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No carved wood, no broken branches,

Ever drift from that far wild; He who on that ocean launches

Meets no corse of angel-child.

All is mystery before thee;

But in peace, and love, and faith, And with hope attended, sail'st tbvu

Off upon the ship of Death. Undismayed, my noble sailor,

Spread then, spread thy canvass out; Spirit! on a sea of ether

Soon shalt thou serenely float! Where the deeps no plunmet soundeth,

Fear no hidden breakers there, And the fanning wings of angels,

Shall thy bark right onward bear.

Quit now, full of heart and comfort,

These Azores—they are of earth ; Where the rosy clouds are parting,

There the Blessed Isles loom forth.

out suddenly with a summuns to the temple of God, and their echoes roll on through the desolate streets, and are unanswered by the sound of any human voice, or the din of any human occupation, the effect has sometimes seemed to me more solemn than the near thunder.

A more beautiful, and perhaps quite as salutary as a religious influence, is the sound of a distant Sabbaib bell in the country. It comes foating over the hills like the going abroad of a spirit, and as the leaves stir with ils vibrations, and the drops of the dew tremble in the cups of the flowers, you could almost believe that there was a Sabbath in Nature, and that the dumb works of God rendered visible worship for his goodness. The effect of N re alone is purifying, and its thousand evidences of wisdom are too eloquent of their Maker not to act as a continual lesson ; but combined with the instilled piety of childhood, and the knowledge of the inviolable holiness of the time, the mellow cadences of a church bell give to the hush of a country Sabbath, a holiness to which only a desperate heart could be insensible.

Yet, after all, whose ear was “ filled with hearing,” or whose «eye with seeing?" Full as the world is of music-crowded as life is with beauty which surpasses, in its mysterious workmanship, our wildest dream of faculty and skill-gorgeous as is the overhung and ample sky, and deep and universal as the harmonies are which are wandering perpetually in the atmosphere of this spacious and beautiful worldwho has ever heard music and not felt a capacity for better? or seen beauty, or grandeur, or delicate cunning, without a feeling in the inmost soul of unreached and unsatisfied conceptions? I have gazed on the dazzling loveliness of woman till the value of my whole existence seemed pressed into that one moment of sight; and I have listened to music till my tears came, and my brain swam dizzily-yet, when I had turned away, I wished that the woman had been perfecter : and my lips parted at the intensest ravishment of that dying music, with an impatient feeling that its spell was unfinished. I used to wonder, when I was a boy, how Socrates knew that this world was not enough for his capacities, and that his soul, therefore, was immortal. It is no marvel to me now.

ever

Seest thou now thy San Salvador ?

Him, thy Saviour, thou shalt hail, Where no storms of earth shall reach thee,

Where thy hope shall no more fail.

THE FATHERLAND.

BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

Where is the true man's fatherland ?

Is it where he by chance is born?

Doth not the yearning spirit scorn In such scant borders to be spanned ? Oh, yes! his fatherland must be As the blue heaven wide and free!

Is it alono where freedom is,

Where God is God and man is man?

Doth he not claim a broader span For the soul's love of home than this? Oh, yes! his fatherland must be As the blue heaven wide and free!

TO COLUMBUS DYING.

From the German of Ochlenschlæger.

BY W. H. FURXESS.

Soon with thee will all be over,

Soon the voyage will be begun, That shall bear thee to discover

Far away a land unknownLand, that each alone must visit,

But no tidings bring to men, For no sailor, once departed,

Ever hath returned again.

Where'er a human heart doth wear

Joy's myrtle-wreath, or sorrow's gyves,

Where'er a human spirit strives
After a life more pure and fair,
There is the true man's birth-place grand,
His is a world-wide fatherland!
Where'er a single slave doth pine,

Where'er one man may help another,

Thank G for such a birthright, brother,That spot of earth is thine and mine! There is the true man's birth-place grand, His is a world-wide fatherland!

THE TWO PATHS.

Aye, they in plodding on so steadily

Did gain a heap of gold, While I, who hurried on so merrily,

Gained brighter wealth ten-fold.

A wealth of thought and cheerfulness,

The coinage of the soul, And more than all, a hope to bless,

With promise fill'd my bow!.

They ride in princely chariots proud,

By blooded coursers drawn,They feast in stately halls the crowd

Of friends in lace and lawn.

I've seen the bells of tulips turn

To drink the drops that fell
From summer clouds; then why should not

The two lips of a belle?
The two lips of a belle, my friends,

The two lips of a belle;
What sweetens more than water pure

Tbe two lips of a belle ?
The sturdy oak full many a cup

Doth hold up to the sky,
To catch the rain; then drinks it up,

And thus the oak gets high;
"Tis thus the oak gets high, my friends,

'Tis thus the oak gets bigh, By having water in its cups,

Then why not you and I ?
Then let cold water armies give

Their banners to the air;
So shall the boys like oaks be strong,

The girls like tulips fair;
The girls like tulips fair, my friends,

The girls like tulips fair;
The boys shall grow like sturdy oaks,

The girls like tulips fair.

My carriage is the wide-winged thought,

By fancy wheeled above,My home the world-wide space unbought,

My feast the feast of love.

They labored on till life was waning

To live above all strife,I lived the whole, the present gaining,

And with me cherish'd life.

COLD WATER.

BY JOHN PIERPONT.

Shall e'er cold water be forgot

When we sit down to dine?
O no, my friends, for is it not

Pour'd out by hands divine ?
Pour'd out by hands divine, my friends,

Pour'd out by hands divine;
From springs and wells it gushes forth,

Pour'd out by hands divine.

To Beauty's cheek, tho' strange it seems,

'Tis no more strange than true, Cold water, though itself so pale,

Imparts the rosiest hue;
Imparts the rosiest hue, my friends,

Imparts the rosiest hue ;
Yes, Beauty, in a water-pail,

Doth find her rosiest hue,

A GENTLE STORY. Once a little band of angels descended to this earth, and wandered over its beautiful places in search of something so purely beautiful, that it should be an acceptable offering before the throne of the Eternal. And many things fair and exquisite arose in their path ;-sweet delicate flowers and little glistening dew-drops ; diamonds in the earth ; pearls in the sea ; stars in the sky; bright things gleaming and flashing everywhere; joyous faces and graceful

forms moving to and fro, more frequent than all, and almost more beautiful. But the angels passed on; for nothing which can fade or be destroyed is wor. thy of Heaven. On, on they wandered-on through the great forests, amid the deep valleys, over the bright seas, searching everywhere for that lovely thing that was to add fresh beauty, even unto Heaven.

At length they stood in consultation on the sea. shore, and beheld a fisherman's child so strangely, so enchantingly beautiful, that those glorious angels were amazed, and bent over him in silent admira. tion. At length their leader spake

- Shall we bring a mortal and perishing gift to the throne of our Immortal Father."

“ Our High Father is all powerful. He could give him immortality,” replied another.

“ Innocence and love are heavenly beauties ; but they can live only in Heaven. Shall we not snatch him from this bad world's temptations ?" said a third.

Cold water, too, (tho' wonderful,

'Tis not less true, again)
The weakest of all earthly drinks,

Doth make the strongest men;
Doth make the strongest men, my friends,

Doth make the strongest men;
Then let us take the weakest drink,

And grow the strongest men.

Thus spake the tender, pitying angels. But their leader said. There is a beauty far transcending innocence—a beauty which childhood and innocence may never possess. Shall we wait, my brethren, for this, or offer to our God an imperfect gift ?”

And so the angels waited until the child became a man—for to immortal spirits, whose inheritance is eternal, the life of man is but an hour.

Then pain and sorrow came upon the man, and drove the rose from his cheek, and the light from his heart; and anguish bowed his frame, and care planted furrows on his brow. Then, when all his soul was dark, the angels drew near and whispered of unspeakable bliss, so that his heart grew strong and earnest, and faith was the first gem in his crown of beauty. Now temptations gathered thickly about him-now his guardians hovered near his path, watching his struggles, answering his thoughts, raising him when nearly trodden down, yet keeping him encompassed with tribulations, until he cast away his own strength-and the beauty of humility was perfected.

Still they poured temptation upon his pathwayfor without temptation there can be no victory. Still, as he rose triumphant from every struggle, his countenance grew more angelic, his beauty more godlike, till at last, when they had breathed into his spirit of that joy with which they were filled, and his soul melted with love and great adoration, they looked with awe upon their work and pronounced it fit for Heaven!

And when those who had loved him looked upon his withered, lifeless form, they were sad, and mourned his departed beauty. And it was so; for the soul, so strengthened and purified—that soul, so intensely beautiful, whose light its earthly covering could no longer obscure, was borne rejoicing by the angels :o the throne, resting not in the joy of spirits innocent and untried, but mounting high, higher, to dwell forever in the presence of the fountain of all joy, and all truth, and all knowledge, and all glory.

Spirits sadder and more dread
Than from out the clay have fled:
Spirits buried dark and deep
In a grave where never sleep,-
The cold dew of Paradise,-
Drops upon their burning eyes,
Buried, beyond hope or light,
In the body's haunted night!
See ye not that woman pale ?
There are bloodhounds on her trail !
Bloodhounds, too, all gaunt and lean,
For the soul their scent is keen,
Want and Sin, and Sin is last,
They have followed far and fast;
Want gave tongue, and, at her howl,
Sin awakened with a growl.
'Twas the World, and the World's law
Let them slip and cried, Hurrah!
Ah, poor girl! she had a right
To a blessing from the light,
Title deeds to sky and earth
God gave to her at her birth!
But before they were enjoyed,
Poverty had made them void,
And had drunk the sunshine up
From all nature's ample cup,
Leaving her a first-born's share
In the dregs of darkness there.
Often, on the sidewalk bleak,
Hungry, all alone, and weak,
She has seen, in night and storm,
Rooms o'erflow with firelight warm,
Which outside the window glass
Doubled all the cold, alas !
Till each ray that on her fell
Stabbed her like an icicle,
And she almost loved the wail
of the bloodhounds on her trail.
Till the flood becomes her bier,
She shall feel their pantings near,
Close upon her very heels,
'Spite of all the din of wheels;
Shivering on her pallet poor,
She shall hear them at the door
Whine and scratch to be let in,
Sister bloodhounds, Want and Sin!
Hark! that rustle of a dress,
Stiff with lavish costliness!
Here comes one whose cheek would flush
But to have her garments brush
'Gainst the girl whose fingers thin
Wove the weary broidery in;
Who went backward from her toil,
Lest her tears the silk might soil,
And, in midnight chill and murk,
Stitched her life into the work.
Little doth the wearer heed
of the heart-break in the brede;

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A hyena by her side
: kulks, downlooking—it is Pride.
He digs for her in the earth,
Where lie all her claims of birth,
With his foul paws rooting o'er
Some long buried ancestor,
Who, most like, a statue won
By the ill deeds he had done.
Round her heart and round her brain
Wealth had linked a golden chain,
Which doth close and closer press
Heart and brain to narrowness.
Every morn and every night
She must bare that bosom white,
Which so thrillingly doth rise
’Neath its proud embroideries,
That its mere heave lets men know
How much whiter 'tis than snow,-
She must bare it, and, unseen,
Suckle that hyena lean ;-
Ah! the fountain's angel shrinks,
And forsakes it while he drinks !

There walks Judas, he who sold Yesterday his Lord for gold, Sold God's presence in his heart For a proud step in the Mart; He hath dealt in flesh and bloodAt the Bank, his name is good, Al the Bank, and only there, "Tis a marketable ware. In his eyes that stealthy gleam Was not learned of sky or streim, But it has the cold, hard glint Of new dollars from the Mint. Open now your spirit's eyes, Look through that poor clay disguise Which has thickened, day by day, Till it keeps all light away, And his soul in pitchy gloom Gropes about its narrow tomb, From whose dank and slimy walls, Drop by drop the horror falls. Look! a serpent, Jank and cold, Hugs his spirit, fold on fold : From his heart all day and night It doth suck God's blessed light. Drink it will, and drink it must, Till the cup holds naught but dust ; All day long he hears it hiss, Writhing in its fiendish bliss ; All night long he sees its eyes Flicker with strange ecstasies, As the spirit ebbs away Into the absorbing clay.

Through the pent, unwholesome room, Where his shrunk soul cowers in gloom, Spirit sad beyond the rest By more instinct for the Best ? 'Tis a poet who was sent, For a bad world's punishment, By compelling it to see Golden glimpses of To Be, By compelling it to hear Songs that prove the angels near; Who was sent to be the tongue Of the weak and spirit-wrung, Whence the fiery-winged Despair In men's shrinking eyes might flare. "Tis our hope doth fashion us To base use or glorious : He who might have been a lark Of Truth's morning, from the dark Raining down melodious hope Of a freer, broader scope, Aspirations, prophecies, Of the spirit's full sunrise, Chose to be a bird of night, Which, with eyes refusing light, Hooted from some hollow tree Of the world's idolatry. 'Tis his punishment to hear Fluttering of pinions near, And his own vain wings to feel Drooping downward to his heel, All their grace and import lost, Burthening his weary ghost : Ever walking by his side He must see his angel guide, Who at intervals doth turn Looks on him so sadly stern, With such ever-new surprise Of hushed anguish in her eyes, That it seems the light of day From around him shrinks away, Or drops blunted from the wall Built around him by his fall. Then the mountains whose white peaks Catch the morning's earliest streaks, He must see, where prophets sit, Turning East their faces lit, Whence, with footsteps beautiful, To the earth, yet dim and dull, They the gladsome tidings bring of the sunlight's hastening. Never can those hills of bliss Be o'erclimbed by feet like his ! But enough! Oh, do not dare From the next his mask to tear, Which, although it moves about Like a human form without, Hath a soul within, I ween, Of the vulture's shape and mein.

Who is he that skulks, afraid
Of the trust he has betrayed,
Shuddering if perchance a gleam
of old nobleness should stream

VOICES OF THE TRUE HEARTED.

No. 7.

BY THOMAS HOOD.

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THE LADY'S DREAM.

· For the blind and the cripple were there,

And the babe that pined for bread,

And the houseless man, and the widow poor The lady lay in her bed, Her couch so warm and soft,

Who begged-to bury the dead ;

The naked, alas, that I might have clad, But her sleep was restless and broken still;

The famished I might have fed !
For turning often and oft
From side to side, she muttered and moaned, • The sorrow I might have soothed,
And toss'd her arms aloft.

And the unregarded tears;
At last she started up,

For many a thronging shape was there, And gazed on the vacant air,

From long forgotten years ; With a look of awe, as if she saw

Ay, even the poor rejected Moor,
Some dreadful phantom there-

Who raised my childish fears !
And then in the pillow she buried her face
From visions ill to bear.

• Each pleading look, that long ago

I scanned with a heedless eye; The very curtain shook,

Each face was gazing as plainly there, Her terror was so extreme,

As when I passed it by; And the light that fell on the broider'd quilt

Woe, woe for me, if the should be Kept a tremulous gleam ;

Thus present when I die ! And her voice was hollow, and shook as she cried ; "Oh me! that awful dream !

"No need of sulphurous lake, • That weary, weary walk,

No need of fiery coal, In the church-yard's dismal ground !

But only that crowd of human kind And those horrible things, with shady wings,

Who wanted pity and doleThat came and fitted round,

In everlasting retrospectDeath, death, and nothing but death,

Will wring my sinful soul ! In every sight and sound !

• Alas! I have walked through life " And oh! those maidens young,

Too heedless where I trod ; Who wrought in that dreary room,

Nay, helping to trample my fellow worm, With figures drooping and spectres thin,

And fill the burial sodAnd cheeks without a bloom ;

Forgetting that even the sparrow that falls And the voice that cried, “ For the pomp of pride, Is not unmark'd of God ! We haste to an early tomb !

"I drank the richest draughts : " For the pomp and pleasure of pride,

And ate whatever is goodWe toil like Afric slaves,

Fish and flesh, and fowl and fruit, And only to earn a home at last,

Supplied my hungry mood; Where yonder cypress waves ;''

But I never remembered the wretched ones And then he pointed—I never saw

That starve for want of food. A ground so full of graves !

"I dressed as the nobles dress, And still the coffins came,

In cloth of silver and gold, With their sorrowful trains and slow ;

With silk, and satin, and costly furs, Coffin after coffin still,

In many an ample fold; A sad and sickening show;

But I never remembered the naked limbs From grief exempt, I never had dream'd

That froze with winter's cold. Of such a world of woe! of the hearts that daily break,

· The wounds I might have healed ! Of the tears that hourly fall,

The human sorrow and smart ! Of the many, many troubles of life

And yet it never was in my soul That grieve this earthly ball

To play so ill a part; Disease and Hunger, Pain and Want

But evil is wrought by want of thought, But now I dream'd of them all!

As well as want of Heart!'

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