Waken'd the voice of reason, and unfurl'd
The page of truthful knowledge to the world;
They who have toil'd and studied for mankind-
Aroused the slumbering virtues of the mind-
Taught us a thousand blessings to create :—
These are the nobly great!
Who are the wise?
They who have govern'd with a self-control,
Each wild and baneful passion of the soul—
Curb'd the strong impulse of all fierce desires,
But kept alive affection's purer fires;
They who have pass'd the labyrinth of life,
Without one hour of weakness or of strife;
Prepared each change of fortune to endure,
Humble though rich, and dignified though poor—
Skill'd in the latent movements of the heart-
Learn'd in the lore which nature can impart
Teaching that sweet philosophy aloud
Which sees the "silver lining" of the cloud,
Looking for good in all beneath the skies :-
These are the truly wise!
They who have kept their sympathies awake,
And scatter'd joy for more than custom's sake-
Steadfast and tender in the hour of need,
Gentle in thought, benevolent in deed;
Whose looks have power to make dissension cease-
Whose smiles are pleasant, and whose words are peace:
They who have lived as harmless as the dove,
Teachers of truth and ministers of love;
Love for all moral power--all mental grace-
Love for the humblest of the human race-
Love for that tranquil joy that virtue brings-
Love for the Giver of all goodly things;
True followers of that soul-exalting plan
Which Christ laid down to bless and govern man:
They who can calmly linger at the last,
Survey the future, and recal the past;
And with that hope which triumphs over pain,
Feel well assured they have not lived in vain;
Then wait in peace their hour of final rest :-
These are the only blest!
INQUIRING WHY I LOVED HER.
By HABINGTON, one of our elder poets.
WHY doth the stubborn iron prove
So gentle to the magnetic stone?
How know you that the orbs do move?
With music too-since heard of none?
And I will answer why I love.
'Tis not thy virtues, each a star,
Which in thy soul's bright sphere do shine, Shooting thy beauties from afar,
To make each gazer's heart like thine; Our virtues often meteors are.
'Tis not thy face. I cannot spy,
When poets weep some virgin's death,
That Cupid wantons in her eye,
Or perfumes vapour from her breath;
And 'mongst the dead thou once must lie.
Nor is 't thy birth. For I was ne'er
So vain as in that to delight:
Which, balance it, no weight doth bear,
Nor yet is object to the sight,
But only fills the vulgar ear.
yet thy fortunes: since I know They, in their motion like the sea, Ebb from the good, to the impious flow, And so in flattery betray
That, raising, they but overflow.
And yet these attributes might prove
Fuel enough t'enflame desire;
But there was something from above,
Shot, without reason's guide, this fire.
I know, yet know not, why I love.
A passage in a poem by KEATS, entitled Isabella.
FAIR Isabel, poor simple Isabel!
Lorenzo, a young palmer in Love's eye!
They could not in the self-same mansion dwell
Without some stir of heart, some melody;
They could not sit at meals but feel how well
It soothed each to be the other by ;
They could not, sure, beneath the same roof sleep,
But to each other dream, and nightly weep.
With every morn their love grew tenderer,
With every eve deeper and tenderer still;
He might not in house, field, or garden stir,
But her full shape would all his seeing fill;
And his continual voice was pleasanter
To her, than noise of trees or hidden rill;
Her lute-string gave an echo of his name,
She spoilt her half-done broidery with the same.
He knew whose gentle hand was at the latch,
Before the door had given her to his eyes;
And from her chamber-window he would catch
Her beauty farther than the falcon spies;
And constant as her vespers would he watch,
Because her face was turn'd to the same skies;
And with sick longing all the night outwear,
To hear her morning-step upon the stair.
Extracted from EBENEZER ELLIOTT's Spirits and Men, a poem.
FLOWERS, ye remind me of rock, vale, and wood,
Haunts of my early days, and still loved well :
Bloom not your sisters fair in Locksley's dell?
And where the sun, o'er purple moorlands wide,
Gilds Wharncliffe's oaks, while Don is dark below?
And where the blackbird sings on Rother's side?
And where Time spares the age of Conisbro'?
Sweet flowers, remember'd well! your hues, your breath,
Call up
the dead to combat still with death:
The spirits of my buried years arise!
Again a child, where childhood roved, I run;
While groups of speedwell, with their bright blue eyes,
Like happy children, cluster in the sun.
Still the wan primrose hath a golden core;
The milfoil, thousand-leaf'd, as heretofore,
Displays a little world of flowerets gay;
And tiny maids might hither come to cull
The wo-mark'd cowslip of the dewy May;
And still the fragrant thorn is beautiful.
I do not dream. Is it indeed a rose
That yonder in the deepening sunset glows?
Methinks the orchis of the fountain'd wold
Hath, in its well-known beauty, something new.
Do I not know thy lofty disc of gold,
Thou, that still woo'st the sun with passion true?
No, splendid stranger! haply, I have seen
One not unlike thee, but with humbler mien,
Watching her lord. Oh lily, fair as aught
Beneath the sky! thy pallid petals glow
In evening's blush; but evening borrows nought
Of thee, thou rival of the stainless snow-
For thou art scentless. Lo! this finger'd flower,
That round the cottage window weaves a bower,
Is not the woodbine; but that lowlier one,
With thick green leaves, and spike of dusky fire,
Enamour'd of the thatch it grows upon,
Might be the house-leek of rude Hallamshire,
And would awake, beyond divorcing seas,
Thoughts of green England's peaceful cottages.
Yes, and this blue-eyed child of earth, that bends
Its head on leaves with liquid diamonds set,
A heavenly fragrance in its sighing sends;
And though 'tis not our downcast violet,
Yet might it, haply, to the zephyr tell
That 'tis beloved by village maids as well.
A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE.
By LONGFELLOW.
THIS is the place. Stand still, my steed;
Let me review the scene,
And summon from the shadowy Past
The forms that once have been.
The Past and Present here unite
Beneath Time's flowing tide,
Like footprints hidden by a brook,
But seen on either side.
Here runs the highway to the town ;
There the green lane descends,
Through which I walk'd to church with thee,
O gentlest of my friends!
The shadow of the linden-trees
Lay moving on the grass;
Between them and the moving boughs,
A shadow, thou didst pass.
Thy dress was like the lilies,
And thy heart as pure as they ;
One of God's holy messengers
Did walk with me that day.
I saw the branches of the trees
Bend down thy touch to meet,
The clover-blossoms in the grass
Rise up to kiss thy feet.
"Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares,
Of earth and folly born!"
Solemnly sang the village choir
On that sweet Sabbath morn.
Through the closed blinds the golden sun
Pour'd in a dusty beam,
Like the celestial ladder seen
By Jacob in his dream.
And ever and anon the wind,
Sweet-scented with the hay,
Turn'd o'er the hymn-book's fluttering leaves That on the window lay.
Long was the good man's sermon,
Yet it seem'd not so to me;
For he spake of Ruth the beautiful,
And still I thought of thee.
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