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The more we worship him, the more we grow
Into thy perfect image here below,
For here below, as in the spheres above,
All Love is Beauty, and all Beauty, Lovel

Not from the things around us do we draw Thy light within; within the light is born; The growing rays of some forgotten morn, And added canons of eternal law. The painter's picture, the rapt poet's song, The sculpture's statue, never saw the Day; Not shaped and moulded after aught of clay, Whose crowning work still does its spirit wrong; Hue after hue divinest pictures grow, Line after line immortal songs arise, And limb by limb, out-starting stern and slow, The statue wakes with wonder in its eyes! And in the master's mind Sound after sound is born, and dies like wind, That echoes through a range of ocean-caves, And straight is gone to weave its spell upon the waves! The mystery is thine, For thine the more mysterious human heart, The Temple of all wisdom, Beauty's shrine, The oracle of Art I

Earth is thine outer court, and Life a breath ; Why should we fear to die, and leave the earth? Not thine alone the lesser key of Birth, But all the keys of Death; And all the worlds, with all that they contain Of Life, and Death, and Time, are thine alone; The universe is girdled with a chain, And hung below the throne Where Thou dost sit, the universe to bless, Thou sovereign smile of God, eternal loveliness!


I saw two maidens at the kirk,
And both were fair and sweet;

One in her wedding-robe,
And one in her winding-sheet.

The choristers sang the hymn,
The sacred rites were read,

And one for life to Life
And one to Death was wed.

They were borne to their bridal beds,
In loveliness and bloom,-

One in a merry castle,
The other a solemn tomb.

One on the morrow woke
In a world of sin and pain;

But the other was happier far,
And never woke again l


Birds are singing round my window,
Tunes the sweetest ever heard,

And I hang my cage there daily,
But I never catch a bird.

So with thoughts my brain is peopled,
And they sing there all day long;

But they will not fold their pinions
In the little cage of song !

THE SKY. The sky is a drinking-cup, We drink that wine all day, That was overturn'd of old, Till the last drop is drain'd up, And it pours in the eyes of men And are lighted off to bed Its wine of airy gold I By the jewels in the cup ! THE SEA. [the LovER.]

You stoop'd and pick’d a wreathéd shell,
Beside the shining sea:
“This little shell, when I am gone,
Will whisper still of me.”
I kiss'd your hands, upon the sands,
For you were kind to me !
I hold the shell against my ear,
And hear its hollow roar:
It speaks to me about the sea,
But speaks of you no more.
I pace the sands, and wring my hands,
For you are kind no more l


BAYARD TAylon, whose ancestors emigrated with William Penn, was born in Kennet Square, Chester County, Pennsylvania, on the 11th of January, 1825. At the age of seventeen, he became an apprentice in a printing-office at West Chester, devoting his leisure time assiduously to the study of Lotin and French, and writing poetry for the “New York Mirror” and for “Graham's Magazine.” These effusions were collected and published in 1844, in a volume called Ximena With the proceeds of this, and some advances made to him by the proprietors of two or three leading journals in consideration of letters to be furnished, he commenced that year a series of travels which, continued up to the present time, has made him the greatest traveller, for his years, that ever lived. Having passed two years in Great Britain, Germany, France, Switzerland, and Italy, he returned home, and published an account of his travels, under the title of Views Afoot, which was very favorably received. He settled in New York, and in 1848 became connected with the “Tribune” as a permanent contributor, and, shortly after, published Rhymes of Travel. In 1849, he visited California, and returned by way of Mexico, giving an account of his travels in the “Tribune,” of which he had now become an associate editor. In 1851, he set out upon his Eastern tour, by the way of England, Germany, and Italy, and reached Cairo in November. Thence he went to Central Africa, and, after penetrating to the negro kingdoms of the White Nile, returned to Cairo by April. Thence he went north through Palestine and Asia Minor to Constantinople, and, after visiting some of the islands of the Mediterranean, returned to England through Germany. In October, 1852, he started from England, by the overland route, for Bombay, and, after a tour of more than two thousand miles in the interior of India, reached Calcutta on the 22d of February. Thence he embarked for Hong-Kong; and when Commodore Perry's squadron arrived at Shanghai, he entered the naval service in order to accompany it to the Loo-Choo and the Japan Islands, which he explored; then returned to Canton, and thence took passage for New York, where he arrived in December, 1853, having been absent two years and travelled more than fifty thousand miles. His graphic and entertaining history of this great journey is given in three works,—A Journey to Central Africa; The Lands of the Saracen; and India, China, and Japan. In July, 1856, he started on a fourth journey, during which he visited Sweden, Lapland, Norway, Dalmatia, Greece, Crete, and Russia. In November, 1857, he published Northern Travel in London and New York simultaneously, and returned home in October, 1858."


Strike the tent! the sun has risen; not a cloud has ribb'd the dawn,
And the frosted prairie brightens to the westward, far and wan:
Prime afresh the trusty rifle,_sharpen well the hunting-spear,
For the frozen sod is trembling, and a noise of hoofs I hear!

Fiercely stamp the tether'd horses, as they snuff the morning's fire,
And their flashing heads are tossing, with a neigh of keen desire;
Strike the tent, the saddles wait us! let the bridle-reins be slack,
For the prairie's distant thunder has betray'd the bison's track!

See a dusky line approaches; hark! the onward-surging roar,
Like the din of wintry breakers on a sounding wall of shore!

'In 1854, his Poems of the Orient, and in 1855, his Poems of Home and Trarel, were published by Ticknor & Fields.

Dust and sand behind them whirling, snort the foremost of the van,
And the stubborn horns are striking through the crowded caravan.

Now the storm is down upon us, -let the madden’d horses go!
We shall ride the living whirlwind, though a hundred leagues it blow !
Though the surgy manes should thicken, and the red eyes' angry glare
Lighten round us as we gallop through the sand and rushing airl

Myriad hoofs will scar the prairie, in our wild, resistless race,
And a sound, like mighty waters, thunder down the desert space:
Yet the rein may not be tighten’d, nor the rider's eye look back,-
Death to him whose speed should slacken, on the madden'd bison's track'

Now the trampling herds are threaded, and the chase is close and warm
For the giant bull that gallops in the edges of the storm:
Hurl your lassoes swift and fearless, swing your rifles as we run
Ha! the dust is red behind him: shout, my brothers, he is won 1

Look not on him as he staggers, ’tis the last shot he will need;
More shall fall, among his fellows, ere we run the bold stampede,-
Ere we stem the swarthy breakers, while the wolves, a hungry pack,
Howl around each grim-eyed carcass, on the bloody bison-trackl


“The life thou seek’st Thou'lt find beside the eternal Nile.”—Moore's Alciphron. The Nile is the Paradise of travel. I thought I had already fathomed all the depths of enjoyment which the traveller's restless life could reach,-enjoyment more varied and exciting, but far less serene and enduring, than that of a quiet home; but here I have reached a fountain too pure and powerful to be exhausted. I never before experienced such a thorough deliverance from all the petty annoyances of travel in other lands, such perfect contentment of spirit, such entire abandonment to the best influences of nature. Every day opens with a jubilate, and closes with a thanksgiving. If such a balm and blessing as this life has been to me, thus far, can be felt twice in one's existence, there must be another Nile somewhere in the world. Other travellers undoubtedly make other experiences and take away other impressions. I can even conceive circumstances which would almost destroy the pleasure of the journey. The same exquisitely-sensitive temperament, which in our case has not been disturbed by a single untoward incident, might easily be kept in a state of constant derangement by an unsympathetic companion, a cheating dragoman, or a fractious crew. There are also many trifling desagrémens, inseparable from life in Egypt, which some would consider a source of annoyance; but, as we find fewer than we were prepared to meet, we are not troubled thereby. * * * Our manner of life is simple, and might even be called monotonous; but we have never found the greatest variety of landscape and incident so thoroughly enjoyable. The scenery of the Nile, thus far, scarcely changes from day to day, in its forms and colors, but only in their disposition with regard to each other. The shores are either palm-groves, fields of cane and dourra, young wheat, or patches of bare sand blown out from the desert. The villages are all the same agglomerations of mud walls, the tombs of the Moslem saints are the same white ovens, and every individual camel and buffalo resembles its neighbor in picturesque ugliness. The Arabian and Libyan Mountains, now sweeping so far into the foreground that their yellow cliffs overhang the Nile, now receding into the violet haze of the horizon, exhibit little difference of height, hue, or geological formation. Every new scene is the turn of a kaleidoscope, in which the same objects are grouped in other relations, yet always characterized by the most perfect harmony. These slight yet ever-renewing changes are to us a source of endless delight. Either from the pure atmosphere, the healthy life we lead, or the accordant tone of our spirits, we find ourselves unusually sensitive to all the slightest touches, the most minute rays, of that grace and harmony which bathes every landscape in cloudless sunshine. The various groupings of the palms, the shifting of the blue evening shadows on the rose-hued mountain-walls, the green of the wheat and sugar-cane, the windings of the great river, the alternations of wind and calm, each of these is enough to content us, and to give every day a different charm from that which went before. We meet contrary winds, calms, and sand-banks, without losing our patience; and even our excitement in the swiftness and grace with which our vessel scuds before the north wind, is mingled with a regret that our journey is drawing so much the more swiftly to its close. A portion of the old Egyptian repose seems to be infused into our natures; and lately, when I saw my face in a mirror, I thought I perceived in its features something of the patience and resignation of the sphinx. * * * My friend, the Howadji, in whose “Nile-Notes” the Egyptian atmosphere is so perfectly reproduced, says that “conscience falls asleep on the Nile.” If by this he means that artificial quality which bigots and sectarians call conscience, I quite agree with him, and do not blame the Nile for its soporific pov, ers. But that simple faculty of the soul, native to all men, which acts best when it acts unconsciously, and leads our passions and desires into right paths without seeming to lead them, is vastly strengthened by this quiet and healthy life. There is a cathedral-like solemnity in the air of Egypt: one feels the presence of the altar, and is a better man without his will. To those rendered misanthropic by disap

| George W. Curtis.

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