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From "Eliza Cook's Journal."

SEEDTIME AND HARVEST. CHEER thee! faint and weary one, Wearied with the sowing, On the rugged paths of life

Tears from eyes o'erflowing. Deem not one is shed in vain, Doth not Heaven's gentle rain

Set earth's blossoms blowing? Thou must learn on Nature's page How, from present sorrow, Loving faith and noble trust,

Future good may borrowThat, how dark soe'er the cloud Folds our sun-god in a shroud,

He must rise to-morrow.

Sow in Faith, or tears, or seed,
O'er thy pathway flinging;
Then await the rich reward

From these germs upspringing.
Over each GoD's angel bends,
To the earthborn flowers he tends,
Dew and sunshine bringing.
Sow in Hope-no dark despair
Mingled with thy weeping;
Sad may be the seedtime here,
Joy awaits the reaping.
He who wept for human woe
Deems thy teardrops as they flow
Worthy of His keeping.

But, o'er all things, sow in Love,
Hand and heart o'erflowing;
Soon, oh, faint and weary one!

Thou shalt cease from sowing.
And, behold each seedtime tear,
"First the blade and then the ear,"
In God's harvest growing!

From "Chambers' Edinburgh Journal,"

PARADISE MUSIC.

On the dreary winter nights, 'tis said that whisperings wild and sweet

Are borne aloft on the wailing winds, some watcher's ear to greet:

When the opening gates of paradise receive a soul to rest,

This strain of angel-song escapes from the mansions of the blest;

And the dulcet music floateth down, transient as young love's day,

And onward dim re-echoing, dies through bound

less space away.

There's a haunting music, too, which comes from memory's golden land,

When loved and lost in shadowy train revisit the radiant strand;

And fond affection's thrilling tones, with remembered pathos seem

dream.

When ocean billows are surging round, the mariner's thought doth cling

To shed o'er a void reality the peace of some happy | till all of them have passed away, and till most of them have been forgotten. Nay, more, they are misrepresented, misconstrued, To a home where flowers of summer bloom, and accused of hardness of heart by a misconbirds for ever sing. ceiving generation, and too often cursed and

Oh! welcome as dew to the tender herb when day thwarted by the very men in whose service

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they have spent their strength. And while those who have chosen the simpler and easier path are reaping blessings, in return for the troubles they have ignorantly stimulated and perpetuated by relieving, these men—the martyrs of philanthropy—must find their consolation and support in unswerving adherence to true principles and unshrinking faith in final victory; and must seek their recompense, if they need one, in the tardy recognition of their virtues by a distant and a wiser time. While, therefore, the warm and ardent natures which can find no peace except in the free indulgence of their kindly impulses are worthy of all love, and even, amid all the mischief they create, of some admiration for their sacrifices and

also have a mission to fulfil--we cast in our lot with their more systematic fellowlaborers, who address themselves to the harder, rougher, more unthankful task of attacking the source rather than the symptoms-of eradicating social evils rather than alleviating them.-Edinburgh Review, Jan, 1851.

DUTY AND WORK.

I have found a good in every thing I have learned. By degrees your destiny will open before you. You will learn what you are good for--what you are made for. I can say nothing wore definite, and this is definite enough, ad full of animation: do your duty, and you cannot fail to fit yourself for an honorable work.-Dr. Channing.

THERE are two classes of philanthropists, -the feelers and the thinkers, the impulsive and the systematic-those who devote them-zeal-and while we fully admit that they selves to the relief or the mitigation of existing misery, and those, who, with a longer patience, a deeper insight, and a wider vision, endeavor to prevent its recurrence and perpetuation by an investigation and eradication of its causes. The former, in imitation as they imagine of their master, go from house to house assuaging wretchedness, but, alas! not always "doing good;" relieving present evils, but too often leaving an increasing crop ever springing up under their footsteps; attended and rewarded by blessings, but doomed, probably, at length to feel that they have ill deserved them. Far different is the course of the latter class their life is spent in a laborious research into remote and hidden causes-in a patient and painful analysis of the operation of principles from the misapplication or forgetfulness of which our social disorders have sprung-in sowing seeds and elucidating laws that are to destroy the evil at a distant date which they themselves may never see, while sometimes its pressure may be aggravated during the period which they do see. They are neither rewarded by the gratitude of those for whom they toil-since the benefits they confer are often blessings in disguise and in futurum-nor gratified by beholding the fruit of their benevolent THERE are more victims to errors commitexertions, for the harvest may not be ripeted by society itself, than society supposes.

Ir rarely happens that one artificial mind can succeed in forming another; we seldom imitate what we do not love.

THE best built fortune must yield to hazard and submit to time.

THOSE who raise envy will easily incur

censure.

EVERY one complains of his memory, but nobody of his judgment.

From "Howitt's Journal."

THE SPAHIS' MARCH.

"BRAVISSIMO, maestro mio! A little while, and Halévy, Berlioz, and all must go down before you, as you do before me at this moment." With that the foot was suddenly withdrawn from the chair-leg, and the successful musician, cornet-à-piston in hand, prostrated on the floor.

"Sacré, Auguste, you should'nt," said the poor fellow, scrambling awkwardly on his hands and knees.

giment of Spahis in which he had just got his commission, on its departure for Africa, and he was full of hopes for himself and promises for his friends. Poor Adolphe had just got the place of trombone player in Franconi's orchestra, which might lead to something better, but his brightest hopes rested on the ultimate success of a march he had composed, and, in honor of his friend's regiment, named "The Spahis' March ;" this, he doubted not, would, through Auguste's patronage, realise all the visions men indulge in at twenty. And now Augusterose to depart: this night's leave-taking could not be like the usual "à demain" of the three friends; and young Dumont, who shared with his countrymen a taste for theatrical effects as well as much sentiment, rose, took Eulalie's hand in one of his, and Adolphe's in the other, then holding them both together in his left, raised the right, in the attitude of oath-taking, "Adolphe and Eulalie," said he, "brother and sister Dupré, on the eve of commencing a career of danger and glory, hear my resolution: though ye share not my danger, ye shall share my glory; let the battle be mine, the victory yours. You, Adolphe shall claim my promise in the success of your march, which I will render celebrated; and you, Eulalie-here he dropped his voice to a low, tender tone, as he plucked a bud from the rose already mentioned, and placed it in her bosom-from you shall I claim again this rose-bud, and with it another promise. And now farewell both, and when you hear of my fame, remember you share it."

"Never mind, mon brave garçon; for one knock down I'll give you such a help up that all Paris shall ring with your fame. 'The Spahis' March' shall be our entrance into every town of conquered Algeria; it shall be our triumphal return to Paris; it shall make the house rise with the curtain at the 'Académie ;' and (the door opened to admit a young girl carrying a yellow roseplant of a peculiar shade) it shall be softened into a serenade the day I claim a certain promise, Eulalie." The unoccupied hand was at the speaker's lips, and a bright blush was the only answer. The foregoing scene took place in a small room, not quite a garret, in the Quartier Latin; the actors were two young ex-students of the Ecole Polytechnique, alike in age, but differing in every other particular; one rich, well-born, handsome, with all the good spirits good fortune gives; the other poor, low-born, plain, and obliged to husband what spirits he possessed for the life-struggle which lay before him. The third person who entered at the conclusion of the scene was the sister of the latter, a pretty young fleuriste of the Rue Vivienne, who had for some time attracted the attention, and gained the fancy, he called it the heart, of Auguste Dumont, her bro-yours; it is all we have to promise or to ther's very unequal companion. The two Duprés were orphans, bound together by more than the ordinary bond of affection, their lonely situation. Adolphe had been educated at the Polytechnique, where his talent for music had caused an intimacy with Auguste, who loved it passionately; and the united attractions of Adolphe's cornet-à-piston and Eulalie's bright eyes brought him to the small room in the Quartier Latin oftener than to the gay salons on the opposite bank of the Seine. It was the time for Auguste to join the re

"And we, on our part," said Adolphe, speaking for his sister, promise that my march, and her rose-bush, shall alone be

give." Auguste embraced them both, and hurried away. The next morning the brother and sister stood outside the barrier through which passed the regiment of Spahis, the sun shining on the handsome person and brilliant uniform of Auguste Dumont, as, full of hope, happiness, and vanity, he rode past, nodding a recognition to them-if they saw it through their tears.

Adolphe went back to his tromboneplaying, Eulalie to her flower-making, and both to think of Auguste, the former doubting less than ever of his brilliant friend's

fortune.

will and power to perform his promises; | said that he was admired, envied, and disthe latter, with a more correct instinct, tinguished for his courage, talents, and good feeling a strong misgiving that the dazzling career now stretching before him would not allow him to think of his poor early friends in the Quartier Latin.

"He'll soon forget us," sighed she, as she looked at the faded rose-bud, though she did not try to infect the hopeful spirit of Adolphe with her doubts, as he preluded the notes of the Spahis' March on his inseparable cornet-à-piston, and spoke of Auguste's and their glorious future. She let him build his castles, and worked at her flowers. From time to time the usual reports, correct and incorrect, reached them from the seat of the war. Auguste had written to them from Marseilles previous to his embarkation; his letter was short and joyous; he promised to write again from Oran, but he did not. The campaign had begun in good earnest, so most likely he could not. And now the cafés became filled with eager and interested groups, talking with true Parisian animation; and the names of Bugeaud, Cavaignac, Changarnier, and others, rang loudly in the ears of Paris; caused her walls to strike out in great placards and affiches, and covered the saloons of the Luxembourg with Horace Vernet's pictures. The Journals and the Chambers talked of nothing but razzias and Kabyles, whilst the élégantes assumed coiffures à l'Africaine; but all this was public and official, and said nothing about Auguste. Private rumor, more than public report, spoke of him, and its tales to the brother and sister Dupré were varied, and, to an indifferent hearer, might have been amusing: to each it had its different version of the subject, and something in common to both. To Adolphe it said that his quondam friend had made many brilliant and delightful as sociates in the army, who must necessarily supersede him; that his prospects were splendid, and his promotion would be rapid -but he had never been heard to mention the Spahis' March; for all that, Adolphe played it on his cornet-à-piston. To Eulalie it said that her quondam lover had arrived at Oran with a beautiful little Arlesenienne, who had followed him disguised as a boy, and was accompanying him through the campaign, though he made her sadly jealous with a native sultana. Eulalie sighed, and looked at the yellow rose-bush. To both it

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Auguste will not forget us," said Adolphe; "wait till they take some fortress, and then we shall hear of the Spahis' March."

Klemsau was taken, and Paris rejoiced; Auguste had especially distinguished himself, was made captain on the spot, and his regiment had entered the town in triumph.

"Now, Eulalie," exclaimed her happy brother, "we shall hear of the Spahis' March."

They heard the particulars of the storm and the surrender, they heard of the bravery of the troops, the talent and courage of their leaders; they heard of Auguste, his present honors and his future fame, but they heard nothing of the Spahis' March.

"Perhaps the next town they take, Eulalie, we shall hear; Auguste has not had time to think about it," said the simple-hearted musician, and he played it as a solo in honor of his friend. Whilst Auguste was conquering, Adolphe was struggling. His little room in the Quartier Latin was as poor as ever. The table, the two chairs, the mattress he slept on, the trombone he played at Franconi's, were its only furniture; his beloved cornet-à-piston, and Eulalie's yellow rose, its only ornaments. This was the prose of life, with its bare necessaries-that the poetry, with its music and perfume: the one gave the knowledge of his true position, the actual fact of what he was, the other was his dream-his air-castle, the vision of what he would be. In the one he was the poor trombone-player of the Cirque Olym pique, in the other the celebrated composer of "The Spahis' March." It was the contrast of present and future, of poverty and glory. Happy Adolphe! he lived by faith; and Eulalie! she looked at her rose-bush, shook her head, stifled a sigh, and made a very good copy of a yellow rose-bud, with silk, muslin, and wire, and what was better, sold a wreath of them very well the following day.

The campaign ended, Auguste's regiment remained at Marseilles, causing Adolphe to believe and declare that had he returned to Paris, he would have entered to the strains of the Spahis' March. Another campaign began and ended, and Auguste returned with the title of colonel, and without an arm. He

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