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wildest and the tamest beasts-a seaman among sailors, a herdsman among graziers, a laborer among laborers, a smith among smiths, a workman among workmen, even a beggar among the beggars at the palace or the cottage gate. His mind should. be simple as a child's; tender, compassionate, and pitiful as a woman's; firm and inflexible as that of a judge or of a patriarch; for he tells of the sports, the innocence, and the candor of childhood, the loves of men and beauteous maidens, the affections and the woes of the heart, and the sympathy of compassion with misery; he writes with tears; his master-piece is to make them flow. He should be able to inspire men with pity, the most beautiful, because the most unselfish of human sympathies. Lastly, he should be truly pious, filled with the presence and worship of the Almighty, for he speaks as much of heaven as of earth. His mission is to make men aspire to the invisible and superior world; to force all things, even though inanimate, to proclaim the name of the Most High, and to impress all the emotions he excites in the mind or in the heart with that immortal, infinite, and undefinable character which is, as it were, the atmosphere and invisible element of the Divinity.

Such should be the perfect poet; a living epitome of all the gifts, all the perceptions, all the endowments, all the wisdom, all the tenderness, all the virtuous and heroic instincts of the soul—a creature as perfect as our imperfect humanity will allow.

TRUE WOMAN.-MOTHER WELL.

No quaint conceit of speech,
No golden, minted phrase-
Dame Nature needs to teach

To echo woman's praise;
Pure love and truth unite
To do thee, Woman, right!

She is the faithful mirror

Of thoughts that brightest be--
Of feelings without error,

Of matchless constancie;

When art essays to render

More glorious heaven's bow

To paint the virgin splendor

Of fresh-fallen mountain snow

New fancies will I find,

To laud true woman's mind,

No words can lovelier make
Virtue's all-lovely name,
No change can ever shake

A woman's virtuous fame;
The moon is forth anew-

Though envious clouds endeavor
To screen her from our view-
More beautiful than ever;
So, through detraction's haze,
True Woman shines alwaies.

The many-tinted rose

Of gardens is the queen,
The perfumed violet knows
No peer where she is seen;
The flower of woman-kind
Is aye a gentle mind.

BUGLE SONG.-TENNYSON.

The splendor falls on castle walls,
And snowy summits old in story;
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying:
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going;
O sweet and far, from cliff and scar,
The horns of Elf-land faintly blowing!

Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky;

They faint on hill, or field, or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul,

And grow forever and forever.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

WEEHAWKEN.-FITZ-GREENE HALLECK

Wehawken! in thy mountain scenery yet,
All we adore of nature in her wild
And frolic hour of infancy is met;

And never has a summer's morning smiled
Upon a lovelier scene than the full eye
Of the enthusiast revels on-when high

Amid thy forest solitudes, he climbs

O'er crags, that proudly tower above the deep,
And knows that sense of danger which sublimes
The breathless moment-when his daring step
Is on the verge of the cliff, and he can hear
The low dash of the wave, with startled ear,

Like the death music of his coming doom,

And clings to the green turf with desperate force,
As the heart clings to life; and when resume
The currents in their veins their wonted course,
There lingers a deep feeling-like the moan
Of wearied ocean when the storm is gone.

In such an hour he turns, and on his view,

Ocean, and earth, and heaven, burst before him;
Clouds slumbering at his feet, and the clear blue

Of summer's sky in beauty bending o'er him—
The city bright below; and far away,
Sparkling in golden light, his own romantic bay.

Tall spire, and glittering roof, and battlement,
And banners floating in the sunny air;
And white sails o'er the calm blue waters bent,
Green isle and circling shore are blended there
In wild reality. When life is old,

And many a scene forgot, the heart will hold

Its memory of this; nor lives there one

Whose infant breath was drawn, or boyhood's days

Of happiness were passed, beneath that sun,
That in his manhood's prime can calmly gaze

Upon that bay, or on that mountain stand,
Nor feel the prouder of his native land.

PRIDE OF ANCESTRY.-DANIEL WEBSTER.

Ir is a noble faculty of our nature which enables us to connect our thoughts, our sympathies, aud our happiness with what is distant in place or time; and, looking before and after, to hold communion at once with our ancestors and our posterity. Human and mortal although we are, we are nevertheless not mere insulated beings, without relation to the past or the future. Neither the point of time nor the spot of earth in which we physically live, bounds our rational and intellectual enjoyments. We live in the past by a knowledge of its history, and in the future by hope and anticipation. By ascending to

an association with our ancestors; by contemplating their example and studying their character; by partaking their sentiments, and imbibing their spirit; by accompanying them in their toils; by sympathizing in their sufferings, and rejoicing in their successes and their triumphs-we mingle our own existence with theirs, and seem to belong to their age. We become their contemporaries, live the lives which they lived, endure what they endured, and partake in the rewards which they enjoyed. And in like manner, by running along the line of future time; by contemplating the probable fortunes of those who are coming after us; by attempting something which may promote their happiness, and leave some not dishonorable memorial of ourselves for their regard when we shall sleep with the fathers -we protract our own earthly being, and seem to crowd whatever is future, as well as all that is past, into the narrow compass of our earthly existence. As it is not a vain and false, but an exalted and religious imagination which leads us to raise our thoughts from the orb which, amidst this universe of worlds, the Creator has given us to inhabit, and to send them with something of the feeling which nature prompts, and teaches to be proper among children of the same Eternal Parent, to the contemplation of the myriads of fellow-beings with which his goodness has peopled the infinite of space; so neither is it false or vain to consider ourselves as interested or connected with our whole race through all time; allied to our ancestors; allied to our posterity; closely compacted on all sides with others; ourselves being but links in the great chain of being, which begins with the origin of our race, runs onward through its successive generations, binding together the past, the present, and the future, and terminating at last with the consummation of all things earthly at the throne of God.

There may be, and there often is, indeed, a regard for ancestry, which nourishes only a weak pride; as there is also a care for posterity, which only disguises an habitual avarice, or hides the workings of a low and groveling vanity. But there is also a moral and philosophical respect for our ancestors, which elevates the character and improves the heart. Next to the sense of religious duty and moral feeling, I hardly know what should bear with stronger obligation on a liberal and enlightened mind, than a consciousness of alliance with excellence which is departed; and a consciousness, too, that in its acts and conduct, and even in its sentiments, it may be actively operating on the happiness of those who come after it. Poetry is found to have

few stronger conceptions, by which it would affect or overwhelm the mind, than those in which it presents the moving and speaking image of the departed dead to the senses of the living. This belongs to poetry only because it is congenial to our nature. Poetry is, in this respect, but the handmaid of true philosophy and morality. It deals with us as human beings, naturally reverencing those whose visible connection with this state of being is severed, and who may yet exercise we know not what sympathy with ourselves; and when it carries us forward, also, and shows us the long-continued result of all the good we do in the prosperity of those who follow us, till it bears us from ourselves, and absorbs us in an intense interest for what shall happen to the generations after us, it speaks only in the language of our nature, and affects us with sentiments which belong to us as human beings.

THE RAISING OF JAIRUS' DAUGHTER.-ANNA CORA RITCHIE.

Within the darkened chamber sat

A proud but stricken form;

Upon her vigil-wasted cheeks

The grief-wrung tears were warm;

And faster streamed they as she bent

Above a couch of pain,

Where lay a withering flower that wooed
Those fond eyes' freshening rain.

The raven tress on that young brow
Was damp with dews of death;
And glassier grew her upraised eye
With every fluttering breath.
Coldly her slender fingers lay

Within the mourner's grasp;

Lightly they pressed that fostering hand,
And stiffened in its grasp.

Then low the mother bent her knee,

And cried in fervent prayer

"Hear me, O God! mine own, my child,

Oh, holy Father, spare!

My loved, my last, mine only one

Tear her not yet away:

Leave this crushed heart its best, sole joy
Be merciful, I pray!"

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