billows, with a roaring as though all the monsters of the deep were swarming around us. But not so. Neither the wide mouth of the shark, the brown back of the porpoise, nor the spouting nostril of the whale is visible; the brilliant dolphin, in his opal jacket, has retreated to his own haunts below the storm, and the little "Portuguese man-of-war" has drawn in the pink and purple fringes of his silver sail, and rolls, like a cunning beetle, from wave to wave, as light as the bubble from which he cannot be distinguished.

Even the albatross flapped his strong pinion, and wheeled away when he saw the winds gathering dark in the heavens; the Cape pigeon lingered a little, as though caring lightly for the ruffling of his mottled plumage, and then spread his butterfly embroidered wings, and hurried after; but the stormy petrel, though small and delicate as the timid wren, (I will take a lesson from thee, busy, daring little spirit that thou art, bright velvet-winged petrel,) scorns to seek safety, but by breasting the gale.

And here he remains, carousing amid the foam, as though those liquid pearls, leaping high in air, and scattering themselves upon the wind, had a magic in them to shield him from danger. He dips his wing in the angry tide as daintily as though it were stirred but in silver ripples; then he darts upward, and then plunges and is lost in the enshrouding foam. But, no; he is again in air, whirling and balancing, wheeling and careering, up and down, as though stark mad with joyousness, and now he vaults upon the back of the nearest foam-bank, and disappears to rise again as before.

And still the billows roar and bound, and lash the sides of the trembling ship, and sweep with strange force her decks; and still we reel and plunge, down, down, down, surely. No; we are up again, leaping skyward; we pause a moment - and - what a fearful pitch was that! Ah, my brain grows giddy, but still I cannot hide myself in my dark cabin. Thank God, that He has spread the land before our eyes at last, that He has shielded us, when wrath was stirring in the heavens, and darkness was upon the waters; that He has pinioned the wings of the wind, and said to the waves: "Thus far shalt thou go, and no farther!"

WE'VE ALL OUR ANGEL SIDE.

THE huge rough stones from out the mine, Unsightly and unfair,

Have veins of purest metal hid

Beneath the surface there.

Few rocks so bare but to their heights
Some tiny moss-plant clings;
And round the peaks so desolate,
The sea-bird sits and sings.
Believe me, too, that rugged souls,
Beneath their rudeness hide
Much that is beautiful and good-
We've all our angel side.

In all there is an inner depth,
A far-off secret way,

Where, through the windows of the soul,

God sends His smiling ray.

In every human heart there is

A faithful, sounding chord

That may be struck, unknown to us,
By some sweet, loving word.

The wayward will in man may try

Its softer thoughts to hide

Some unexpected tone reveals
It has an angel side.

Despised, and lone, and trodden down,
Dark with the shades of sin,
Deciphering not those halo-lights
Which God has lit within:
Groping about in endless night,
Poor, poisoned souls they are,
Who guess not what life's meaning is,
Nor dream of heaven afar.

Oh, that some gentle hand of love
Their stumbling steps would guide,
And show them that, amidst it all,
Life has its angel side!

Brutal, and mean, and dark enough,
God knows some natures are;
But He, compassionate comes near,
And shall we stand afar?

Our cruse of oil will not grow less
If shared with hearty hand;
For words of peace and looks of love
Few natures can withstand.

Love is the mighty conqueror,
Love is the beauteous guide,

Love, with her beaming eyes, can see
We've all our angel side.

Α'

THE SEVEN AGES OF MAN.

LL the world's a stage,

And all the men and women merely players;

They have their exits and their entrances,

And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in his nurse's arms:
And then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then, the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then, the soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel;
Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in the cannon's mouth. And then, the justice,
In fair round belly, with good capon lined,

With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,

Full of wise saws and modern instances;

And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side;
His youthful hose well served, a world too wide
For his shrunk shanks; and his big manly voice,
Turning again towards childish treble, pipes

And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange, eventful history,

Is second childishness, and mere oblivion:

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

WOLSEY'S SOLILOQUY AFTER HIS DOWNFALL.

AREWELL, a long farewell, to all my greatness!

FARE

This is the state of man; to-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms,
And bears his blushing honors thick upon him;
The third day, comes a frost, a killing frost;
And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness is a-ripening-nips his root,
And then he falls as I do. I have ventured,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
This many summers in a sea of glory;
But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride
At length broke under me; and now has left me,
Weary and old with service, to the mercy

Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me.
Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye;
I feel my heart new open'd: O, how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors!
There is, betwixt that smile he would aspire to-
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,
More pangs and fears than wars or women have;
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.

WOLSEY'S ADDRESS TO CROMWELL.

ROMWELL, I did not think to shed a tear

Cin all my miseries; but thou hast forced me
CRO

Out of thy honest truth to play the woman.

Let's dry our eyes; and thus far hear me, Cromwell; And when I am forgotten, as I shall be,

And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention
Of me more must be heard of-say I taught thee;
Say, Wolsey - that once trod the ways of glory,
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor —
Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in;
A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it.
Mark but my fall, and that that ruin'd me.
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition;
By that sin fell the angels; how can man then,
The image of his Maker, hope to win by 't?
Love thyself last cherish those hearts that hate thee;
Corruption wins not more than honesty.

Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,

To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not:
Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's,

Thy God's, and truth's; then if thou fall'st, O Cromwell,
Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. Serve the king;

And Pr'ythee, lead me in:

There take an inventory of all I have,

To the last penny; 'tis the king's; my robe,

And my integrity to heaven, is all

I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell,
Had I but served my God with half the zeal
I served my king, he would not in mine age
Have left me naked to mine enemies.

0

OUR HEROES SHALL LIVE.

H, tell me not that they are dead - that generous host, that airy army of invisible heroes. They hover as a cloud of witnesses above this nation. Are they dead that yet speak louder than we can speak, and a more universal language? Are they dead that yet act? Are they dead that yet move upon society, and inspire the people with nobler motives, and more heroic patriotism?

Ye that mourn, let gladness mingle with your tears. He was your son, but now he is the nation's. He made your household bright now his example inspires a thousand households. Dear to his brothers and sisters, he is now brother to every generous