortunate adoption of Mr. Paxton's design: a more fitting temple for the world's industrial treasures could not be devised; and it was but a just recognition of its author's great share in contributing to the success of the Exhibition, that he led the inauguration pageant on Thursday. ter'd fane. Who will, may give the sacrifice, reeking in gory flood, And supplicate a God with hands all hot and dark with blood; I could not sue for mercy at a victim-laden shrineThe altar and the incense of the mountain-top be mine. I would not have the zealot priest in white robes at my side, Such robes too often mask a form corrupt with sin and pride; No cold and formal hypocrite my faith and hopes shall bear, My warm and trusting soul shall yield its own adoring prayer. I thank Thee, God! enough of joy has marked my span of days, than ill, Mr. Paxton is a distinguished Fellow of the Linnæan and Horticultural Societies, and has produced a Botanical Dictionary of To thrill my heart with gratitude and wake the accredited worth, besides editing the "Flow- words of praise: er Garden" and other botanical and horti- I have accepted at Thy hand much more of good cultural works. The gardens at Chatsworth form an excellent finishing school for young men; and many foreigners having received here instructions in horticulture, has invested Mr. Paxton's taste and skill with European celebrity. And all of trouble has but shown the wisdom of I see the climbing sun disperse the misty clouds The accompanying Portrait, an excellent I watch the peeping star that gleams from out the likeness, is from a photograph by Kilburn. Never! my secret orisons are raptured as sincere; Whose presence lights the saintly shrine and fills I love, I serve, I worship Thee, but never yet could Thou who dost guide the lightning shaft, and mark I see too much of happiness for human hearts to the rainbow's span ; find, Creator of the reptile worm, and fashioner of To hold the Maker that bestows as aught else but the kind: man; Hear Thou my song of praise and love! Hear Thou Let man be but as kind to man, and soon our woe my song, oh, God! and strife My temple dome is Thy broad sky, my kneeling- Would fade away like mists, and leave us well place Thy sod. content with life. And what is death, that e'en its thought should make us sigh and weep? The grave, to me, but seems a couch of sound and holy sleep; For every drop from that soul-guided pen, Shall fall a blessing on the hearts of men; Shall rouse the listless to triumphant toils, Wean the unruly from their sins and broils; Why should I dread the fiat, when my trusting Teach the grown man, and in the growing child spirit knows That He who bids my eyelids fall will watch their last repose? THE CONTRAST. BY JOHN CRITCHLEY PRINCE. THE SOLDIER. SEE the poor soldier! no unworthy name- To things that blight his heart and cloud his head; Shut up his sympathies, enslave his soul, Till he becomes,-Oh, man, thrice brave and blest! Fame, did I say? Can that enchanting thing, For whose great guerdon Genius strains his wing, Bedim his lustrous records with the tale Of deeds whereat the harass'd World turns pale? They write it fame; but Reason, Truth, and Song, Must find a darker word to designate the Wrong! THE STUDENT. Lo! in that quiet and contracted room, And as the mighty thoughts spring out complete, Transfuse a power to keep it undefiled; Oh! for a day of that triumphant time, When Marlboroughs shall be useless, and the name Of Miltons travel through a wider fame; yield To mightier Watts, in a far ampler field! When War's red banner shall for aye be furl'd, And Peace embrace all climes, all children of the world! RHYMES FOR WORKERS. BY ERNEST WATMOUGH. READ A POEM; 'tis a pleasant But consider while you read. From the spirit's choicest mine; Learn their import, and their teachings With thine own ideas combine. WRITE A POEM; if the power LIVE A POEM; for 'tis better Than to read or write a lay; Live a poem; men shall read thee In thine actions day by day. If with deeds by virtue prompted, Thou shalt make thy life sublime; Thou wilt prove a noble poem Lasting to the end of time. From the "American Review," THE OUT-DOOR ARTIST. From the French of Emile Vanderburck. THE entire population of the good city of Brussels was stirring. Talma, the great French tragedian, was to close his engage ment this evening in Leonidas, the author of which drama, young Pichot, had so lately been snatched from classic literature on the eve of his first triumph. The doors of the theatre had been besieged almost since the break of day; to the south the train of eager spectators extended as far as the extremity of the Place de la Monnaie. It was evident that the old theatre could not contain the crowd that thronged, in anxious expectation, around its doors. The hero of this species of ovation, the personage who thus excited the enthusiasm of these worthy beer-drinkers of ancient Brabant-a race of men by nature very phlegmatic-was standing at a window of the Hôtel de la Croix-Blanche, quietly occupied in shaving himself. His glance fell occasionally with great indifference upon this crowd, that was attracted by himself alone, as if he were accustomed to such triumphs, and accepted them like a monarch who does not allow himself to be intoxicated by the enthusiasm of the people. ideas. It is the most tedious and declamatory tragedy that we have played since Germanicus; but I produce an effect in it by a few pompous and patriotic verses which it contains, especially in the provinces; and this good David would have thought he beheld his own painting brought upon the stage. But he will not come; he has refused you; I was sure of it. Age, exile, the memory of the past, all these have sadly changed him; he is no longer our David of the Consulate." "I have just left him," replied the collector. "He received me somewhat as Hermione receives Orestes in the fourth act of Andromache. He was bitter-sweet, to say the least. I never go to the theatre,' he cried roughly. "Tell my friend Talma that I thank him for his kind intentions, but that I always retire at nine o'clock. He will do me a favor if, before his departure, he will come and drink a can of beer and smoke a pipe with me.'" "He is completely turned into a Fleming," replied Talma sarcastically. "Poor genius! to this it comes at last! to smoke Dutch tobacco, and to despise the arts. Persecution does more harm than the guillotine, my dear Lesec," added the tragedian, in a tone of bitterness; "it kills our great men in their lifetime, and deprives us, perhaps, of twenty chefs d'œuvre. I pardon the Restoration for surrounding itself with men of empty brains, but it ought not to exile our men of talent; they are not so very plenty in these times. But let us drop the subject; a little more, and we should be talking pol He was conversing familiarly with an old friend, an inhabitant of the city, a great amateur of the drama, who had even made an attempt upon the boards in his time, though unsuccessfully indeed. Thanks, however, to the protection of Talma, who wasitics." all-powerful under the Empire, he had exchanged the buskin, which suited him so ill, for a trifling post in the revenue department, which suited him but little better, but in which he was at least sheltered against hisses. The fall of the imperial Colossus had not displaced the protégé of the great artist. Governments are changed, empires crumble, but taxes and tax-gatherers are permanent. Talma finished shaving, as any private individual would have done, his companion gazing upon him the while in wondering silence, as if he thought it extraordinary that the representative of so many heroes and demi-gods could deign to remove his own beard. The crowd upon the square kept continually increasing, promising to Leonidas an ample harvest of pistoles and of crowns. Do you know, my dear M. Lesec," said the great actor suddenly, as he sponged his chin with cold water, and half closed his eyes, as if he were about to utter a sarcasm; "do you know that our stern republicans are oftentimes as thoroughly imbued with aristocratic notions as the old noblesse? I will bet you ten Napoleons that David | pected but a cold reception, David smiled would have come to the theatre if I had upon him, and cast the large pipe that he gone and invited him in person. I thought held upon an arm-chair, in order warmly to of doing so, but I had not time. I have clasp both his friend's hands. been plying here the trades of manager and prompter. These rehearsals are killing me; to teach talking puppets in perukes, to play tragedy! Stay, I have still about three quarters of an hour at my disposal: I will go and attack this old Roman in his citadel. Will you accompany me?" "Willingly," replied M. Lesec, shaking his head, like a man who consents to a proposal, but with little expectation of success. The tragedian, whose air was quite common-place when he was off the stage, drew on his overcoat, and familiarly gave his arm to his friend the collector, who, quite proud of such a companion, walked with his stateliest step in crossing the Place de la Monnaie, assuming to himself a liberal share of the glances of curiosity and admiration which greeted our two friends as they passed along. They soon left the crowd, however, and turned from the Rue Pierre Plate into the Rue de la Fourche. "We are about to encounter a hurricane, my illustrious friend," said M. Lesec; "prepare yourself. As for me, I throw the whole burden upon your shoulders; I will not meddle with the matter." "Has he changed into a complete lycanthrope, then?" rejoined the actor, quickening his step. "Poor exile! poor dying genius! I pity thee!" “Sacrebleu! you are welcome, my old comrade!" he cried abruptly; “you could not have come at a better moment. I feel a joy that I have not experienced for a long while. Your presence but augments it." And the old painter rubbed his hands together, which with him was a sign of uncommon satisfaction. Talma glanced at M. Lesec, as if to say: "The devil is not so black as you painted him." The worthy collector replied only in pantomime. His outstretched arms, and his eyes dilated to their utmost width, signified plainly: "I cannot comprehend it; it seems that the barometer has changed. This is positive, however, I for my part was received like a dog in a game of skittles. You will say, 'A humble clerk of the revenue department and the French Roscius are two very different persons,' I suppose." "Sacrebleu! you must promise to come and dine with me to-morrow," resumed the painter, accompanying this cordial invitation with a smile; and the smile upon M. David's grave and austere face bore a considerable resemblance to a grimace, and the more so because, as is well known, he had a tumor in the mouth, which, when he spoke with animation, drew his cheek awry, and embarrassed his utterance. "You set out to-morrow?" "I am obliged to do so. Michelet and Damas have the whole burden of the theatre upon their shoulders; the committee urges my return. Lemercier is only waiting for me, to rehearse a kind of Richard III." "I cannot accept your invitation, my old The two soon reached the new Louvre of comrade," replied Talma in a tone of rethe celebrated artist, which, notwithstand-gret; "I play this evening for the last time, ing its seclusion and its antiquated air, and to-morrow I set out for Paris." seemed quite a comfortable abode. A woman, of at least sixty years of age, with difficulty opened the heavy door, not without having first examined the visitors through a little grated loop-hole. Finally, they were admitted into an ill-lighted and somewhat disordered saloon, the ornaments and furniture of which, by a singular anomaly, presented relics of the taste of the last two centuries; and the master of the French school of painting, the celebrated David, entering from an adjoining apartment, advanced to meet them, with a quick, yet almost majestic step, although his form had already begun to bend somewhat beneath the weight of years. The illustrious exile accompanied this To the great surprise of Talma, who ex-sentence with a second smile, even more ter "Sacrebleu! I mock at your committee; you shall depart day after to-morrow; a single day will not cause the Théâtre Franraise to die of hunger. I expect my friend Girodet, and you must dine with us. It will make me younger by twenty years; it will remind me of our meetings at Koliker's, near the gate of the Louvre." rifying than the first. The actor was greatly moved by it. There was something painful in this bitter smile; it seemed to betoken regret for his distant country. "I will remain, I will remain for your sake, my good David!" replied the tragedian warmly; “for your sake I will neglect my duty-I will steal a day from my friends and associates; but it is on condition that you will make a slight sacrifice in my favor, and come this evening to see me play Leonidas." 'Ah, well, my friend, they still remember me! They know, then, here in Brussels, that I exist, or nearly so." "The country of so many celebrated painters," replied the courteous collector, "owes these testimonials of admiration to a great man who demands of her an asylum.” "Enough! enough !" said M. David, who wished to preserve his good humor, and to whom this compliment brought back a pain "Well, well! be it so! I consent," replied the painter, whom the expected arrival of his friend Girodet had rendered joyous and almost affable. “I will come; but so much the worse for you, my friend, if I nod a little; that has happened to me almost every time that I set foot in a theatre." "The plaudits with which M. Talma willful remembrance; "do not forget that I have be overwhelmed will wake you, M. David," come here to see Talma." Leonidas soon said the obsequious M. Lesec; and this polite appeared in truth, and in his turn attracted sally gained him in his turn a smile and an universal attention. Every glance was fixinvitation for the morrow, which he accepted upon him; every breath in that crowded ed with pride, although at the risk of compromising himself somewhat with the Prince of Orange. “Decidedly, he has his good moments," said Talma to M. Lesec, when they had left the house. “It is to Girodet that we owe this." "This visit causes him great pleasure," | rejoined the collector. "Le Gros also came to see him, about a year ago. The poor old man leaped for joy, and wept like a child." "And not one of them has sufficient influence to procure his return to France!" rejoined Talma, with a tragic sigh. On the same evening, between six and seven o'clock, the old French painter and baron of the Empire, having ventured to put on a black coat, with a new red ribbon in the button-hole, entered, almost confused and timid, the great theatre of Brussels, and ensconced himself, as quietly as he could, in the stage box, which his friend Talma had caused to be reserved for him. He was accompanied by the officious M. Lesec, more proud, more radiant, more carefully beruffled and befrizzled than if he had been appointed first clerk of the finances. But, in spite of all the precautions of the modest artist to preserve his incognito, the rumor of his presence was soon spread abroad in the assembly was hushed at the sound of his voice: at every sentence of the magnanimous Spartan the house shook with redoubled bravos. The painter of The Rape of the Sabines, of Brutus, of The Oath of the Tennis Court, of the picture of The Coronation, remained calm, motionless, mute, amid these alternate scenes of tumult and of breathless silence. He did not hear the plaudits of the house; his soul was elsewhere; he forgot even that he was seeing and listening to his friend Talma. He was at Thermopyla, beside Leonidas himself; he was ready to die with him and his three hundred Spartans. Never had he felt himself so deeply moved. Far from yielding to sleep, as he had seemed to fear, his cheek glowed and his brow was covered with sweat, as if he were taking an active part in the heroic deed of devotion which formed the subject of this drama. At last the curtain fell. It was some moments before he could recover his composure, and when he had completely returned to himself, he was able only to utter the words, "Mon Dieu! how glorious it is to possess talent like that." On leaving the house, the crowd thronged around the French artist, who quickened his steps in order to escape from this last triumph, but who felt intoxicated with happi |