rather hurl defiance at the soaring eagle, than cast a stone at the crawling worm; they are a class whose hardships cannot be ameliorated, but by family governments; they are the grubs of social life, which ignorance not unfrequently matures into wasps, but which want but the goodwill and co-operation of the Fathers, Mothers, and Daughters, of England, to be metamorphosed into busy commercial bees. They bear the sweetest name and nature in Creation,Woman; but lastly, and most unfortunately, en masse, they are uneducated.

WILLIAM DALTON.

RE-ISSUE OF ELIZA COOK'S POEMS.

THE SLUMBER OF DEATH.

PEACEFUL and fair is the smiling repose

That the breast-cradled slumber of infancy knows; Sound is the rest of the weary and worn,

Whose feet have been galled with the dust and the thorn :

Sweet is the sleep on the eyelids of youth,

When they dream of the world as all pleasure and truth;

Yet child, pilgrim, and youth shall awaken again
To the journeys of toil and the trials of pain.

But, oh! there's a fast and a visionless sleep,
The calm and the stirless, the long and the deep :
Tis the sleep that is soundest and sweetest of all,
When our couch is the bier, and our night-robe the
pall.

No voice of the foe or the friend shall impart

The proud flush to the check or warm throb to the heart:

The lips of the dearest may seek for the breath,
But their kiss cannot rouse the cold stillness of death.

'Tis a long, 'tis a last, 'tis a beautiful rest,

When all sorrow has passed from the brow and the breast,

And the lone spirit truly and wisely may crave The sleep that is dreamless, the sleep of the grave.

STANZAS.

My Joy, my Hopes, let others share,— In Grief I'd play the miser's part; My lips, my brow, should never bear The index of a stricken heart.

If riches were consigned to me,

No griping hand would clutch the pelf,
For valueless the gold would be
If hoarded only for myself.

If Pleasure's cheering rays were mine,
I would not bask in selfish light,
But have the circle spread and shine,
And make all round as glad and bright.

But should my spirit bend and ache

Beneath some pressing load of woe, Unheard the heavy sigh must break,

Unseen the scalding drop must flow.

With sudden stroke or wearing pain

The barb might pierce, the worm might feed : I'd cloak the wound, I'd hide the chainIn secret weep-in silence bleed.

For did my troubled breast reveal

Its anguish to the world's wide ear,
The few would grieve, partake, and feel—
The many would not care to hear.

And could I bear the few, the loved,

To make my fears and sorrows theirs? Could I e'er wish a bosom moved

To note and mourn my doubts and cares? "Twere easier far to inly groan,

And let the canker rankle deep; Better the worst of pangs my own

Than see a dear one watch and weep.

And who among the busy throng

Would heed my words or mark my tear? The saddest tale, the foulest wrong, Might raise a smile or call a sneer. Oh! well I know, whate'er my fate, I'd meet and brook it firmly proud, And rather die beneath the weight

Than tell it to the soulless crowd.

Joy, Hope, and Wealth, let others share ;
In Grief I'd play the miser's part:
I'd scatter all that's sweet and fair,
But lock the nightshade in my heart.

I THANK THEE, GOD! FOR WEAL
AND WOE.

I THANK Thee, GOD! for all I've known
Of kindly fortune, health, and joy ;
And quite as gratefully I own

The bitter drops of life's alloy.

Oh there was wisdom in the blow
That wrung the sad and scalding tear,
That laid my dearest idol low,

And left my bosom lone and drear.

I thank Thee, GOD! for all of smart
That thou hast sent, for not in vain
Has been the heavy aching heart,
The sigh of grief, the throb of pain.

What if my cheek had ever kept

Its healthful colour, glad and bright ?--What if my eyes had never wept Throughout a long and sleepless night?

Then, then, perchance, my soul had not Remembered there were paths less fair, And, selfish in my own blest lot,

Ne'er strove to soothe another's care.

But when the weight of sorrow found My spirit prostrate and resigned, The anguish of the bleeding wound Taught me to feel for all mankind.

Even as from the wounded tree

The goodly precious balm will pour ;
So in the rived heart there'll be
Mercy that never flowed before.

'Tis well to learn that sunny hours

May quickly change to mournful shade; "Tis well to prize life's scattered flowers, Yet be prepared to see them fade.

I thank Thee, God! for weal and woe;
And whatsoe'er the trial be,

"Twill serve to wean me from below,
And bring my spirit nigher Thee.

CHARLIE O'ROSS, WI' THE SLOE BLACK EEN.

"TIS down in the glen where the wild thistle grows, Where the golden furze glitters and bonnie broom blows,

There dwells the braw laddie, sae gallant and free,
The laddie wha blithely comes wooing o' me.

You may ken him from a' by his beauty sae rare,
By the bloom on his cheek, and his dark glossy hair;
Oh, there's nane half sae bright on the hills to be seen
As Charlie O'Ross, with the sloe black een.

He looks like a laird, in his bonnet o' blue;
His words are sae soft, and his heart is sae true;
The sang that he sings is sae sweet and sae clear,
That it falls like the mavis's notes on the ear.

To be loved by him dearly is a' my delight;
And he'll gang through the heather to meet me to-
night;

For I promised to lead off the dance on the green,
Wi' Charlie O'Ross, wi' the sloe black een.

THE FISHER BOY JOLLILY LIVES.
MERRILY oh! merrily oh!

The nets are spread out to the sun :
Merrily oh the fisher-boy sings,
Right glad that his labour is done.
Happy and gay, with his boat in the bay,
The storm and the danger forgot;

The wealthy and great might repine at their state,
And envy the fisher-boy's lot.

Merrily oh! merrily oh!

This is the burden he gives;
Cheerily oh! though the blast may blow,
The fisher-boy jollily lives.

Merrily oh merrily oh!

He sleeps till the morning breaks; Merrily oh at the sea-gull's scream

The fisher-boy quickly awakes.

Down on the strand he is plying his hand,

His shouting is heard again;

The clouds are dark, but he springs to his bark With the same light-hearted strain.

Merrily oh! merrily oh!

This is the burden he gives;
Cheerily oh though the blast may blow,
The fisher-boy jollily lives.

STANZAS.

I'VE tracked the paths of the dark wild wood, No footfall there but my own;

I've lingered beside the moaning flood,

But I never felt alone.

There were lovely things for my soul to meet,
Rare work for my eye to trace:

I held communion close and sweet
With a Maker-face to face.

I have sat in the cheerless, vacant room,
At the stillest hour of night,
With naught to break upon the gloom
But the taper's sickly light;
And there I have conjured back again
The loved ones, lost and dead,
Till my swelling heart and busy brain
Have hardly deemed them fled.

I may rove the waste or tenant the cell,
But alone I never shall be ;

A LEGEND OF THE DANUBE.

Ir was night; one of those nights in which no passing cloud dims the sweet melancholy flight of the pale moon, and no breeze sighs forth its music; when the murmur of the water is hushed, and even the song of the nightbird is unheard. Silence reigns o'er the earth, and yet the spirit feels that music is near, music denied to the ear of mortals; yes, it is the melody of the spheres to which nature, in her stillness, hearkens, till that stillness becomes harmony itself.

It was on such a night that two beautiful beings stood by the banks of the Danube, which flowed through the wide domains of Rosenvalt. They were the lord of the castle and his fair young bride, who had been lured forth by the beauty of the night. Happy in the mere consciousness of each other's presence, they spoke not, and would probably have still wandered on, had they not suddenly come upon an old monument. It was an urn of exquisite workmanship, and the marble, which time had greatly discoloured, alone gave evidence of its ancient date. Just at this spot the banks of the river became more open, and less thickly shaded by trees, so that the moonbeams streamed down on the monument, and the cypress-tree which grew beside it seemed, as the breezes passed along, to bend over it with a caress, for it and the little tomb had grown old together. The young couple felt the charm of the scene, and both silently lingered for a few moments, when Clara, for such was the fair bride's name, exclaimed :-

"Ah! Reginald, I had almost forgotten. Did you not say, a long time ago, that if I would come to Rosenvalt," here her cheek was suffused with a slight blush, "you would tell me the legend of the Lady Isabel, and how that beautiful portrait in the gallery is connected with this old tomb? You have not yet redeemed your promise, like a faithful knight,' added she, playfully, "and where could we find a more fitting time than the present!"

"I am quite ready, fair lady, if it so please you ; but do you not fear the night air?"

"No, no; do indulge me, Reginald; you see I am longing to hear this legend; and besides, you tell those things so well," said she, coaxingly.

"Who could resist flattery from such lips? so let us seat ourselves on this bank, and I will obey you."

Here Reginald drew Clara's shawl more closely around her, and thus began :

"In olden time, a being, bright and beautiful as you, Clara, rested on this very bank. She seemed evidently a foreigner, for her brilliant black eyes and richly dark complexion showed that she could not claim kindred with the fair-haired daughters of Germany. Her slight figure was half hidden by the mantle which hung gracefully from her shoulders, and her raven hair fell in tresses round her swan-like neck; but the sweet, though almost haughty face, was now clouded with melancholy. One beautiful hand supported her head, as in a deep reverie she gazed into the stream below, as though she saw it not, and half-murmured her thoughts aloud: 'Yes, I have seen him, heard the tones of his voice how good, how noble, how generous he is.

and I am to be his bride; but he loves me not, his eye does not lighten as I draw near; nay, rather the smile vanishes from his lip at my approach. . . . No, he does not love me he does not love me,' repeated she, as though her heart drank in the full bitterness of the words. He loves another. But am I to be handed down like a slave to Albert Von Rosenvalt?' added she, her dark eye flashing, and her lip curling in disdain. No, I scorn his hand as I receive not his heart! Yes, I will refuse to be his . . . I will fly; but then he will become a beggar. Oh, that I had died with my mother! Why was I sent here to be the cause of wretchedness to him, for whom I would willingly lay down my life,' exclaimed she tenderly, the pride of woman giving way before the depth of woman's love.

"Clara, the stranger was the Lady Isabel, the original of that portrait you admire so much. Her mother was an Italian of noble birth, who had been wooed by the father of Von Rosenvalt; but she loved his elder brother, and he nobly resigned his claim to her hand, which she had thought it her duty to promise him, as the only return in her power, for having saved the life of her father. After this generous sacrifice, he returned home, and some time having elapsed, married; but lost his wife very soon, in giving birth to a son. His elder brother had in the mean time been wed to the lady of his love; but it was against the consent of his father, the old lord, who was still alive, and who, incensed that the heir of his house should unite himself to a foreigner, disinherited him, and left all to his younger son, who nobly pleaded for the absent one; but it was in vain, the old Lord refused to see him, even on his deathbed.

"Some years passed on, when Von Rosenvalt heard of the death of his brother, and learned that his wife was still residing at Florence with her infant daughter. Again a long time elapsed, and no tidings of the widow, when one morning he received a letter, written by Isabel on her death-bed, imploring him to take charge of her daughter, of the only child of his brother.

could not disguise from himself, that though he might be considered the lawful possessor of those broad lands, as bequeathed to him by his father, still to Isabel they rightfully belonged; but besides all this, she was dear to him, and often would he say within himself:"Methinks Albert is worthy of her, and she shall be my daughter. And surely Albert was worthy of her; noble, brave and generous as his father, he united extraordinary talents to the greatest beauty of person; in short, Clara, he was perfection, like every hero of romance. You may suppose what an impression such a being made on the warm imagination of the young Isabel; but though he admired her lofty spirit, he felt no more tender emotion. Their characters were too similar. One haughty spirit cannot brook another; and Von Rosenvalt loved, passionately loved-one, who though totally different from Isabel, was no less beautiful and good. Her brow was fair as the lily, her light brown hair fell in careless curls on her cheek, and her lips seemed formed for smiles. Her blue eyes, too, gave sometimes a pensive expression to a face, which would otherwise have been almost too joyous. Everything about her bespoke her more feminine softness of disposition. Such was Emilie, the love of Albert Von Rosenvalt, such the character he admired in woman. He had never seen Isabel when her dark eye became as soft as the gazelle's, and her cheek mantled with the rich blush at every passing emotion. Had he done so, why perhaps

than

her fate had been less cruel. Before him she was cold and haughty, for she felt she was not loved.

"The darling wish of the elder Von Rosenvalt, was, that his son should become the husband of Isabel; but Albert was then abroad, and he only waited his return, to propose a union, which he doubted not was no less anxiously desired by him. And Albert, unconscious of his father's plans, unconscious of Isabel's feelings, was hastening homeward to throw himself at the feet of his beloved, full of love and hope. She had first sadly counted the days of his absence; but now joyfully only those that must elapse before their meeting. How different a meeting from their expectations! Von Rosenvalt was suddenly seized with a dangerous illness, and Isabel, in compliance with her uncle's desire, had instantly sent for his old and attached friend, Madame Hermann, who quickly obeyed the summons, and arrived at the castle, accompanied by her daughter Emilie. Albert was hourly expected, and the dying man seemed to watch for the faintest sound that could give notice of his approach. He came at length, but almost to receive his last breath. The father raised himself, and motioned the melan-; choly group beside the bed to withdraw, for he would see his son alone. They were recalled in a few moments; but in those few moments Albert had | pledged himself to that which would for ever destroy his happiness and that of another's dearer to him than He had bound himself to take Isabel as his bride. His affection for his father was strong and deep, his attachment to Emilie, passionate, and he had hesitated, for the struggle was a hard one; but his father lay dying before him, and the promise was given.

his own.

"All was soon over. The grief of Isabel was great. Albert had the comfort, in his sorrow, of knowing that he had cheered the last moments of his father, by this sacrifice of himself. But he was not to suffer alone. How was he to break the sad news to Emilie Often did he turn to her intending to do so, and the words died upon his lips. But it must be done; and Emilie soon knew all. I venture not to describe their feelings.

"After the old man's death, it was found that by his will, the Lady Isabel and Albert were to inherit all his possessions, if united; but if anything should Occur to prevent their union, all was left to her. This will astonished every one, and more than all, Isabel, who knew not her mother's history. She now indeed felt desolate without her beloved uncle ; but Albert seemed so kind, was so considerate for her comfort, and spoke to her as his destined bride, that she marvelled she had not before believed in his affection. She perceived that his cheek grew pale, and that he seemed to suffer, but she attributed all to the loss of his father. She knew not his misery; but he had given his promise, and he would perform it, cost him what it may.

"Emilie felt she could not, ought not, longer to remain at the castle, and distractedly implored her mother to hasten their departure. Yielding to the passionate entreaties of her daughter, Madame Hermann promised to leave as soon as she had made some necessary arrangements for the comfort of Isabel, who was to reside at Rosenvalt with her old governante, who had accompanied her from Florence, till her union with Albert. Some weeks elapsed before all was settled, and during this time Albert and Emilie were obliged to meet daily. They spoke not of their love nor sorrow, but each knew what the other was enduring. At last the day of departure arrived, and it was now that poor Emilie felt the reality of her misery. Before, all had seemed but a sad, sad dream, from which she might awake to happiness, for the presence of her lover had inspired her with a hope,-almost unknown, unacknowledged to herself, that a brighter future lay before her. But now the sad time was come, when she must be separated from him for ever, and her heart sank within her.

"If Isabel could have been content with admiration and esteem, she certainly possessed that of Albert Von Rosenvalt. He was struck with her beauty, for she was even more lovely than before her late sorrow, the excitement of meeting him after so long an absence, and the happiness of thinking herself beloved, had shed a softness over her whole demeanour. But she was not long deceived. Her quick penetration soon discovered his secret, and she became again the same cold and haughty being as before; but her woman's heart felt for his suffering, even amid the bitterness of her own, and she resolved, if it were possible, to release him from his vow, but in what way? She thought of refusing his hand and leaving the castle, but then he would be a beggar. But may I not do as I will with mine own' thought she, again. May I not bestow this wealth on Albert, and let him be happy with his Emilie his Emilie ?' There was madness in the thought, but hers was not a spirit to falter in a noble resolution (she knew not that his father had acted the same generous part to her lost mother). But then she dreaded lest the proud Von Rosenvalt should shrink from the obligation, or consider himself bound to fulfil his promise to his father. It was with these feelings that Isabel sat by the bank of the river, and gave utterance to the thoughts I related to you at the beginning of my tale.

"Isabel had not been much longer there, when she heard footsteps approaching, and looking up, beheld Albert and Emilie before her. They had not yet perceived her, and she heard Von Rosenvalt say, in a tone, the deep sadness of which thrilled to her heart, Emilie, you say you must leave to-day, so I must soon bid you farewell for ever.'

"Yes, Albert. We have met but too often. I feel we should have parted long before.'

"Then Emilie, farewell. We must part for ever.'

"No, no! You shall not part, you shall not part for ever!' exclaimed Isabel, starting up. Her slight form drawn up to its full height, the unnatural brilliancy of her eyes, and above all her sudden appearance, making her resemble some spirit of the waters, which had suddenly emerged from the bosom of the river.

"No, no!' she exclaimed. 'Go and be happy. Wealth that is unjustly mine, I will not, cannot keep. Yours it ought to be. Take it, and be happy with Emilie. Know, Albert Von Rosenvalt, that I accept not a hand without a heart."

"Isabel, Isabel! you are too noble, too generous; I am not worthy to claim you as a bride; but never, never will I wed another. To-morrow I leave this for ever.'

"And is the heir of Rosenvalt to be a wanderer and an outcast from his father's halls, and a stranger to possess the proud domains of his ancestors!' "You forget you also are a Rosenvalt. These lands were bestowed on you by my father, and they are yours, legitimately yours.'

"Emilie! speak,-say to him, it is unjust.'

"No,' faltered Emilie; 'No, I should despise him, did he act otherwise;' and then as if feeling she had pronounced her own doom, she sank senseless to the ground.

"As Von Rosenvalt bent over her in agony, he heard a plunge, started back, and beheld naught save the dark mantle of Isabel floating o'er the river. He sprang after her. It was too late. Isabel sleeps 'neath the peaceful waters of the Danube."

ONE of the most mysterious of living things, is the expression of the eye. It is this which gives the character to the whole face; you look in the eye and recognize the conscious being. Not until the eye is opened, does the face seem to have any expression of meaning. This is the case even with any considerable animal; while its eyes are shut, it seems not to be completely with us; but open one of its eyes, and what a striking feeling is instantaneously produced. The being is now made present as it looks through the exposed organ. The late John Foster seems to have been much struck by this remarkable expression of the eye, and made several entries respecting it, in his Journal. In one place he thus writes:-"I observed a long time, through a small opening in a completely built and closed shed, a cow and calf. The cow advanced her head to the opening to observe me too; we looked in each other's face, at a very short distance, a long time, and I indulged a kind of wondering about the nature of our mutual consciousness and thought of each other. (By the way, the mutual recognition of beings of any order, is a very strange and mysterious thing.) I observed the great difference between the degree of intelligence expressed in the eyes and looks of the cow, and in those of the calf. Yet vastly less difference than between the looks of a human infant and a mature person." This expression of the eye depends on something more than organization.

You may observe the eyes of two persons which in their structure and colour are apparently quite the same, and yet the ocular expression of each individual is entirely different. The eye seems more than any other feature to express the intellectual character, as the mouth and lips express the feelings and appetites. Imaginative geniuses have always expressive eyes; they seem to be bright, "with something like an angel light." How the eyes flash in anger, and melt in love! How dull and heavy, like the eyes of a boiled cod, are they in the stolid and the stupid! Even a handsome face, without expressive eyes, fails to attract. You pass it by as you would an unanimated figure-head. We do not know that the mysterious expression of the eye has been attributed to mesmeric powers (whatever those may be), but it is not improbable that the true solution of the mystery is there.

"

Follow Truth!

"FOLLOW truth says the sage; "let her be thy guide." "Follow Truth," say all men, echoing the maxim. But how few really mean what they say! The words, "follow truth," are rarely uttered without a reservation, and did those who utter them speak out what they think and mean, they would say "Follow truth, provided you think as I do, and arrive at the same conclusions." Few indeed dare to say to truth,-"Go on, whithersoever thou leadest I will follow; and still fewer with Lessing,-" Think wrongly if you will, but think for yourself." The man who determines to follow Truth really and truly, and to avow openly the conclusions to which it leads him, must make up his mind beforehand for persecution, slander, and obloquy. Every man is educated in a rut, and the great majority go through life in the rut in which they have been educated. If, in his daring pursuit of Truth, a man should venture out of his rut and peer into the far-lying fields and flowery meads on either side, he is scared by the cries of "Beware!" which at once rise up from those who precede and who follow him, most of whom are comfortably travelling in the rut of their order. Perhaps the man is timid, and is harked back, or he wishes not to be bothered by contending against those who are in the rut, so he relapses back, and the lot march on, calling out "Follow Truth!" They think the truth lies in their own rut, and in no other. But if the man is bolder, if he determines really to follow Truth, and seeing it on the right hand or the left, daringly turns aside from his rut, and ventures in either direction, what an outery is forthwith raised against him by all those who remain in the old rut!" 99.66 Apostate,' renegade," "traitor," are the mildest epithets showered upon him, and all good men in their own, as well as in other ruts, are cautioned to shun him. Perhaps the man drops into another rut, where he is welcomed as a "convert to Truth," and feels comfortable again; but if he drops into no other rut, and persists in following truth in perfect freedom, then he is suspected and scowled upon by all, and is called by the worst of names. There are comparatively few men who follow Truth thus, and follow it freely and unfettered. One says, "Follow Truth -in our rut;" another says, Follow truth-it is here ;" and the like cry proceeds from all the other ruts. And thus it is that Truth is followed, in the popular acceptation of the term.

Artificial Flowers.

THERE is no branch of art-manufacture so much in need of redemption as the manufacture of artificial

flowers. Truly, the productions in this department are artificial, for such execrable compounds of leaves and blossoms as are vended in the London shops, have no prototypes in Nature. The writer of this has just had the mortification of seeing his wife go out dressed, her bonnet adorned within by azure-blue oats, and without by a sprig of myrtle bearing on one branch yellow blossoms shaped like bachelor's buttons, and on another branch a profusion of huge azure-blue corn-cockles, resembling in shape those found in the fields, but just double the size of any ever seen. To those who delight in botanical studies, these abominations are extremely painful, and it must strike any simple mind as being a gross violation of the laws of art to perpetrate such compounds. It is the office of art to imitate or copy Nature; and the making of Artificial Flowers, though not coming within the range of art in a strict sense of the term, is yet an artistic occupation, and if once arbitrary abstractions are allowed instead of natural models, it is sure to become a degraded occupation, and in the eyes of sensible people, something ridiculous. Think for a moment how absurd it is to unite roses and fuchsias together on one stem, and make sweet-pea leaves serve for them both, and then to imagine the hybrid a suitable thing for decoration! Here are shop-windows crowded with productions bearing the several names of daisies, violets, corn-flowers, geraniums, poppies, and forgetme-nots, all of which are formed after some ridiculous abstraction of the work-room, and have the remotest resemblance possible to the real flowers, whose names they bear. Rose-blossoms are mounted with a profusion of moss around the calyx, and on stems to which geranium-leaves are attached, while violets are manufactured of a bright crimson or a pale yellow, and dressed up with leaves of a rich velvet texture, and of a delicate emerald green. And then, to think of daisies made after the fashion of button covers! What would Chaucer say to see them? We dare not venture at all on that mysterious region of artificial botany, wherein the plants have no resemblance, either in name or form, to natural productions; which comprise such associations as scarlet berries on branches of silver fir, peonies with carnation stems, and carnations themselves enthroned on ivy-leaves. These are termed, in the language of the shops, "fancy flowers," the fancy which can be deluded | into purchasing them, must be deformed, or uninformed, indeed!

This is not wholly a question of correct taste and popular art-education, but a commercial one withal. Why are the French productions of the kind so highly prized?-because they are more beautiful, or, in other words, because they are really copied from Nature, and not concocted by minds ignorant of natural forms. You cannot supersede Nature, either in mechanism or artistic design, and those works which are the most perfect as productions of the human mind, are those which most closely approximate to her original forms. As long as the girls employed in our flower-warehouses are ignorant of the botanical details of the garden and the field, and totally uninformed as to Nature's mode of grouping the flowers of each season together, so long will their social position be one of wretchedness and want, while their competitors of Paris and Lyons, who study the flowers of the field, and delight in garden-cultivation, will bear away the palm for perfection of workmanship, and the profit consequent thereon. Three months' study of the principles of botany, pursued in the hours after work, would render any of our makers as proficient as their French neighbours, and change an occupation, which is now no better than unpaid drudgery, to a profitable and delightful pursuit.