Poets.

MANY are the poets who have never penned

Their inspiration, and perchance the best;

They felt, and loved, and died, but would not

lend

Their thoughts to meaner beings; they compressed
The god within them, and rejoined the stars
Unlaurelled upon earth, but far more blest
Than those who are degraded by the jars

Of passion, and their frailties linked to fame,
Conquerors of high renown, but full of scars.
Many are poets but without the name;
For what is poesy but to create
From overfeeling food or ill; and aim
At an external life beyond our fate,

And be the new Prometheus of new men,
Bestowing fire from heaven, and then, too late,
Finding the pleasure given repaid with pain,
And vultures to the heart of the bestower,
Who having lavished his high gift in vain,
Lies chained to his lone rock by the sea-shore?
So be it; we can bear - But thus, all they
Whose intellect is an o'ermastering power,
Which still recoils from its encumbering clay,
Or lightens it to spirit, whatsoever

The form which their creations may essay, Are bards;

BYRON.

Nature.

Ir was evening, and one of those evenings in which a loving peace breaths throughout nature, and man is involuntarily led to a feeling and sentiment of that day in which all yet was good. Glowing and pure, the vault of heaven expanded itself over the earth; and the earth stood like a gothic-crowned and happy bride, beneath the bride-canopy, smiling still, and in full beauty. The sun shone upon golden corn and ruddy fruits. Thick-foliaged and hushed the trees mirrored themselves in the clear lake. Here rose the twitter of a bird, and there the song of a peaceful voice. All seemed full of enjoyment. MISS BREMER.

Cheerfulness.

Is this a time to be clowdy and sad,

When our mother Nature laughs around; When even the deep blue heavens look glad,

And gladness breaths from the blossoming ground.

There are notes of joy from the hang-bird and

wren,

And the gossip of swallows through all the sky The ground squirrel gaily chippers by his den And the wilding-bee hums merrily by.

The clouds are at play in the azure space,
And their shadows at play on the bright green

vale,

And here they stretch to the frolic chase,

And there they roll on the easy gale.

There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower

There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree, There's a smile on the fruit and a smile on the flower,

And a laugh from the brook as it runs to the sea.

And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles On the dewy earth, that smiles in his ray,

On the leaping waters and gay young isles;

Ay, look, and he'll smile thy gloom away.

BRYANE.

Youth.

How bright, how glowing are the waking dreams of the young! of those who bound into society as the antelope from the hunter's toils, to the freedom of its companions of those with whom "the bright freshness of morning" lingers; who believe in the reality of smiles and welcome, and of tears and adieus; who swear and mean, eternal friendship, with creatures sometimes as young, as fair, as fresh, as ingenuous as themselves; whose hearts leap as frequently to their lips, as the blushes to their cheeks; upon whose tongues rest the words of truth, and whose voices are full of the bird-like melody of happiness. Such look out upon the glittering world, and never dream of the volcanoes of human

interest (stronger perhaps, than human passion) that threatens at every step to spring a mine beneath their feet. They gather, trustingly of the fruits that grow upon fair trees, in the worldling's gardens of luxurious pleasures, and instead of the freshness and refreshment they dreamed of behold, the fruits are filled with dust and ashes, and the bitterness of deceit! When the actual comes upon them, they suffer, not so much for themselves as for others; it is anguish, rather than anger. Their vase is shattered; the pure and holy temple erected above the shrine whereat they worshipped is defiled. they will dream no more, especially only wake from one to fall into another; and yet, if but one be fully realized in the whole length of life, she may joyfully say, "I have not dreamed in vain." MRS. S. C. HALL.

They declare

but

women