mathematical invention, that he so far surpassed his contemporaries; for in both these respects, he divided the palm with Huygens, and Kepler, and Leibnitz. It is in the wide sweep of his far-reaching analogy, distinguished alike by its humility and its boldness, that he has left the philosophers of all previous and all subsequent ages so immeasurably behind him. Delighted with his modesty and reciprocating his confidence, nature held communion with him as with a favorite son; to him she unveiled her most recondite mysteries; to him she revealed the secret of her most subtile transformations, and then taking him by the hand, she walked with him abroad over the wide expanse of universal being. George Hill. BORN in Guilford, Conn., 1796. DIED in New York, N. Y., 1871. SONG OF THE ELFIN, STEERSMAN. [From "Titania's Banquet, a Mask,” in The Ruins of Athens, and Other Poems. 1839.] ONE elf, I trow, is diving now For the small pearl; and one, The honey-bee for his bag he Goes chasing in the sun; And one, the knave, has pilfered from And takes his idle pastime where The water-lilies float. And some the mote, for the gold of his coat, Sprites, away! elf and fay, And see them hither sped. Haste! hither whip them with this end Of spider's web—anon The ghost will have fled to his grave-bed, Haste! for the ship, till the moon dip Her horn, I did but borrow; And crowing cocks are fairy clocks, The summer moon will soon go down, O blow, then, blow, till not a wave Leap from the deep unshorn! Blow, sweep their white tops into mist, Till the wide sea one bright sheet be, One sheet of fire and foam. Blow, till the sea a bubble be, And toss it to the sky, Till the sands we tread of the ocean-bed, As the summer fountain's dry. The upper shelves are ours, my elves, The summer moon will soon go down, From thicket, lake, and hollow; The blind bat, look! flits to his nook, Ha! here they come, skimming the foam, I hear the crow of the cock-O blow, Fairies, haste! flood and blast Quickly bring, and stay The moon's horn-look! to his nook The blind bat flits-away! G Horace Mann. BORN in Franklin, Mass., 1796. DIED at Yellow Springs, Ohio, 1859. SUPERFLUOUS RICHES. [A Few Thoughts for a Young Man. 1850.] REAT wealth is a misfortune, because it makes generosity impossible. There can be no generosity where there is no sacrifice; and a man who is worth a million of dollars, though he gives half of it VOL. V.-29 away, no more makes a sacrifice, than (if I may make such a supposition) a dropsical man, whose skin holds a hogshead of water, makes a sacrifice when he is tapped for a barrel. He is in a healthier condition after the operation than before it. If a donkey would be considered a fool among donkeys, for desiring to double the burden of gold that is already breaking his back, I see not why the shorter-eared variety should be judged by a different rule. The literal declaration, that it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of heaven, not only stands upon sacred authority, but is confirmed by all human reasoning. For, what kingdom of heaven can there possibly be, from which love and sympathy, and the tenderness of of a common brotherhood, are excluded? And the man who hoards superfluous wealth, while there is famishing in the next street; the man who revels in luxuries, while the houseless and breadless are driven from his door; the man who, through an ostentation of literature, walls himself in with libraries which he cannot read, while thousands of children around him are destitute even of school-books,—the very seed-wheat of all knowledge, such a man has no love, nor sympathy, nor feeling of brotherhood, for his race; and, therefore, go where he will, the kingdom of heaven must be his antipode. One point in the circumference of a revolving wheel may as well attempt to overtake the opposite point, as he to reach that kingdom. The casting off of his loved burdens will alone give him the agility to attain it. All above a fortune is usually the greatest of misfortunes to children. By taking away the stimulus to effort, and, especially, by taking away the restraints from indulgence, it takes the muscles out of the limbs, the brain out of the head, and virtue out of the heart. The same young man, who, with a moderate fortune, might retain the full vigor of his system till sixty, and be a blessing to the world all his life-long, is likely, under the depraving influence of a vast patrimony, to die a sot or a debauchee at forty-five, if he does not shoot himself as a non compos at thirty. The father may feel proud of his twenty per cent. or thirty per cent. stocks; but when the devil clutches the son for guiltily spending what he clutched the father for guiltily amassing, he doubles his capital by a single operation. Universal experience shows that the inheritor of a penny has a better chance for success in life than the inheritor of a "plum." But better far than either is the golden mean of Agur's perfect prayer. Vast fortunes are a misfortune to the State. They confer irresponsible power; and human nature, except in the rarest instances, has proved incapable of wielding irresponsible power, without abuse. The feudalisn of Capital is not a whit less formidable than the feudalism of Force. The millionnaire is as dangerous to the welfare of the community, in our day, as was the baronial lord of the Middle Ages. Both supply the means of shelter and of raiment on the same conditions; both hold their retainers in service by the same tenure, their necessity for bread; both use their superiority to keep themselves superior. The power of money is as imperial as the power of the sword; and I may as well depend upon another for my head, as for my bread. The day is sure to come, when men will look back upon the prerogatives of Capital, at the present time, with as severe and as just a condemnation as we now look back upon the predatory Chieftains of the Dark Ages. Weighed in the balances of the sanctuary, or even in the clumsy scales of human justice, there is no equity in the allotments which assign to one man but a dollar a day, with working, while another has an income of a dollar a minute, without working. Under the reign of Force, or under the reign of Money, there may be here and there a good man who uses his power for blessing and not for oppressing his race; but all their natural tendencies are exclusively bad. In England, we see the feudalism of Capital approaching its catastrophe. In Ireland, we see the catastrophe consummated. Unhappy Ireland! where the objects of human existence and the purposes of human government have all been reversed; where rulers, for centuries, have ruled for the aggrandizement of themselves, and not for the happiness of their subjects; where misgovernment has reigned so long, so supremely, and so atrociously, that, at the present time, the "Three Estates" of the realm are Crime, Famine, and Death! William Ware. BORN in Hingham, Mass., 1797. DIED at Cambridge, Mass., 1852. AURELIAN SAVES ZENOBIA. [Zenobia; or the Fall of Palmyra. 1838.] SOUND as of a distant tumult, and the uproar of a multitude, caught the ears of all within the tent. "What mean these tumultuous cries?" inquired Aurelian of his attending guard. "They increase and approach.' "It may be but the soldiers at their game with Antiochus," replied Probus, But it was not so. At the moment a Centurion, breathless, and with his head bare, rushed madly into the tent. "Speak," said the Emperor, what is it?" "The legions!" said the Centurion, as soon as he could command his words, "the legions are advancing, crying out for the Queen of Palmyra! They have broken from their camp and their leaders, and in one mixed body come to surround the Emperor's tent. As he ended, the fierce cries of the enraged soldiery were distinctly heard, like the roaring of a forest torn by a tempest. Aurelian, baring his sword, and calling upon his friends to do the same, sprang toward the entrance of the tent. They were met by the dense throng of the soldiers, who now pressed against the tent, and whose savage yells now could be heard, "The head of Zenobia."-" Deliver the Queen to our will.”—“ Throw out the head of Zenobia, and we will return to our quarters.”—“ She belongs to us. At the same moment the sides of the tent were thrown up, showing the whole plain filled with the heaving multitude, and being itself instantly crowded with the ringleaders and their more desperate associates. Zenobia, supporting the Princess who clung to her, and pale through a just apprehension of every horror, but otherwise firm and undaunted, cried out to Aurelian, "Save us, O Emperor, from this foul butchery!" "We will die else!" replied the Emperor; who with the word sprang upon a soldier making toward the Queen, and with a blow clove him to the earth. Then swinging round him that sword which had drunk the blood of thousands, and followed by the gigantic Sandarion, by Probus, and Carus, a space around the Queen was soon cleared. "Back, ruffians," cried Aurelian, in a voice of thunder, "for you are no longer Romans! back to the borders of the tent. There I will hear your complaints." The soldiers fell back, and their ferocious cries ceased. "Now," cried the Emperor, addressing them, "what is your will, that thus in wild disorder you throng my tent?" One from the crowd replied-"Our will is that the Queen of Palmyra be delivered to us as our right, instantly. Thousands and thousands of our bold companions lie buried upon these accursed plains, slain by her and her fiery engines. We demand her life. It is but justice, and faint justice too." 'Her life!"—"Her life!"-arose in one shout from the innumerable throng. The Emperor raised his hand, waving his sword dropping with the blood of the slain soldier; the noise subsided; and his voice, clear and loud like the tone of a trumpet, went to the farthest bounds of the mul titude. "Soldiers," he cried, "you ask for justice; and justice you shall have." "Aurelian is ever just!" cried many voices.—“But you shall not have the life of the Queen of Palmyra."-He paused; a low murmur went |