They answer'd to our ends right well, in that the poet's

singing,

And the majesty, the earnestness, the grandeur of the strain,

Gave to each the same high thoughts, as within each soul were ringing

The words of beauty and of truth that we read together then.

And I leave you now, my friend, but there is no room for grieving,

For

you will tread alone the same path I had hoped with
you to tread ;

It is well, and it is best, do not look so unbelieving,
Instead of sharing in the race I'll be watching you instead."

She ended speaking, faintly-I was powerless at replying.
When the heart is full of sorrow it is better to be still,
It was an autumn evening, and the winds around were
sighing-

From the poplar trees the last leaves were fluttering at will. So I drew the curtain closer, and the bell was chiming slowly,

Very mournfully, I thought, as I whisper'd her, "good night;"

May her rest be sweet indeed, may her dreams be fair and holy,

May the shining of the "angel wings" turn the darkness into light.

THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER.

BY FRANCIS S. KEY.

FRANCIS S. KEY is a native of Baltimore. This song is supposed to have been written by a prisoner on board the British fleet, on the morning after the unsuccessful bombardment of Fort Mc Henry.

O SAY! can you see, by the dawn's early light,

What so proudly we hail'd at the twilight's last gleaming; Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight,

O'er the ramparts we watch'd, were so gallantly streaming?

And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there;
O say! does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep,
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,
What is that which the breeze o'er the towering steep
As it fitfully blows, half-conceals, half-discloses ?
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam;
Its full glory reflected now shines on the stream;
"Tis the star-spangled banner, O long may it wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave !

And where is the band who so vauntingly swore,
Mid the havoc of war and the battle's confusion,
A home and a country they'd leave us no more?

Their blood hath wash'd out their foul footsteps' pollution; No refuge could save the hireling and slave

From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave,
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave,
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

O thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand

Between their loved home and the war's desolation! Bless'd with victory and peace, may the heaven-rescued land Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a

nation.

Then conquer we must, for our cause it is just,

And this be our motto, "In God is our trust,'

And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

LIFE OF LIFE.

A passage from COVENTRY PATMORE's Angel in the House.

WOULD wisdom for herself be woo'd,

And wake the foolish from his dream,

She must be glad as well as good,

And must not only be but seem.

Beauty and joy are hers by right;
And, knowing this, I wonder less
That she's so scorn'd when falsely dight
In misery and ugliness.

What's that which heav'n to man endears,
And that which eyes no sooner see
Than the heart says with floods of tears,
“Ah, that's the thing which I would be!"
Not childhood, full of frown and fret ;
Not youth, impatient to disown
Those visions high, which to forget

Were worse than never to have known;
Not worldlings, in whose fair outside
Nor courtesy nor justice fails,
Whose virtues are but vices tied,
Like Samson's foxes, by the tails;
Not poets: real things are dreams,
When dreams are as realities,
And boasters of celestial gleams
Go stumbling aye for want of eyes;
Not patriots or people's men,

In whom two worse-match'd evils meet
Than ever sought Adullam's den,

Base conscience and a high conceit; Not new-made saints, their feelings iced, Their joy in man and nature gone, Who sing, "O, easy yoke of Christ!" But find 'tis hard to get it on;

Not great men, even when they're good;

The good man whom the Lord makes great

By some disgrace of chance or blood

He fails not to humiliate;

Not these but souls found here and there,
Oases in our waste of sin,

Where everything is well and fair,
And God remits his discipline;
Whose sweet subdual of the world
The worldling scarce can recognise,

And ridicule, against it hurl'd,

Drops with a broken sting and dies;

Who nobly, if they cannot know

Whether a 'scutcheon's dubious field

Carries a falcon or a crow,

Fancy a falcon on the shield;

Yet, ever careful not to hurt

God's honour, who creates success,
Their praise of even the best desert
Is but to have presumed no less;
And, should their own life plaudits bring,
They're simply vex'd at heart that such
An easy, yea, delightful thing,

Should move the minds of men so much.
They live by law, not like the fool,

But like the Bard who freely sings,
In strictest bonds of rhyme and rule,
And finds in them not bonds, but wings.
Postponing still their private ease
To courtly custom, appetite,
Subjected to observances,

To banquet goes with full delight;
Nay, continence and gratitude

So cleanse their lives of earth's alloy,
They taste in nature's common food,
Nothing but spiritual joy.

They shine like Moses in the face,

And teach our hearts, without the rod,

That God's grace is the only grace,

And all grace is the grace of God.

IMPLORA PACE.

By MARY ANNE Browne.

Он, for one hour of rest! Would I could feel
A quiet, dreamless slumber falling on me,
yet be conscious that my strong appeal
To heaven for mercy had that blessing won me!
How could I love to know each limb was still!

And

To have no sense except that I was sleeping, To feel I had no memory of past ill,

No vision tinged with either smile or weeping. Vain yearning! Ever since the spirit came Into the bondage of this mortal frame, It hath been restless, sleepless, unsubdued, And ne'er hath known a moment's quietude!

How I have courted rest-rest for my soul!

Flung by my books, and cast my pen away,
And said "No weary wave of thought shall roll,
To lift my spirit from its calm to-day!"
Then I have gone into the dim, green wood,

And laid me down upon the mossy earth;
And straight a thousand shapes have risen and stood
Around me, telling me they took their birth
From my own soul; and then farewell to rest!
For if they're fair I woo them to my breast,
And if they're dark they force them on my sight,
Standing between my spirit and the light.

And I have gone, in the still twilight hour,

And sate beneath the lindens, while the bee
Was murmuring happily in some near flower;
But then I could not rest for ecstacy.
And I have lain where the wide ocean heaveth;
But here no quiet steeps my feverish head,
For many a buried image my heart giveth

At the low, spell-like moaning of the main,
Like that great sea delivering up her dead.

I may not wholly rest !-before my brain, When my eye closeth, flit a thousand dreams, Like insects hovering o'er tree-shadowed streams.

Alas! there is no rest for one whose heart

Time with the changeful pulse of nature keepeth; Who hath in every blossom's life a part,

And for each leaf that autumn seareth, weepeth! No rest for that wild soul that fits its tone

To every harmony that nature maketh—
That saddens at her winter evening's moan,

And like her at the voice of thunder quaketh,
Nor may the spirit rest, while yet remain
Unknown the mysteries that none attain
In this dim world. Another state of being
Shall make us, like to Him who made, all-seeing,
And then may rest the soul, when its calm eye
At one view comprehends eternity!