Perverting, darkening, changing as they go, Their glory and their might Shall perish; and their very names shall be Oh! speed the moment on When Wrong shall cease,-and Liberty and Love, ICHABOD !! So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn The glory from his gray hairs gone Revile him not,-the Tempter hath And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath, Oh! dumb be passion's stormy rage, Have lighted up and led his age Scorn! would the angels laugh to mark Let not the land, once proud of him, Nor brand with deeper shame his dim But let its humbled sons, instead, A long lament, as for the dead, Of all we loved and honor'd, nought A fallen angel's pride of thought All else is gone; from those great eyes When faith is lost, when honor dies, 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. Maud Muller, on a summer's day, Beneath her torn hat glow'd the wealth But, when she glanced to the far-off town, Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid; And ask'd a draught from the spring that flow'd She stoop'd where the cool spring bubbled up, And blush'd as she gave it, looking down On her feet so bare, and her tatter'd gown. 66 Thanks!" said the Judge, "a sweeter draught From a fairer hand was never quaff'd." He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees Then talk'd of the haying, and wonder'd whether And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown, And listen'd, while a pleased surprise At last, like one who for delay Maud Muller look'd and sigh'd: "Ah me! "He would dress me up in silks so fine, "My father should wear a broadcloth coat; My brother should sail a painted boat. "I'd dress my mother so grand and gay, And the baby should have a new toy each day. "And I'd feed the hungry, and clothe the poor, And all should bless me who left our door." The Judge look'd back as he climb'd the hill, And saw Maud Muller standing still. "A form more fair, a face more sweet, Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet. "And her modest answer and graceful air Show her wise and good as she is fair. "Would she were mine, and I to-day, Like her, a harvester of hay: "No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, "But low of cattle and song of birds, 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, Oft, when the wine in his glass was red, And the proud man sigh'd, with a secret pain: Ah, that I were free again! "Free as when I rode that day, Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay." She wedded a man unlearn'd and poor, But care, and sorrow, and childbirth pain, 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, For rich repiner and household drudge! 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 A rose-cloud, dimly seen above, Melting in heaven's blue depths away,Oh! sweet, fond dream of human Love! For thee I may not pray. But, bow'd in lowliness of mind, I make my humble wishes known, I only ask a will resign'd, O Father, to thine own! To-day, beneath thy chastening eye, A marvel seems the Universe, In vain I task my aching brain, And now my spirit sighs for home, Though oft, like letters traced on sand, 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? 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 |