To some worn pilgrim, first with glistening

eyes,

Greeting his native valley, whence the

sounds

Of rural gladness, herds, and bleating flocks, The chirp of birds, blithe voices, lowing kine,

The dash of waters, reed or rustic pipe

Blent with the dulcet distance-mellowed

bell,

Come, like the echo of his early joys,
In every pause, from spirits in mid air,
Responsive still were golden viols heard,
And heavenly symphonies stole faintly
down."

Now a glance at these brilliants from the intellect of Goethe.

Nature.

"Her drama is forever new, because she creates, unceasingly, new spectators.

All that she bestows, she makes a benefit, for she makes it first necessary.

She has no language nor speech, but furnishes hearts through which she feels and speaks.

The past and the future she knows notthe present is her eternity.

Life is her most ingenious invention, and death but a trick to gain much life.

She has but few moving springs, and never worn ones always operative, and always different.

We are surrounded, and enwrapped by her, unable to step out of, and unable to dive deeper into her.

She creates forever new forms, what is, was never before, and what has been, comes not again.

We live in the midst of her, and yet she is strange to us. She speaks with us unceasingly, and yet betrays not her secrets.

With all she plays a friendly game, and is happy the more we gain upon her.

She delights in illusions; he who destroys them in her or others, she punishes as the veriest of tyrants. He who follows her confidingly, she folds as a child to her heart.

To every one she appears under a different form. She hides herself under a thousand terms, and yet is always the same."

And now let us look at an offering from the gifted Mrs. Osgood.

Labor.

"Pause not to dream of the future before us! Pause not to weep the wild cares that come

o'er us!

Hark! how creation's deep musical chorus Unintermitting goes up into heaven; Never the ocean-wave falters in flowing; Never the little seed stops in its growing;

More and more richly the rose-heart keeps glowing

Till from its nourishing stem it is riven.

'Labor is worship' - the robin is singing, 'Labor is worship' - the wild bee is ringing, Listen! that eloquent whisper upspringing, Speaks to thy soul from thy nature's

heart.

From the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower;

From the rough sod grows the soft-breathing flower;

From the small insect the rich coral bower; Only man in the plan e'er shrinks from

his part.

Labor is life! 't is the still water faileth; Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth;

Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust assaileth!

Flowers droop and die in the stillness of

noon.

Labor is glory!

the flying cloud lightens, Only the waving wing changes and brightens; Idle hearts only the dark future frightens, Play the sweet keys wouldst thou keep them in tune.

Labor is rest!-from the sorrows that greet

us;

Rest from all petty vexations that meet us; Rest from sin promptings that ever entreat us; Rest from world syrens that lure us to ill. Work-and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow,

Work-thou shalt ride over care's coming

billow;

Lie not down wearied 'neath woe's weeping willow,

Work with a stout heart and resolute will;

Droop not though shame, sin, and anguish are round thee!

Bravely fling off the cold chain that has bound thee!

[thee! Look on yon pure heaven smiling beyond