has no air of profundity, but plays with the details of place as dexterously as a well-taught hand flourishes over the keys of the piano-forte. It has all the air of commonplace, and all the force and power of genius.

LONDON ATLAS.

GOD'S FIRST TEMPLES.

THE groves were God's first temples. Ere man learn’d

To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave,

And spread the roof above them, ere he framed
The lofty vault, to gather and roll back
The sound of anthems, in the darkling wood,
Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down
And offer'd to the Mightiest solemn thanks
And supplication. For his simple heart
Might not resist the sacred influences

That, from the stilly twilight of the place,

And from the gray old trunks, that, high in heaven,
Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound
Of the invisible breath, that sway'd at once
All their green tops, stole over him, and bow'd
His spirit with the thought of boundless Power
And inaccessible Majesty. Ah, why

Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect
God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore

Only among the crowd, and under roofs

That our frail hands have raised? Let me, at least,

Here, in the shadow of the ancient wood,

Offer one hymn; thrice happy, if it find

Acceptance in His ear.

Father, Thy hand

Hath reared these venerable columns: Thou

Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down
Upon the naked earth, and forthwith rose

All these fair ranks of trees. They in Thy sun
Budded, and shook their green leaves in Thy breeze,
And shot toward heaven. The century-living crow,
Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died
Among their branches, till at last they stood,
As now they stand, massy and tall and dark,
Fit shrine for humble worshiper to hold
Communion with his Maker.

Here are seen

No traces of man's pomp or pride; no silks
Rustle, no jewels shine, nor envious eyes
Encounter; no fantastic carvings show

The boast of our vain race to change the form
Of Thy fair works. But Thou art here; Thou fill'st
The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds

That run along the summits of these trees

In music; Thou art in the cooler breath,
That, from the inmost darkness of the place,
Comes, scarcely felt; the barky trunks, the ground,
The fresh, moist ground, are all instinct with Thee.
Here is continual worship; Nature here,

In the tranquillity that Thou dost love,
Enjoys Thy presence. Noiselessly around,
From perch to perch the solitary bird

Passes; and yon clear spring, that, 'midst its herbs,
Wells softly forth, and visits the strong roots

Of half the mighty forests, tells no tale

Of all the good it does.

Thou hast not left

Thyself without a witness, in these shades,

Of Thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and grace
Are here to speak of Thee. This mighty oak,-
By whose immovable stem I stand, and seem
Almost annihilated,-not a prince,

In all the proud old world beyond the deep,
Ere wore his crown as loftily as he

Wears the green coronal of leaves with which
Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root
Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare
Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower,
With scented breath, and looks so like a smile,
Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould,
An emanation of th' indwelling life,
A visible token of the upholding love,
That are the soul of this wide Universe.

My heart is awed within me when I think
Of the great miracle that still goes on,
In silence, round me,-the perpetual work
Of Thy creation, finish'd, yet renew'd
Forever. Written on Thy works I read
The lesson of Thy own eternity.

Lo! all grow old and die; but see, again,
How, on the faltering footsteps of decay,
Youth presses-ever gay and beautiful youth-
In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees
Wave not less proudly than their ancestors
Moulder beneath them.

O, there is not lost
One of Earth's charms: upon her bosom yet,

After the flight of untold centuries,

The freshness of her far beginning lies,

And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate
Of his arch enemy Death; yea, seats himself
Upon the sepulchre, and blooms and smiles,
And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe
Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth
From Thine own bosom, and shall have no end.
O God, when Thou

Dost scare the world with tempests, set on fire
The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or fill,
With all the waters of the firmament,

The swift, dark whirlwind, that uproots the woods
And drowns the villages; when, at Thy call,
Uprises the great deep, and throws himself
Upon the continent, and overwhelms
Its cities; who forgets not, at the sight
Of these tremendous tokens of Thy power,
His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by!
O, from these sterner aspects of Thy face
Spare me and mine; nor let us need the wrath
Of the mad, unchain'd elements, to teach
Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate,
In these calm shades, Thy milder majesty,
And to the beautiful order of Thy works
Learn to conform the order of our lives.

W. C. BRYANT.

THE NATURE OF TRUE ELOQUENCE.

TRUE

RUE eloquence does not consist in speech. It cannot be brought from far. Labor and learning may toil for it, but they will toil in vain. Words and phrases may be marshaled in every way, but they cannot compass it. It must exist in the man, in the subject, and in the occasion.

Affected passion, intense expression, the pomp of declama' tion, all may aspire after it,-they cannot reach it. It comes, if it comes at all, like the outbreaking of a fountain from the earth, or the bursting forth of volcanic fires, with spontaneous, original, native force. The graces taught in the schools, the costly ornaments, and studied contrivances of speech, shock and disgust men, when their own lives, and the fate of their wives, their children, and their country hang on the decision of the hour. Then words have lost their power, rhetoric is vain, and all elaborate oratory contemptible. Even genius itself then feels rebuked and subdued, as in the presence of higher qualities. Then patriotism is eloquent; then self-devotion is eloquent. The clear conception, outrunning the deductions of logic, the high purpose, the firm resolve, the dauntless spirit, speaking on the tongue, beaming from the eye, informing every feature, and urging the whole man onward, right onward to his object,—this, this is eloquence; or, rather, it is something greater and higher than all eloquence: it is action, noble, sublime, Godlike action.

DANIEL WEBSTER.

SIR

ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE.

IR Orpheus, whom the poets have sung
In every metre and every tongue

Was, you may remember, a famous musician,—
At least for a youth in his pagan condition,—
For historians tell he played on his shell
From morning till night, so remarkably well
That his music created a regular spell

On trees and stones in forest and dell!