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 It is well, and it is best, do not look so unbelieving, She ended speaking, faintly-I was powerless at replying. 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, On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep, And where is the band who so vauntingly swore, 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, 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 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; What's that which heav'n to man endears, Were worse than never to have known; In whom two worse-match'd evils meet 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, Where everything is well and fair, 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, Should move the minds of men so much. But like the Bard who freely sings, To banquet goes with full delight; So cleanse their lives of earth's alloy, 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 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 laid me down upon the mossy earth; And I have gone, in the still twilight hour, And sate beneath the lindens, while the bee At the low, spell-like moaning of the main, 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— And like her at the voice of thunder quaketh, |