Adri. Upon this finger be the first tax raised. [Draws off a ring, which she gives him.

Now what shall I receive?

Arter. The like from mine.

I had forgot-I have it not to-day:

But in its stead wear this around thy neck.
And on thy lips this impress. Now, good-night.

GREATNESS AND SUCCESS.

FROM "PHILIP VAN ARTEVELDE."

He was one

Of many thousand such that die betimes,
Whose story is a fragment known to few.
Then comes the man who has the luck to live,
And he's a prodigy. Compute the chances,
And deem there's ne'er a one in dangerous times
Who wins the race of glory, but than him
A thousand men more gloriously endowed
Have fallen upon the course; a thousand others
Have had their fortunes foundered by a chance,
While lighter barks pushed past them; to whom add
A smaller tally of the singular few,
Who, gifted with predominating powers,

Bear yet a temperate will and keep the peace,-
The world knows nothing of its greatest men!

ARTEVELDE'S SOLILOQUY.

FROM "PHILIP VAN ARTEVELDE."

To bring a cloud upon the summer day
Of one so happy and so beautiful,—
It is a hard condition. For myself,

I know not that the circumstance of life
In all its changes can so far afflict me,
As makes anticipation much worth while.
But she is younger,-of a sex beside
Whose spirits are to ours as flame to fire,
More sudden and more perishable too;

So that the gust wherewith the one is kindled
Extinguishes the other. Oh, she is fair!
As fair as heaven to look upon! as fair
As ever vision of the Virgin blessed
That weary pilgrim, resting at the fount
Beneath the palm, and dreaming to the tune
Of flowing waters, duped his soul withal.
It was permitted in my pilgrimage,

To rest beside the fount beneath the tree,
Beholding there no vision, but a maid

Whose form was light and graceful as the palm,
Whose heart was pure and jocund as the fount,
And spread a freshness and a verdure round.
This was permitted in my pilgrimage,

And loth I am to take my staff again.
Say that I fall not in this enterprise-
Still must my life be full of hazardous turns,
And they that house with me must ever live
In imminent peril of some evil fate.
-Make fast the doors; heap wood upon the fire;
Draw in your stools, and pass the goblet round,
And be the prattling voice of children heard.
Now let us make good cheer; but what is this?
Do I not see, or do I dream I see,

A form that midmost in the circle sits
Half visible, his face deformed with scars,
And foul with blood?-Oh yes, I know it-there
Sits DANGER, with his feet upon the hearth.

-Yes, I have wasted half a summer's night.
Was it well spent? Successfully it was.
How little flattering is a woman's love!
Worth to the heart, come how it may, a world;
Worth to men's measures of their own deserts,
If weighed in wisdom's balance, merely nothing.
The few hours left are precious-who is there?
Ho! Nieuverkerchen!-when we think upon it,
How little flattering is a woman's love!
Given commonly to whosoe'er is nearest,
And propped with most advantage; outward grace
Nor inward light is needful; day by day
Men wanting both are mated with the best
And loftiest of God's feminine creation,
Whose love takes no distinction but of gender,
And ridicules the very name of choice.
Ho! Nieuverkerchen!-what, then, do we sleep?
Are none of you awake?—and as for me,
The world says Philip is a famous man-
What is there woman will not love, so taught?
Ho! Ellert! by your leave though, you must wake.
[Enter an officer.

Have me a gallows built upon the mount,
And let Van Kortz be hung at break of day.

Maria Jane (Jewsbury) Fletcher.

Miss Jewsbury (1800-1833) was a native of Warwickshire, England. She was married (1833) to the Rev. William Fletcher, missionary to India, and died soon after arriving in Bombay. She wrote "Lays of Leisure Hours" and "Letters to the Young." Her poetical vein was delicate and genuine. She was an amiable, accomplished

woman.

BIRTH-DAY BALLAD.

Thou art plucking spring roses, Genie,
And a little red rose art thou!
Thou hast unfolded to-day, Genie,

Another bright leaf, I trow:

But the roses will live and die, Genie,
Many and many a time,

Ere thou hast unfolded quite, Genie-
Grown into maiden prime.

Thou art looking now at the birds, Genie;
But, oh! do not wish their wing!
That would only tempt the fowler, Genie:
Stay thou on earth and sing;
Stay in the nursing nest, Genie;
Be not soon thence beguiled,
Thou wilt ne'er find a second, Genie,
Never be twice a child.

Thou art building towers of pebbles, Genie,
Pile them up brave and high,

And leave them to follow a bee, Genie,
As he wandereth singing by;
But if thy towers fall down, Genie,
And if the brown bee is lost,
Never weep, for thou must learn, Genie,
How soon life's schemes are crossed.

Thy hand is in a bright boy's, Genie,

And he calls thee his sweet wee wife, But let not thy little heart think, Genie, Childhood the prophet of life;

It may be life's minstrel, Genie,

And sing sweet songs and clear, But minstrel and prophet now, Genie, Are not united here.

What will thy future fate be, Genie,
Alas! shall I live to see?

For thou art scarcely a sapling, Genie,
And I am a moss-grown tree :

I am shedding life's leaves fast, Genie,
Thou art in blossom sweet;
But think of the grave betimes, Genie,
Where young and old oft meet.

James Gordon Brooks.

AMERICAN.

Brooks (1801-1841), the son of a Revolutionary officer, was a native of Claverack, N. Y., on the Hudson. He was graduated at Union College in 1819, studied law, and began to write poetry under the signature of "Florio." He removed in 1823 to the city of New York, where he became connected as editor with various journals. In 1828 he married Mary Elizabeth Akin, of Poughkeepsie, N. Y., who wrote under the signature of "Norna," and shared the poetical gift, as the following lines from her pen attest:

PSALM CXXXVII.

"Come, sweep the harp! one thrilling rush Of all that warmed its chords to song, And then the strains forever hush

That oft have breathed its wires along! The ray is quenched that lit our mirth, The shrine is gone that claimed the prayer, And exiles o'er the distant earth,

How can we wake the carol there?

"One sigh, my harp, and then to sleep!

For all that loved thy song have flown:
Why shouldst thou lonely vigils keep,
Forsaken, broken, and alone?
Let this sad murmur be thy last,
Nor e'er again in music swell;
Thine hours of joyousness are past,

And thus we sever:-fare thee well!"

In 1829 the Messrs. Harper published "The Rivals of Este, and other Poems," by Mr. and Mrs. Brooks. In 1830 husband and wife removed to Winchester, Va., to take charge of a newspaper; but in 1839 they took up their residence in Albany, N. Y., where Mr. Brooks died. He was esteemed for his many good qualities, and held a high social position, though hardly favored by fortune in his various editorial enterprises.

GREECE:-1822.

Land of the brave! where lie inurned The shrouded forms of mortal clay, In whom the fire of valor burned

And blazed upon the battle's fray;— Land where the gallant Spartan few Bled at Thermopyla of yore, When death his purple garment threw On Helle's consecrated shore;

Land of the Muse! within thy bowers
Her soul-entrancing echoes rang,
While on their course the rapid hours
Paused at the melody she sang,-
Till every grove and every hill,
And every stream that flowed along,
From morn to night repeated still
The winning harmony of song!

Land of dead heroes! living slaves! Shall glory gild thy clime no more? Her banner float above thy waves, Where proudly it hath swept before? Hath not remembrance then a charm

To break the fetters and the chain, To bid thy children nerve the arm,

And strike for freedom once again?

No! coward souls! the light which shone
On Leuctra's war-empurpled day,
The light which beamed on Marathon,

Hath lost its splendor, ceased to play: And thou art but a shadow now,

With helmet shattered, spear in rust: Thy honor but a dream--and thou Despised, degraded-in the dust!

Where sleeps the spirit, that of old

Dashed down to earth the Persian plume, When the loud chant of triumph told

How fatal was the despot's doom?The bold three hundred-where are they, Who died on battle's gory breast? Tyrants have trampled on the clay Where death has hushed them into rest.

Yet, Ida, yet upon thy hill

A glory shines of ages fled;

And fame her light is pouring still,
Not on the living, but the dead!
But 'tis the dim sepulchral light

Which sheds a faint and feeble ray,
As moonbeams on the brow of night,

When tempests sweep upon their way.

Greece! yet awake thee from thy trance!

Behold, thy banner waves afar; Behold, the glittering weapons glance Along the gleaming front of war! A gallant chief, of high emprise,

Is urging foremost in the field, Who calls upon thee, Greece, to rise In might, in majesty revealed.

In vain, in vain the hero calls

In vain he sounds the trumpet loud! His banner totters-see! it falls

In ruin, freedom's battle-shroud! Thy children have no soul to dare Such deeds as glorified their sires; Their valor's but a meteor's glare Which flames a moment, and expires.

Lost land! where genius made his reign, And reared his golden arch on high,— Where science raised her sacred fane,

Its summits peering to the sky,Upon thy clime the midnight deep Of ignorance hath brooded long, And in the tomb, forgotten, sleep The sous of science and of song.

Thy sun hath set-the evening storm
Hath passed in giant fury by,
To blast the beauty of thy form,

And spread its pall upon the sky!
Gone is thy glory's diadem,

And Freedom never more shall cease To pour her mournful requiem

O'er blighted, lost, degraded Greece!

Mrs. Archer (Wigley) Clive.

Miss Wigley (1801-1873), author of the novel of "Paul Ferroll" (1855), was a native of England. She became Mrs. Clive, and published, under the signature of V, poems which were collected in a volume in 1872. While sitting before the fire at Whitfield her dress caught, and, before help could be rendered, she was so burnt that she died of her injuries in a few hours. Her poems were highly praised by Lockhart. But he could not accord his approval to the "spirit which animates" the following lines. Is not the spirit, however, that of one confident of the future? The lines are remarkable as foreshadowing the actual manner of her death.

William Wilson.

Wilson (1801-1860) was a native of Crieff, Scotland. While yet a child, he lost his father, a respectable merchant, and thenceforward was obliged to rely chiefly on his own efforts for education and advancement. He became an editor at twenty-two; moved to Edinburgh, and wrote for the leading periodicals. In 1833 he emigrated to the United States, settled at Poughkeepsie, and established himself in the bookselling and publishing business. It was not till after his death that his poems were collected and published. General James Grant Wilson, of New York, born (1832) in Edinburgh, author of a "Life of Halleck" and other works, also editor of "The Poets and Poetry of Scotland" (Harper & Brothers), in two elegant volumes, was his son.

Faint sounds of hallelujahs sweet
The trancéd ear would seem to greet,
As if the holy seraphim

Were choiring here their matin hymn.

God of all nature! here I feel
Thy awful presence, as I kneel,
In humble heart-abasement meet,
Thus lowly at thy mercy-seat!-
And while I tremble, I adore,

Like him by Bethel's stone of yore;-
For thus thy vouchsafed presence given
Hath made this place the Gate of Heaven!

Samuel Carter Hall.

A native of England, Hall (1801-18..) was editor of the London Art Journal, and of several illustrated works of a high character: "The Book of Gems," "The Book of British Ballads," etc. He has also written, both in prose and verse, in behalf of the temperance and other great reforms. The poem we quote is from "Hereafter," produced in his eightieth year, and prefaced with the following passage from the "Life of the Prince Consort" by Theodore Martin:

"Death in his view was but the portal to a further life, in which he might hope for a continuance, under happier conditions, of all that was best in himself and in those he loved, unclogged by the weaknesses, and unsaddened by the failures, the misunderstandings, and the sorrows of earthly existence."

Hall was married in 1824 to Miss Fielding, a native of Wexford, Ireland (1804), who, as Mrs. S. C. Hall, won reputation by her "Lights and Shadows of Irish Life," and other successful works.

May soothe the aching heart, and weary head, In pain, in toil, in sorrow, and in strife.

That is the pith of every natural creed,-
(Instinctive teachings of an after-state
When from earth-manacles the soul is freed!)—
Poor sceptics strive in vain to dissipate!

And there are many ways to Heaven that lead: Woe to the "prophets," foul and false, who teach The narrow, cruel, cold, and selfish creed,

That there are souls His voice can never reach.

In tortuous, tangled paths we tread; but trust

One Guide to lead us forth and set us free; Give us, Lord God All Mighty and All Just! The Faith that is but Confidence in thee!

NATURE'S CREED.

Science may sneer at Faith; and Reason frown; May prove there are no souls-to live or die! May scorn and scout the creed they argue down, And give the Great Omnipotent the lie:

They limit Him-who made all worlds-to acts That Science calls "the possible;" and thus, Bounding the Infinite by rules and facts,

Explain the "fable of the soul" to us.

Ten thousand thousand things exist, we know, By Science tested and by Reason tried, With no conclusive issue: save to show

How much we need a better light and guide!

Can Science gauge the influence that draws
The needle to the magnet? Can it see
The perfume of the rose? or measure laws
By which the flower gives honey to the bee?

In spite of Science and its five poor tests, It may be but a part of "Nature's" plan To people other spheres with other guests, Ascending (as descending) up from man.

And beings not of earth, or mortal birth,
The first-born of Creation, may have been,—
And may be-ministers of love to earth-

"A cloud of witnesses," though yet unseen:

And those we call "the dead" (who are not deadDeath was their herald to Celestial Life!)

John Henry Newman.

The son of a banker, Newman (1801-18..) was a native of London. He graduated at Trinity College, Oxford, in 1820. Seceding from the Established Church, he became a priest of the Oratory of St. Philip Neri, and in 1878 was made a Cardinal. His collected works form twenty-two volumes. His poems appeared in 1868, under the title of "Verses on various Occasions." They are mostly on religious topics, though some are playful in tone. His brother, Francis William Newman, born in 1805, resigned an Oxford fellowship because he could not subscribe the Thirty-nine Articles for his Master's degree. His ethical and theological writings have been very numerous, and his religious faith would seem to be that of a pure theism, free from the adulteration of any historical creed. The two brothers appear to have been diametrically opposed in their religious notions.

FLOWERS WITHOUT FRUIT.

Prune thou thy words, the thoughts control
That o'er thee swell and throng;
They will condense within thy soul,
And change to purpose strong.

But he who lets his feelings run
In soft luxurious flow,
Shrinks when hard service must be done,
And faints at every woe.

Faith's meanest deed more favor bears, Where hearts and wills are weighed, Than brightest transports, choicest prayers, Which bloom their hour and fade.