"At last she spoke, her voice Sank deep and mournful on my listening ear, And who art thou,' she said, 'whose careless step That knows no end; and never breaks the morn, But wandering in amazement, from among When dwelt the gods on earth, and raised them up Of white Olympus when his topmost snows The cloud-capped rock above a waste of sea. This lonely woman-how fortunate that he should find her in the "dim inner chamber!"-calls up visions from the past, and describes the night and morning of this wondrous city, bidding its crowded streets and active life rise at her summons: "I turned me at her bidding, and beheld Thebes, such as old Homer knew it, is then faintly seen: "Once more I gazed; Tithonus' royal son Rode forth to battle with the warrior Greeks With warm soft hues, half manifold, half one, The scene and the time change. It is not the purple sun-rise flashing upon the exultant hosts of Thebes; but the surging deluge of the victorious in vader : "Through every gate In strange dark garb, poured in the victor band Of fair Choaspes; tall above the rest The monarch of the East, Cambyses, rode And thus ends the dream. Amidst applause the poet himself retires, and the Sheldonian Theatre pours forth its crowded occupants. W. M. W. "WHAT SORROW WORKETH.” WRITTEN FOR THE YOUTHS' MAGAZINE, BY AN OLD FRIEND. A LADY sat in a stately room, a babe lay on her knee; For she knew by the sobbing, flickering breath, by the glassy, halfclosed eye; By the nerveless limb, and the clay-cold hand, that her only child must die. And she moved not, she scarcely dared to speak, as tho' silence could retain The spirit, that God having only lent, was taking back again : Vain hope!-for one sharp, quick struggle came, one ray from the dark eyes shone, One cry, one lifting of the hands, and the baby to rest has gone. Then the mother clasped o'er her burning brow, her hands so thin and pale: And from her pallid lips there came, one low heart-broken wail; Why thus alone? was there none to soothe, to strengthen, to sympathize, That others should witness the bitter pangs of a sorrow they could not share. Bright, but too brief, was her wedded life, three summers it had not seen, When the cold grave hid from her tear-dimmed oyes, the form that so late had been The shrine of as noble and pure a soul as ever life's dark waves crossed; And the mourner said that she knew not his worth, till the priceless gem was lost. But even then, though the sun of her life was eclipsed, for many a day, Her child was a sign, like the fringe of light, that the darkness should pass away; And although her tears were like summer showers, thought like a sunbeam fell On the glistening drops-and Hope's rainbow seemed a bright future to foretell. But the sunbeam paled, and the rainbow arch with the sunbeam passed away, And a night hath fallen upon her soul, with no hope of returning day. For she felt that the spirit light was gone (earth without it is ever drear,) And she could not look on to the far off land, that God-lit, unsorrowing sphere. And a lonely grave ever haunted her, and a sealed coffin lid; And the wax-like form that beneath it lay, amid snowy flowers half hid; And ever in sleep were the warm soft arms, as of old round her neck entwined; Oh! to waken, and fancy she heard his cry in the wailing of the wind! Yet a Guardian was watching over her, unknown and yet a friend: end. And He grieveth not willingly, and but afflicts, to the end, that the spirit tried May pass through affliction's furnace, freed from earth's dross and purified. And He knocked at the door of her heart, and spoke in the sympathizing tone That draweth with cords of love to kneel at the footstool of His throne: Seeking pardon for all her repining vain, where her pleasant plants seemed to die, Now she knew they were only transplanted to the garden above the sky. And while waiting the welcome summons that should call her to join them there, Knowing well that an idle Christian is a thing God cannot bear ; She visited widows, and fatherless babes, childless mothers too she sought: To comfort them with the comfort wherewith her mind was now peacefully fraught. And to life's young and happy ones she was ever wont to tell Of the danger of setting our hopes on earth, and of loving the world too well. For she knew by her own experience, every idol God takes away; For He suffereth not that a rival power should reign where He holdeth sway. And the warning I echo; and pray you, try yourselves by this simple test, "What thought cometh first with the early morn, what last ere I sink to rest?" Whether wealth or fame, or friends or home be the idol you dearest prize, Remember," He buildeth his nest too low who buildeth below the skies." LEIGH. A DISCOURSE OF FLOWERS. HAPPY is the man that loves flowers! Happy even if his love be adulterated with vanity and strife. For human passions nestle in flowers too. Some have their zeal chiefly in horticultural competitions, or in the ambitions of floral shows; others love them as curiosities, and search for novelties, and monstrosities. We have been led through costly collections, by men whose chief pleasure seemed to be in the effect which their treasures produced on others, not on themselves. But there is a choice in vanities and ostentations. A contest of roses is better than of horses. We had rather take a premium for the best tulip, dahlia, or ranunculus, than for the best shot. Of all fools, a floral fool deserves the eminence. |