One voice that silence breaks-the prayer is said,
And the last rite man pays to man is paid;
The plashing waters mark his resting-place,
And fold him round in one lõng, cold embrace;
Bright bubbles for a moment sparkle o'er,
Then break, to be, like him, beheld no more;
Down, countless fathoms down, he sinks to sleep,
With all the nameless shapes that haunt the deep.

CHARLES SPRAGUE.

170. DISCOVERY OF AMERICA.

THE discovery itself of the American continent may, I think, fairly be considered the most extraordinary event in the history of the world. In this, as in other cases, familiarity blunts the edge of our perceptions; but much as I have meditated, and often as I have treated this theme, its magnitude grows upon me with each successive contemplation.

2. That a continent nearly as large as Europe and Africa united, spread out on both sides of the equator, lying between the western shores of Europe and Africa and the eastern shore of Asia,' with groups of islands in either ocean, as it were stopping-places on the march of discovery,-a continent, not inhabited indeed by civilized races, but still occupied by one of the families of rational man,—that this great hemisphere, I say, should have lain undiscovered for five thousand years upon the bosom of the deep,-a mystery so vast, within so short a distance, and yet not found out,-is indeed a marvel.

3. Mute nature, if I may so express myself, had made the discovery to the philosopher, for the preponderance of land in the eastern hemisphere demanded a counterpoise3 in the west. Dark-wooded trees, unknown to the Europe'an naturalist, had from age to age drifted over the sea and told of the tropical forests where they grew. Stupendous ocean currents, driven

'Asia (a' she a).- Pre pon' der ance, greater weight.- Coun' ter poise, a weight to balance another; a force or power sufficient to balance another.

westward by the ever-breathing trade-winds,' had wheeled their mighty flexures along the American coast, and returned to Europe with tidings of the everlasting breakwater3 which had stopped their way.

4. But the fullness of time had not yet come. Egypt and Assyria, and Tyre and Carthage, and Greece and Rome, must flourish and fall, before the seals are broken. They must show what they can do for humanity before the vail which hides its last hope is lifted up. The ancient civilization must be weighed in a balance and found wanting.

5. Yes, and more. Nature must unlock her rarest mysteries; the quivering steel' must learn to tremble to the pole; the ǎs'trolābes must climb the arch of heaven, and bring down the sun to the horizon; science must demon'strate the sphericity' of the earth, which the ancients suspected, but could not prove; the press must scatter the flying rear of medieval darkness; the creative instincts of a new political, intellectual, and social life, must begin to kindle into action; and then the Discoverer may go forth. EDWARD EVERETT.

1.

G

171. THE FLIGHT OF YEARS.

YONE! gone forever!-like a rushing wave
Another year has burst upon the shōre

Of earthly being-and its last low tones,

'Tråde'-wind, a wind in or near the tropical countries, which con stantly blows in the same direction. Vessels engaged in trade avail themselves of these winds, and hence their name. In north latitudes, they blow from northeast to southwest; and in south latitudes, from southeast to northwest.- Flexures (flêks' yerz), bendings or windings.

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Break' wa ter, any mole, mound, or wall, raised in a river or harbor to break the force of the waves and protect shipping; any thing that stops or changes the current of water. The magnetic needle, or mariner's compass." As' tro låbe, an instrument formerly used for measuring the height of the sun or stars at sea.— Dè mon' stråte, to prove to a certainty, or with great clearness.- Sphericity (sfè ris'i ty), roundness in every direction; the shape of a ball. Me di æ' val, relating to the Middle Ages, that is, from the latter part of the fifth to the fifteenth century. This period, consisting of a thousand years, is sometimes called the dark ages, on account of the ignorance and waut of learning which then existed.

2.

Wandering in broken accents on the air,

Are dying to an echo.

The gay spring,

With its young charms, has gone-gone with its leaves -
Its atmosphere of roses-its white clouds
Slumbering like seraphs' in the air-its birds
Telling their loves in music-and its streams
Leaping and shouting from the up-piled rocks
To make earth echo with the joy of waves.

3. And summer, with its dews and showers, has gone-
Its rainbows glowing on the distant cloud
Like Spirits of the Storm-its peaceful lakes
Smiling in their sweet sleep, as if their dreams.
Were of the opening flowers, and budding trees.
And overhanging sky-and its bright mists
Resting upon the mountain tops, as crowns
Upon the heads of giants.

4.

Autumn too
Has gone, with all its deeper glories-gone
With its green hills like altars of the world
Lifting their rich fruit-offerings to their God—
Its cool winds straying mid the forest aisles2
To wake their thousand wind-harps-its serene
And holy sunsets hanging o'er the west

Like banners from the battlements3 of Heaven--
And its still evenings, when the moonlit sea
Was ever throbbing, like the living heart
Of the great Universe. Ay1-these are now
But sounds and visions of the past-their deep,
Wild beauty has departed from the earth;

And they are gather'd to the embrace of Death,
Their solemn herald to Eternity.

5. Nor have they gone alone. High human hearts

Of passion have gone with them. The fresh dust

1 Sêr' aph, an angel of the highest order.- Aisles (1lz), passages; alleys.- Båt' tle ments, walls of defense, with openings, raised on buildings.—* Ay (å'), yes; certainly.

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7.

Is chill on many a breast, that burn'd erewhile
With fires that seem'd iminortal. Joys, that leap'd
Like angels from the heart, and wander'd free
In life's young morn to look upon the flowers,
The poetry of nature, and to list

The woven sounds of breeze, and bird, and stream,
Upon the night air, have been stricken down

In silence to the dust.

Exultant' Hope,

That roved forever on the buoyant winds
Like the bright, starry bird of Paradise,
And chanted to the ever-listening heart
In the wild music of a thousand tongues,
Or soar'd into the open sky, until
Night's burning gems seem'd jewel'd on her brow,
Has shut her drooping wing, and made her home
Within the voiceless sepulchre. And Love,
That knelt at Passion's holiest shrine, and gazed
On his heart's idol as on some sweet star,
Whose purity and distance make it dear,
And dream'd of ecstasies, until his soul

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Seem'd but a lyre, that waken'd in the glance
Of the beloved one-he too has gone

To his eternal resting-place.

And where
Is stern Ambition-he who madly grasp'd
At Glory's fleeting phantom-he who sought
His fame upon the battle-field, and long'd
To make his throne a pyramid of bones
Amid a sea of blood? He too has gone!
His stormy voice is mute-his mighty arm
Is nerveless on its clod-his very name

Is but a meteor of the night of years

Exultant (egz ült' ant), rejoicing greatly.-Buoyant (bwal' ant), bearing up; light.- Ec' sta sy, extreme joy or pleasure; overpowering emotion. Thån' tom, something that appears; something imagined to be seen, but not real.- Nêrve' less, destitute of strength; powerless. -Me' te or, a luminous body passing in the air; any thing that dazzles and strikes with wonder.

Whose gleams flash'd out a moment o'er the earth,
And faded into nothingness. The dream
Of high devotion-beauty's bright array--
And life's deep idol memories-all have pass'd
Like the cloud-shadows on a starlight stream,
Or a soft strain of music, when the winds
Are slumbering on the billow.

1.

2.

172. THE FLIGHT OF YEARS-CONCLUDED.

ET, why muse

Upon the past with sorrow? Though the year
Has gone to blend with the mysterious tide
Of old Eternity, and borne along

Upon its heaving breast a thousand wrecks
Of glory and of beauty-yet, why mourn
That such is destiny?

3.

Another year

Succeedeth to the past-in their bright round
The seasons come and go-the same blue arch,
That hath hung o'er us, will hang o'er us yět―
The same pure stars that we have loved to watch,
Will blossom still at twilight's gentle hour,
Like lilies on the tomb of day-and still

Man will remain, to dream as he hath dream'd,
And mark the air with passion.

Love will spring
From the lone tomb of old Affections-Hope,
And Joy, and great Ambition will rise up
As they have risen-and their deeds will be
Brighter than those engraven on the scroll
Of parted centuries. Even now the sea
Of coming years, beneath whose mighty waves
Life's great events are heaving into birth,
Is tossing to and fro, as if the winds

Of heaven were prison'd in its soundless depths,
And struggling to be free.