And so stands he calm and childlike, I would be, like him, a child. And my songs-green leaves and blossoms - " THE LEGEND OF THE CROSS-BILL. On the cross the dying Saviour And by all the world forsaken, At the ruthless nail of iron A poor bird is striving there. Stained with blood and never tiring, And the Saviour speaks in mildness: "Blest be thou of all the good! Bear as token of this moment, Marks of blood and holy-rood!" And that bird is called the cross-bill; Songs, like legends, strange to hear. ÖSER, JUSTUS, a German historian and essayist; born at Osnabrücke, December 14, 1720; died January 8, 1794. He studied jurisprudence at Jena and Göttingen, where he gave much attention also to modern languages and literatures. He occupied a number of very important governmental offices. He was an ardent and sincere lover of the Fatherland, and has been called the father of modern German historiography. Before his time the history of Germany had been generally made up of names and dates of battles and of reigning houses; but Möser wrote from the standpoint of an observer of the progress of the laws, customs, habits, and conditions. of the people. In 1768 he published his famous Osnabrückische Geschichte, in which he recommended to students of history the careful investigation of the antiquities of Germany. Another of his most influential works was a collection of essays which he issued in 1774 under the title Patriotische Phantasien. A HAPPY OLD COUPLE. A love which seeks to conquer and a love which has conquered are two totally different passions. The one puts on the stretch all the virtues of the hero; it excites in him fear, hope, desire; it leads him from triumph to triumph, and makes him think every foot of ground that he gains a kingdom. Hence it keeps alive and fosters all the active powers of the man who abandons himself to it. The happy husband cannot appear like the lover; he has not like him to fear, to hope, and to desire; he has no longer that charming toil, with all its triumphs, which he had before, nor can that which he has already won be a conquest. The best husband is also the most useful and active member of society. The necessity for occupation and for progress is of the very essence of our souls; and if our husbands are guided by reason in the choice of occupation, we ought not to pout because they do not sit with us so often as formerly, by the silver brook or under the beech-tree. When we had both been busy and bustling in our several ways and could tell each other in the evening what we had been doing, he in the fields and I in the house or the garden, we were often more happy and contented than the most loving couple in the world. And, what is best of all, this pleasure has not left us after thirty years of marriage. We talk with as much animation as ever of our domestic affairs; I have learned to know all my husband's tastes, and I relate to him whatever I think likely to please him out of journals, whether political or literary; I recommend books to him, and lay them before him; I carry on correspondence with our married children, and often delight him with good news of them and our little grandchildren. As to his accounts, I understand them as well as he, and make them easier to him, by having mind of all the yearly outlay which passes through my hands, ready and in order. Try to appear cheerful and contented, and your husband will be so; and when you have made him happy, you will become so in reality. The skill required is not so great. Nothing flatters a man so much as the happiness of his wife; he is always proud of himself as the source of it. As soon as you are cheerful you will be lively and alert, and every moment will afford you an opportunity of letting fall an agreeable word. Your education, which gives you an immense advantage, will greatly assist you; and your sensibility will become the noblest gift that nature has bestowed on you, when it shows itself in affectionate assiduity, and stamps on every action a soft, kind, and tender character, instead of wasting itself in secret repinings. VOL. XVII.-11 OSS, THOMAS, an English poet; born in 1740; died in 1808. He was minister of Brierly Hill and of Trentham, Staffordshire. In 1769 he published a volume of miscellaneous Poems, and in 1783 a poem entitled The Imperfection of Human Enjoyment. Of the poems in his first volume, one, The Beggar, has been given a place in most of the English anthologies. When his poem beginning " Pity the sorrows of a poor old man!" had been for some time published without credit being given to the author, a correspondent of the Gentleman's Magazine, who signed himself "Salophiensis," issued the following letter under date November 16, 1790: "Permit me to render justice to an injured poet. The little poem called The Beggar's Petition, well known for its beautiful and pathetic simplicity, has, by the force of its intrinsic merit, found its way into almost every collection which has been made for several years past; but, what I think a great injustice to the author, has always been inserted without a name. Whilst every admirer of genuine poetry is delighted with its beauties, the author's name is only known in the circle of his friends. I wish, therefore, to publish to the world that it was written by the Rev. Thomas Moss, minister of Brierly Hill Chapel, in the parish of King's Swinford, in the County of Stafford." THE BEGGAR'S PETITION. Pity the sorrows of a poor old man! Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door, Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span; Oh! give relief, and Heaven will bless your store. These tattered clothes my poverty bespeak, These hoary locks proclaim my lengthened years; And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek Has been the channel to a stream of tears. Yon house erected on the rising ground, (Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!) Oh! take me to your hospitable dome, Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold! Should I reveal the source of every grief, Heaven sends misfortunes - why should we repine? 'Tis Heaven has brought me to the state you see; And your condition may be soon like mine, The child of sorrow and of misery. A little farm was my paternal lot, Then, like the lark, I sprightly hailed the morn⚫ But, ah! oppression forced me from my cot; My cattle died, and blighted was my corn. My daughter once the comfort of my age!. |