Who duly to the hall retire,

A season, every year,

And fill the seats with belle and beau,
As 'twas so many years ago.

Perchance, all thoughtless as they tread
The hollow sounding floor,

Of that dark house of kindred dead,
Which shall, as heretofore,

In turn, receive, to silent rest,
Another, and another guest,-

The feather'd hearse and sable train,
In all its wonted state,

Shall wind along the village lane,
And stand before the gate;

Brought many a distant country through,
To join the final rendezvous.

And when the race is swept away,
All to their dusty beds,

Still shall the mellow evening ray
Shine gayly o'er their heads;
While other faces, fresh and new,
Shall occupy the squire's pew.

THE PHILOSOPHER'S SCALES.

A monk, when his rites sacerdotal were o'er,
In the depth of his cell with its stone-cover'd floor,
Resigning to thought his chimerical brain,

Form'd the simple contrivance we now shall explain:
In youth 'twas projected; but years stole away,
And ere 'twas complete he was wrinkled and gray;
But success is secure unless energy fails;
And at length he produced The Philosopher's Scales.

What were they?-you ask: you shall presently see;
These scales were not made to weigh sugar and tea;
Oh no;-for such properties wondrous had they,
That qualities, feelings, and thoughts they could weigh;
Together with articles small or immense,

From mountains or planets, to atoms of sense.

The first thing he tried was the head of Voltaire,
Which retain'd all the wit that had ever been there;
As a weight, he threw in a torn scrap of a leaf,
Containing the prayer of the penitent thief;
When the skull rose aloft with so sudden a spell,
As to bound like a ball on the roof of the cell.

Next time he put in Alexander the Great,
With a garment that Dorcas had made-for a weight;
And though clad in armor from sandals to crown,
The hero rose up, and the garment went down.

A long row of alms-houses, amply endow'd, By a well-esteem'd Pharisee, busy and proud, Now loaded one scale, while the other was prest By those mites the poor widow dropp'd into the chest ;

Up flew the endowment, not weighing an ounce,

And down, down, the farthing's worth came with a bounce.

Again, he perform'd an experiment rare;

A monk, with austerities bleeding and bare,
Climb'd into his scale; in the other was laid
The heart of our Howard, now partly decay'd;

When he found, with surprise, that the whole of his brother
Weigh'd less, by some pounds, than this bit of the other.

By further experiments (no matter how)

He found that ten chariots weigh'd less than one plough.
A sword, with gilt trappings, rose up in the scale,
Though balanced by only a ten-penny nail;
A shield and a helmet, a buckler and spear,
Weigh'd less than a widow's uncrystallized tear.
A lord and a lady went up at full sail,

When a bee chanced to light on the opposite scale.
Ten doctors, ten lawyers, two courtiers, one earl,
Ten counsellor's wigs full of powder and curl,
All heap'd in one balance, and swinging from thence,
Weigh'd less than some atoms of candor and sense;—
A first-water diamond, with brilliants begirt,

Than one good potato, just wash'd from the dirt;
Yet, not mountains of silver and gold would suffice,
One pearl to outweigh-'twas the "pearl of great price."

MORAL.

Dear reader, if e'er self-deception prevails,
We pray you to try The Philosopher's Scales:
But if they are lost in the ruins around,
Perhaps a good substitute thus may be found:-

Let judgment and conscience in circles be cut,

To which strings of thought may be carefully put :
Let these be made even with caution extreme,

And impartiality use for a beam:

Then bring those good actions which pride overrates,
And tear up your motives to serve for the weights.

LIFE.

When sanguine youth the plain of life surveys, It does not calculate on rainy days;

Some, as they enter on the unknown way,

Expect large troubles at a distant day;

The loss of wealth, or friends they fondly prize;
But reckon not on ills of smaller size,

Those nameless, trifling ills, that intervene,
And people life, infesting every scene;
And there, with silent, unavow'd success,

Wear off the keener edge of happiness:

Those teasing swarms, that buzz about our joys
More potent than the whirlwind that destroys;
Potent, with heavenly teaching, to attest
Life is a pilgrimage, and not a rest.

That lesson, learned aright, is valued more
Than all Experience ever taught before;

For this her choicest secret, timely given,
Is wisdom, virtue, happiness, and heaven.
Long is religion view'd, by many an eye,
As wanted more for safety by and by,
A thing for times of danger and distress,
Than needful for our present happiness.
But after fruitless, wearisome assays
To find repose and peace in other ways,

The sicken'd soul-when Heaven imparts its grace-
Returns to seek its only resting place;

And sweet Experience proves as years increase,
That wisdom's ways are pleasantness and peace.

ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT.

With what unknown delight the mother smiled
When this frail treasure in her arms she press'd!
Her prayer was heard-she clasp'd a living child;
-But how the gift transcends the poor request!
A child was all she ask'd, with many a vow;-
Mother-Behold the child an angel now!

Now in her Father's house she finds a place;
Or if to earth she take a transient flight,

'Tis to fulfil the purpose of His grace,

To guide thy footsteps to the world of light;-
A ministering spirit sent to thee,

That where she is, there thou mayst also be.

THE PRESENT MOMENT ONLY OURS.

It is said by a celebrated modern writer, "Take care of the minutes, and the hours will take care of themselves." This is an admirable hint; and might be very seasonably recollected when we begin to be "weary in well-doing," from the thought of having a great deal to do. The present is all we have to manage: the past is irrecoverable; the future is uncertain; nor is it fair to burden one moment with the weight of the next. Sufficient unto the moment is the trouble thereof. If we had to walk a hundred miles, we still need set but one step at a time, and this process continued would infallibly bring us to our journey's end. Fatigue generally begins, and is always increased by calculating in a minute the exertion of hours.

Thus, in looking forward to future life, let us recollect that we have not to sustain all its toil, to endure all its sufferings, or to encounter all its crosses at once. One moment comes laden with its own little burden, then flies, and is succeeded by another no heavier than the last; if one could be sustained, so can another, and another.

Even in looking forward to a single day, the spirit may sometimes

faint from an anticipation of the duties, the labors, the trials to temper and patience that may be expected. Now this is unjustly laying the burden of many thousand moments upon one. Let any one resolve to do right now, leaving then to do as it can; and if he were to live to the age of Methuselah, he would never err. But the common error is to resolve to act right to-morrow, or next time, but now, just this once, we must go on the same as ever.

It seems easier to do right to-morrow than to-day, merely because we forget that when to-morrow comes, then will be now. Thus life passes, with many, in resolutions for the future which the present never fulfils.

It is not thus with those who, "by patient continuance in welldoing, seek for glory, honor, and immortality :"-day by day, minute by minute, they execute the appointed task to which the requisite measure of time and strength is proportioned; and thus, having worked while it was called day, they at length rest from their labors, and their "works follow them."

Let us then, "whatever our hands find to do, do it with all our might, recollecting, that now is the proper and the accepted time."

GEORGE GORDON BYRON, 1788-1824.

THERE are certain names in literary history that we would gladly pass over in silence, were it not that their talents and genius demand some notice from the chronicler of letters. This is the case with Lord Byron. Such was his waywardness of character, such his vicious propensities and licentiousness, and such his skepticism, that we would gladly do our part that his name should be forgotten, were it not that, in consequence of his brilliant genius and his uncommon mental endowments, the interest of the public mind was so generally, and for so long a time, concentrated upon him. His name and his poems will always, indeed, be a subject of conversation and criticism in the literary world; and if some appreciation of his power as a poet cannot be obtained from extracts, recourse will be had to his entire works. We therefore give him a place in our collection of the authors of the nineteenth century.

George Gordon Byron, the only son of Captain Byron and Catharine, sole child and heiress of George Gordon, Esq., of Gight, in Scotland, was born in London on the 22d of January, 1788. After preparing for the university at Harrow School, he entered Trinity College, Cambridge, 1805, with a reputation for general information very rare in one of his age. Indeed, we have his own record of an almost incredible list of works, in many departments of literature, which he had read before the age of fifteen. At the university, he neglected the prescribed course of study, but was by no means idle. In 1807 appeared his first published work, "The Hours of Idleness," a collection of poems in no way remarkable, and

now chiefly remembered through the castigation which it received from the "Edinburgh Review." To this critique, which galled, but did not depress him, we owe the first spirited outbreak of his talents, in the satire entitled "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers," which was published in 1809. Able and vigorous as this was, and creditable to his talents, it contained so many harsh and capricious judgments, that he was afterward anxious to suppress it.

A few days before the publication of this satire, he took his seat in the House of Lords; but he was ill qualified to shine in politics; and seeing that he made no impression there, he soon left England for the continent. In 1811, having lost his mother, he returned home, his private affairs being very much embarrassed. He brought with him the first two cantos of "Childe Harold," which he had written abroad. They were published in March, 1812, and were received by the public with the most unbounded admiration; so that Byron emerged at once from a state of loneliness and neglect, unusual for one in his sphere of life, to be the magnet and idol of society. As he tersely says in his memoranda, “I awoke one morning, and found myself famous." In May of the next year appeared his "Giaour;" and in November, the "Bride of Abydos," (written in a week ;) and, about three months afterward, the " Corsair," written in the astonishingly short space of ten days. On the 2d of January, 1815, he was married to Miss Milbanke, the only daughter and heiress of Sir Ralph Milbanke, the only issue of which marriage was Augusta Ada, born on the 10th of December of that year. On the 15th of January of the next year, the husband and wife separated for ever. The cause of this was, and still is, a mystery. But most of those who composed the circles in which Lord Byron moved declared against him, and society withdrew its countenance. Deeply stung by the verdict, he resolved to leave his country, and on the 25th of April, 1816, he quitted England for the last time. His course was through Flanders, and along the Rhine to Switzerland, where he resided until the close of the year, and where he composed some of his most powerful works-the third canto of "Childe Harold," the "Prisoner of Chillon," "Darkness," "The Dream," part of "Manfred," and a few minor poems. The next year he went to Italy, where, for a course of years, he gave himself up to the grossest species of libertinism; and where, as might be expected, he wrote his most licentious and blasphemous works.

In 1823, he interested himself warmly in the cause of the Greeks, then struggling to throw off the Turkish yoke; and in December of that year sailed for Greece, with all the funds he could command, to aid the oppressed in their efforts for freedom. This was, certainly, a redeeming trait in his character, and we are glad to record it. On the 5th of January, 1824, he arrived at Missolonghi, where his reception was enthusiastic, the whole population coming out to meet him. But he had scarcely arranged his plans to aid the nation he had so befriended, when he was seized with a fever, and expired on the 19th of April, 1824.1

Of the character of Lord Byron's poetry, there can be but one opinion in

"We are to remember that the period of our lives is not so peremptorily determined by God, but that we may lengthen or shorten them. live longer or die sooner, according as we behave ourselves in this world. Thus, some men destroy a healthful and vigorous constitution of body by intemperance and lust, and do as manifestly kill themselves as those who hang, or poison, or drown themselves."-SHERLOCK.