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Perverting, darkening, changing as they go,
Their glory and their might
Of a world's liberty.
Oh! speed the moment on
As in their home above.
| These lines, so full of tender regret, deep grief, and touching pathos, were written when the news came of the sad course of Daniel Webster in supporting the “Compromise Measures,” including the “Fugitive Slave Law,” in his speech delivered in the United States Senate, on the 7th of March, 1850.
Then pay the reverence of old days
Walk backward with averted gaze,
Maud Muller, on a summer's day,
Beneath her torn hat glow'd the wealth
“Thanks!” said the Judge, “a sweeter draught - From a fairer hand was never quaff'd.”
He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees
“My father should wear a broadcloth coat;
“I’d dress my mother so grand and gay,
“And I’d feed the hungry, and clothe the poor,
But he thought of his sisters proud and cold,
So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on,
But the lawyers smiled that afternoon,
And the young girl mused beside the well,
He wedded a wife of richest dower,
And oft, when the summer sun shone hot
And she heard the little spring brook fall
In the shade of the apple-tree again
And, gazing down with timid grace,
Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls
The weary wheel to a spinnet turn'd,
And for him who sat by the chimney lug,
A manly form at her side she saw,
Then she took up her burden of life again,
Alas for maiden, alas for Judge,
God pity them both, and pity us all,
For of all sad words of tongue or pen,
Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies
And, in the hereafter, angels may
The WISH OF TO-DAY.
I ask not now for gold to gild
The yearning of the mind is still'd,—
A rose-cloud, dimly seen above,
Oh! sweet, fond dream of human Love .
But, bow’d in lowliness of mind,
I only ask a will resign'd,
To-day, beneath thy chastening eye,
Submissive in thy hand to lie,
A marvel seems the Universe,
A mystery which I cannot pierce,
In vain I task my aching brain,
I only feel how weak and vain,
And now my spirit sighs for home,
And, like a weary child, would come,
Though oft, like letters traced on sand,
In mercy lend thy helping hand
o VIRTUE ALONE BEAUTIFUL.
“Handsome is that handsome does, hold up your hands, girls,” is the language of Primrose in the play, when addressing her daughters. The worthy matron was right. Would that all my female readers, who are sorrowing foolishly because they are not in all respects like Dubufe's Eve, or that statue of Venus which enchants the world, could be persuaded to listen to her. What is good-looking, as Horace Smith remarks, but looking good 7 Be good, be womanly, be gentle, generous in your sympathies, heedful of the well-being of those around you, and, my word for it, you will not lack kind words or admiration. Loving and pleasant associations will gather about you. Never mind the ugly reflection which your glass may give you. That mirror has no heart. But quite another picture is given you on the retina of human sympathy. There the beauty of holiness, of purity, of that inward grace “which passeth show,” rests over it, softening and mellowing its features, just as the full, calm moonlight melts those of a rough landscape into harmonious loveliness.
“Hold up your heads, girls;” I repeat after Primrose. Why should you not * Every mother's daughter of you can be beautiful. You can envelop yourselves in an atmosphere of moral and intellectual beauty, through which your otherwise plain faces will look forth like those of angels. Beautiful to Ledyard, stiffening
in the cold of a northern winter, seemed the diminutive, smoke