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That fats so still and placidly through heaven,

The spirits of the seasons seem to stand,—

Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's solemn form, And Winter with its aged locks, and breathe,

In mournful cadences that come abroad

Like the far wind-harp's wild and touching wail,
A melancholy dirge o'er the dead year,

Gone from the Earth forever.

"Tis a time

For memory and for tears. Within the deep,
Still chambers of the heart, a spectre dim,
Whose tones are like the wizard voice of Time
Heard from the tomb of ages, points its cold
And solemn finger to the beautiful
And holy visions that have passed away,
And left no shadow of their loveliness
On the dead waste of life. That spectre lifts
The coffin-lid of Hope, and Joy, and Love,
And, bending mournfully above the pale,

Sweet forms, that slumber there, scatters dead flowers
O'er what has passed to nothingness.

The year

Has gone, and, with it, many a glorious throng
Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each brow,
Its shadow in each heart. In its swift course,
It waved its scepter o'er the beautiful,-
And they are not. It laid its pallid hand
Upon the strong man,—and the haughty form
Is fallen, and the flashing eye is dim.
It trod the hall of revelry, where thronged
The bright and joyous, and the tearful wail
Of stricken ones, is heard where erst the song
And reckless shout resounded.

It passed o'er

The battle-plain, where sword, and spear, and shield,
Flashed in the light of mid-day,—and the strength
Of serried hosts, is shivered, and the grass,

Green from the soil of carnage, waves above
The crushed and moldering skeleton. It came,
And faded like a wreath of mist at eve;

Yet, ere it melted in the viewless air,

It heralded its millions to their home

In the dim land of dreams.

Remorseless Time!

Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe !-what power
Can stay him in his silent course, or melt
His iron heart to pity? On, still on,
He presses, and forever. The proud bird,
The condor of the Andes, that can soar

Through heaven's unfathomable depths, or brave
The fury of the northern Hurricane,

And bathe his plumage in the thunder's home,
Furls his broad wings at nightfall, and sinks down
To rest upon his mountain crag,-but Time
Knows not the weight of sleep or weariness,
And night's deep darkness has no chain to bind
His rushing pinions.

Revolutions sweep

O'er earth, like troubled visions o'er the breast
Of dreaming sorrow,-cities rise and sink
Like bubbles on the water,-fiery isles

Spring blazing from the Ocean, and go back
To their mysterious caverns,-Mountains rear
To heaven their bald and blackened cliffs, and bow
Their tall heads to the plain,-new Empires rise,
Gathering the strength of hoary centuries,
And rush down like the Alpine avalanche,
Startling the nations, and the very stars,
Yon bright and burning blazonry of God,
Glitter a while in their eternal depths,
And, like the Pleiad, loveliest of their train,
Shoot from their glorious spheres, and pass away
To darkle in the trackless void,-Yet, Time,
Time, the tomb-builder, holds his fierce career,
Dark, stern, all-pitiless, and pauses not
Amid the mighty wrecks that strew his path
To sit and muse, like other conquerors
Upon the fearful ruin he has wrought.

SELECT PASSAGES IN VERSE.

TELL ON SWITZERLAND.-J. S. Knowles.
ONCE Switzerland was free! With what a pride
I used to walk these hills,-look up to Heaven,
And bless God that it was so! It was free
From end to end, from cliff to lake 'twas free!
Free as our torrents are, that leap our rocks,
And plough our valleys, without asking leave
Or as our peaks, that wear their caps of snow
In very presence of the regal sun!
How happy was I in it, then! I loved
Its very storms. Ay, often have I sat

In my boat at night, when midway o'er the lake,
The stars went out, and down the mountain gorge
The wind came roaring,-I have sat and eyed
The thunder breaking from his cloud, and smiled
To see him shake his lightnings o'er my head,
And think I had no master save his own.

SONNET.

THE honey-bee that wanders all day long
The field, the woodland, and the garden o'er,
To gather in his fragrant winter store,
Humming in calm content his quiet song,
Sucks not alone the rose's glowing breast,
The lily's dainty cup, the violet's lips,
But from all rank and noisome weeds he sips
The single drop of sweetness ever pressed
Within the poison chalice. Thus, if we

Seek only to draw forth the hidden sweet
In all the varied human flowers we meet,
In the wide garden of Humanity,

And, like the bee, if home the spoil we bear,
Hived in our hearts it turns to nectar there.

SEEING AND NOT SEEING.-C. T. Brooks.
THE one with yawning made reply:
"What have we seen ?-Not much have I!
Trees, meadows, mountains, groves, and streams,
Blue sky and clouds, and sunny gleams."

The other, smiling, said the same;

But with face transfigured and eye of flame: "Trees, meadows, mountains, groves, and streams! Blue sky and cloud, and sunny gleams!"

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Look here, upon this picture, and on this;
The counterfeit presentment of two brothers.
See what a grace was seated on this brow:-
Hyperion's curls; the front of Jove himself;
An eye like Mars, to threaten and command;
A station like the herald Mercury,
New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill;
A combination, and a form, indeed,
Where every god did seem to set his seal,
To give the world assurance of a man.

This was your husband.-Look you, now, what follows:

Here is your husband; like a mildew'd ear,

Blasting his wholesome brother. Have you eyes?

Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed,
And batten on this moor? Ha! have you eyes?
You cannot call it love, for at your age
The heyday in the blood is tame, it's humble,
And waits upon the judgment; and what judgment
Would step from this to this?

TIME NOT TO BE RECALLED.

MARK that swift arrow, how it cuts the air,-
How it out-runs the following eye!
Use all persuasions now, and try

If thou cans't call it back, or stay it there.
That way it went, but thou shalt find
No track is left behind.

Fool! 'tis thy life, and the fond archer thou!
Of all the time thou'st shot away
I'll bid thee fetch but yesterday,

And it shall be too hard a task to do.
Besides repentance, what canst find
That it hath left behind?

REASONS FOR HUMILITY.-Beattie.

ONE part, one little part, we dimly scan,
Through the dark medium of life's feverish dream,
Yet dare arraign the whole stupendous plan,
If but that little part incongruous seem;
Nor is that part, perhaps, what mortals deem.
Oft from apparent ill our blessings rise:
O! then renounce that impious self-esteem
That aims to trace the secrets of the skies;
For thou art but of dust,-be humble and be wise.

CATILINE'S DEFIANCE.-Shakspeare.

BANISHED from Rome!-what's banished but set free
From daily contact of the things I loathe?
"Tried and convicted traitor!"-Who says this?
Who'll prove it, at his peril, on my head?
Banished?-I thank you for't. It breaks my chain!
I held some slack allegiance till this hour-
But now my sword's my own. Smile on, my lords!
I scorn to count what feelings, withered hopes,
Strong provocations, bitter, burning wrongs,
I have within my heart's hot cells shut up,
To leave you in your lazy dignities.

But here I stand and scoff you:-here I fling
Hatred and full defiance in your face.

THE DYING GLADIATOR.-Lord Byron.

I SEE before me the Gladiator lie:
He leans upon his hand,—his manly brow

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Consents to death, but conquers agony,

And his drooped head sinks gradually low,—
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one,

Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now

The arena swims around him-he is gone,

Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won.

He heard it, but he heeded not: his eyes
Were with his heart, and that was far away;
He recked not of the life he lost nor prize,
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay,
There were his young barbarians all at play,
There was his Dacian mother, he, their sire,
Butchered to make a Roman holiday,

All this rushed with his blood.-Shall he expire,
And unavenged?—Arise, ye Goths, and glut your ire.

A LECTURE ON PATENT MEDICINES.-By Dr. Puff Stuff.

LADIES and Gentlemen :-My name is Puff Stuff, the physician to that great and mighty Han Kann, Emperor of all the Chinas; I was converted to Christianity during the embassy of the late Lord Macartney, and left that there country, and came to this here, which may be reckoned the greatest blessing that ever happened to Europe, for I've brought with me the following unparalleled, inestimable, and never-to-bematched medicines: the first is called the great Parry Mandyron Rapskianum, from Whandy Whang Whang-one drop of which, poured into any of your gums, if you should have the misfortune to lose your teeth, will cause a new set to sprout out, like mushrooms from a hot-bed; and if any lady should happen to be troubled with that unpleasant and redundant exuberance, called a beard, it will remove it in three applications, and with greater ease than Packwood's razor strops.

I'm also very celebrated in the cure of eyes; the late Emperor of China had the misfortune to lose his eyes by a cataract. I very dexterously took out the eyes of his Majesty, and after anointing the sockets with a particular glutinous application, I placed in two eyes from the head of a living lion, which not only restored his Majesty's vision, but made him dreadful to all his enemies and beholders. I beg leave to say, that I have hyes from different hannimals, and to suit all your different faces and professions. This here bottle which I holds in my and, is called the great-elliptical-asiatical-pantiCurial-nervous cordial, which cures all the diseases incident to

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