agement of their darling boy. If they would make him hardy and rugged and fearless, they must let him go abroad often in his early boyhood, and amuse himself by the hour together in smoothing and twirling the hoary locks of winter. Instead of keeping him shut up all day with a stove, and graduating his sleeping-room by Fahrenheit, they must let him face the keen edge of a north wind when the mercury is below zero; and, instead of minding a little shivering and complaining when he returns, cheer up his spirits and send him out again. In this way they will teach him that he was not born to live in the nursery, nor to brood over the fire, but to range abroad as free as the snow and the air, and to gain warmth from exercise.

I love and admire the youth who turns not back from the howling wintry blast, nor withers under the blaze of summer; who never magnifies "mole-hills into mountains," but whose daring eye, exulting, scales the eagle's airy crag, and who is ready to undertake any thing that is prudent and lawful within the range of possibility. Who would think of planting the mountain-oak in a green-house? or of rearing the cedar of Lebanon in a lady's flower-pot? Who does not know that in order to attain their mighty strength and majestic forms, they must freely enjoy the rain and the sunshine, and must feel the rocking of the tempest?

XLI.-A PSALM OF Life.

TELL me not in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!

And the grave is not its goal:
"Dust thou art, to dust returnest,"

Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way,
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,

Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act! act in the living Present!

Heart within, and God o'er head.

Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us

Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;

Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.

-Longfellow.

XLII. THE GRAVE.

OH, the grave! the grave! It buries every error; covers every defect; extinguishes every resentment. From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can look down upon the grave even of

an enemy, and not feel a compunctious throb that he should ever have warred with the poor handful of earth that lies moldering before him? But the grave of those we loved,— what a place for meditation! There it is we call up, in long review, the whole history of virtue and gentleness, and the thousand endearments lavished upon us, almost unheeded, in the daily intercourse of intimacy; there it is that we dwell upon the tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness of the parting scene; the bed of death, with all its stifled griefs; its noiseless attendants, its mute, watchful assiduities; the last testimonies of expiring love; the feeble, fluttering, thrilling-oh, how thrilling!-pressure of the hand; the faint, faltering accents struggling in death to give one more assurance of affection; the last fond look of the glazing eye, turned upon us, even from the threshold of existence! Aye, go to the gave of buried love and meditate! There settle the account with thy conscience for every past benefit unrequited, every past endearment unregarded, of that departed being who can never, never, never return, to be soothed by thy contrition.

If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent; if thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth; if thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged in thought, or word, or deed, the spirit that generously confided in thee; if thou art a lover, and hast ever given one unmerited pang to that true heart which now lies cold and still beneath thy feet; then be sure that every unkind look, every ungracious word, every ungentle action, will come thronging back upon thy memory, and knocking dolefully at thy soul; then be sure that thou wilt lie down, sorrowing and repentant, on the grave, and utter the unheard groan, and pour the unavailing tear, more deep, more bitter, because unheard and unavailing. -Washington Irving.

XLIII.-FARMER GRAY.

You may envy the joys o' the farmer,
An' talk o' his free, easy life;
You may sit at his bountiful table,
An' praise his industrious wife:

Ef you worked in the woods in the winter,
Or follered the furrow all day,

With a team o' unruly young oxen,

An' feet heavy-loaded with clay-
Ef you held the old plow, I'm a thinkin'
You'd sing in a different way.

You may dream o' the white-crested daisies,
An' lilies that wear such a charm;
But it gives me a heap o' hard labor

To keep 'em from spoilin' my farm;
You may picter the skies in their splendor,
The landscapes so full o' repose,

But I never git time to look at 'em,
Except when it rains or it snows;

You may sing o' the song-birds o' summer:
I'll tend to the hawks an' the crows.

You may write o' the beauties o' natur',
An' dwell on the pleasures o' toil;
But the good things we hev on our table
All hev to be dug from the soil.
An' our beautiful bright golden butter,
Perhaps you never hev learned,

Makes a pile o' hard work for the wimmin,—
It has to be cheerfully churned.

An' the cheeses, so plump in the pantry,
All hev to be lifted and turned.

When home from the hay-field, in summer, With stars gleaming over my head; When I milk by the light o' my lantern, An' wearily crawl into bed;

When I think o' the work o' the morrow,

An' worry for fear it might rain,
While I list to the roll o' the thunder,
An' hear my companion complain;
Then it seems as if life were a burden,
With leetle to hope fur or gain.

But the corn must be planted in spring-time,
The weeds must be kept from the ground,
An' the hay must be cut in the meader,
The wheat must be cradled an' bound-
Fur we are never out of employment,

Except when we lie in the bed

An' the wood must be chopped in the winter,
An' patiently piled in the shed;

An' the grain must be hauled to the market,
The stock must be watered and fed.

But the farmer depends upon only
The generous bounty o' God;
An' he always is sure o' a livin'
By turnin' an' tillin' the sod.
When his wearisome work is all over,

With conscience all spotless and clear,
He may leave the old farm-house forever

To dwell in a holier sphere;

An' the crown that he wears may be brighter,
Because o' his simple life here.

XLIV.-EDMUND BURKE AND HIS SON'S HORSE.

IN the decline of Mr. Burke's life, when he was living in retirement on his farm at Beaconfield, the rumor went up to London that he had gone mad, and the fact that was stated in support of this rumor was that he went round his park kissing his cows and horses. A friend, a man of rank and influence, hearing this story, and deeming it of too much importance to be left uncorrected, hastened down to Beaconfield, and sought an interview with the view of ascertaining the truth of the rumor.