Wherein it ranges,-till it glows and burns
With holy joys, with high and heavenly hopes.
When in the silent night, all earth lies hushed
In slumber,--when the glorious stars shine out,
Each star a sun, each sun a central light
Of some fair system, ever wheeling on
In one unbroken round and that again
Revolving round another sun,--while all,
Suns, stars, and systems proudly roll along
In one majestic ever-onward course
In space uncircumscribed and limitless,-
Oh! think you then the undebased soul
Can calmly give itself to sleep,-to rest?

No! in the solemn stillness of the night,
It soars from earth,-it dwells in angels' homes,-
It hears the burning song, the glowing chant,
That fills the sky-girt vaults of heaver with joy!
It pants, it sighs, to wing its flight from earth,
To join the heavenly choirs, and be with God.
And it is joy to muse upon the written page,
Whereon are stamped the gushings of the soul
Of genius; where, in never-dying light,

It glows and flashes as the lightning's glare;
Or where it burns with ray more mild, more sure,
And wins the soul, that half would turn away
From its more brilliant flashings. These are hours
Of holy joy-of bliss so pure that earth

May hardly claim it. Let his lamp grow dim,
And flicker to extinction; let his cheek
Be pale as sculptured marble, and his eye
Lose its bright lustre, till his shrouded frame
Is laid in dust. Himself can never die!

His years, 'tis true, are few,-his life is long;
For he has gathered many a precious gem;
Enraptured, he has dwelt where master minds
Have poured their own deep musings, and his heart
Has glowed with love to Him who framed us thus,
Who placed within this worthless tegument
The spark of pure Divinity which shines
With light unceasing.

Yes, his life is long,

Long to the dull and loathsome epicure's,

Long to the slothful man's-the groveling herds'
Who scarcely know they have a soul within,—
Long to all those who, creeping on to death,
Meet in the grave, the earth-worm's banquet-hall,
And leave behind no monuments for good.

THE TWO ROADS.-JEAN PAUL RICHTER.

It was New Year's night. An agéd man was standing at a window. He mournfully raised his eyes towards the deep blue sky, where the stars were floating like white lilies on the surface of a clear, calm lake. Then he cast them on the earth, where few more helpless beings than himself were moving towards their inevitable goal-the tomb. Already he had passed sixty of the stages which lead to it, and he had brought from his journey nothing but errors and remorse. His health was destroyed, his mind unfurnished, his heart sorrowful, and his old age devoid of comfort.

The days of his youth rose up in a vision before him, and he recalled the solemn moment when his father had placed him at the entrance of two roads, one leading into a peaceful, sunny land, covered with a fertile harvest, and resounding with soft, sweet songs; while the other conducted the wanderer into a deep, dark cave, whence there was no issue, where poison flowed instead of water, and where serpents hissed and crawled.

He looked towards the sky, and cried out, in his anguish: "O youth, return! O my father, place me once more at the crossway of life, that I may choose the better road!" But the days of his youth had passed away, and his parents were with the departed. He saw wandering lights float over dark marshes, and then disappear. “Such," he said, "were the days of my wasted life!" He saw a star shoot from heaven, and vanish in darkness athwart the church-yard. "Behold an emblem of myself!" he exclaimed ; and the sharp arrows of unavailing remorse struck him to the heart.

Then he remembered his early companions, who had entered life with him, but who having trod the paths of virtue and industry, were now happy and honored on this New Year's night. The clock in the high church-tower struck, and the sound, falling on his ear, recalled the many tokens of the love of his parents for him, their erring son; the lessons they had taught him; the prayers they had offered up in his behalf. Overwhelmed with shame and grief, he dared no longer look towards that heaven where they dwelt. His darkened eyes dropped tears, and, with one despairing effort, he cried aloud, "Come back, my early days! Come back!"

And his youth did return; for all this had been but a dream, visiting his slumbers on New Year's night. He was still young; his errors only were no dream, He thanked God

fervently that time was still his own; that he had not yet entered the deep, dark cavern, but that he was free to tread the road leading to the peaceful land where sunny harvests wave.

Ye who still linger on the threshold of life, doubting which path to choose, remember that when years shall be passed, and your feet shall stumble on the dark mountain, you will cry bitterly, but cry in vain, “O youth, return! Oh, give me back my early days!"

ON BOARD THE CUMBERLAND, MARCH 7, 1862.
GEORGE H. BOKER.

"Stand to your guns, men!" Morris cried ;
Small need to pass the word;

Our men at quarters ranged themselves
Before the drum was heard.

And then began the sailors' jests:
"What thing is that, I say?"
"A 'long-shore meeting-house adrift
Is standing down the bay!"

A frown came over Morris' face;

The strange, dark craft he knew:
That is the iron Merrimac,

Manned by a rebel crew.

"So shot your guns and point them straight:
Before this day goes by,

We'll try of what her metal's made."
A cheer was our reply.

"Remember, boys, this flag of ours
Has seldom left its place;

And where it falls, the deck it strikes
Is covered with disgrace.

"I ask but this; or sink or swim,

Or live or nobly die,

My last sight upon earth may be

To see that ensign fly!"

Meanwhile the shapeless iron mass

Came moving o'er the wave,

As gloomy as a passing hearse,

As silent as the grave.

Her ports were closed; from stem to stern
No sign of life appeared:

We wondered, questioned, strained our eyes,
Joked-every thing but feared.

She reached our range. Our broadside rang;

Our heavy pivots roared;

And shot and shell, a fire of hell,
Against her side we poured.

God's mercy! from her sloping roof
The iron tempest glanced,
As hail bounds from a cottage-thatch,
And round her leaped and danced;

Or when against her dusky hull
We struck a fair, full blow,
The mighty, solid iron globes
Were crumbled up like snow.
On, on, with fast increasing speed,
The silent monster came,
Though all our starboard battery
Was one long line of flame.

She heeded not; no guns she fired;
Straight on our bows she bore;
Through riving plank and crashing frame
Her furious way she tore.

Alas! our beautiful, keen bow,
That in the fiercest blast
So gently folded back the seas,
They hardly felt we passed."
Alas! alas! my Cumberland,
That ne'er knew grief before,
To be so gored, to feel so deep
The tusk of that sea-boar!

Once more she backward drew apace;
Once more our side she rent,
Then, in the wantonness of hate,
Her broadside through us sent.
The dead and dying round us lay,
But our foemen lay abeam;
Her open port-holes maddened us,
We fired with shout and scream.

We felt our vessel settling fast;
We knew our time was brief:

"Ho! man the pumps!" But they who worked, And fought not, wept with grief.

"Oh! keep us but an hour afloat!

Oh! give us only time

To mete unto yon rebel crew

The measure of their crime!"

From captain down to powder-boy,
No hand was idle then:

Two soldiers, but by chance aboard,
Fought on like sailor men.

And when a gun's crew lost a hand,
Some bold marine stepped out,
And jerked his braided jacket off,
And hauled the gun about.

Our forward magazine was drowned,
And up from the sick-bay
Crawled out the wounded, red with blood,
And round us gasping lay;—

Yes, cheering, calling us by name,
Struggling with failing breath
To keep their shipmates at the post
Where glory strove with death.
With decks afloat and powder gone,
The last broadside we gave
From the guns' heated iron lips
Burst out beneath the wave.

So sponges, rammers, and handspikes-
As men-of-war's men should-
We placed within their proper racks,
And at our quarters stood.

"Up to the spar deck! save yourselves!"
Cried Selfridge. “Up, my men!
God grant that some of us may live
To fight yon ship again!"

We turned: we did not like to go;
Yet staying seemed but vain,

Knee-deep in water; so we left;

Some swore, some groaned with pain.

We reached the deck. There Randall stood: "Another turn, men-so!"

Calmly he aimed his pivot gun:
"Now, Tenny, let her go!"

It did our sore hearts good to hear
The song our pivot sang,

As rushing on from wave to wave
The whirring bomb-shell sprang.

Brave Randall leaped upon the gun,

And waved his cap in sport;

"Well done! well aimed! I saw that shell Go through an open port!"

It was our last, our deadliest shot;

The deck was overflown;

The poor ship staggered, lurched to port,

And gave a living groan.