Not one returns to tell us of the road, Which to discover we must travel, too?

LXV.

The revelations of devout and learned,
Who rose before us and as prophets burned,
All are but stories which, awoke from sleep,
They told their fellows, and to sleep returned.

LXVI.

I sent my Soul through the Invisible,

Some letter of that After-life to spell ;

And by and by my Soul returned to me, And answered, "I myself am Heaven and Hell."

LXVII.

Heaven's but the Vision of fulfilled Desire,
And Hell the Shadow of a soul on fire,

Cast on the darkness into which ourselves,
So late emerged from, shall so soon expire.

LXVIII.

We are no other than a moving row
Of magic Shadow-shapes that come and go
Round with this sun-illumined lantern, held
In midnight by the Master of the Show;

LXIX.

Impotent Pieces of the game He plays,

Upon his checker-board of Nights and Days, Hither and thither moves and checks and mates, And one by one back in the closet lays.

LXX.

The Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes,
But right or left, as strikes the Player, goes;
And He that tossed you down into the field,
He knows about it all-He knows, He knows.

LXXX.

The moving Finger writes-and having writ,
Moves on; nor all your piety and wit

Shall lure it back to cancel half a line,
Nor all your tears wash out a word of it.

LXXXI.

And that unveiled bowl they call the sky,
Whereunder crawling, cooped, we live and die,
Lift not your hands to it for help-for It
As impotently rolls as you or I.

LXXXII.

With the first clay they did the last man knead, And there of the last harvest sowed the seed; And the first morning of Creation wrote What the last dawn of Reckoning shall read.

XC.

What! out of senseless Nothing to provoke
A conscious Something to resent the yoke
Of unpermitted Pleasure, under pain
Of everlasting penalties if broke!

XCI.

O Thou, who didst with pitfall and with gin
Beset the road I was to travel in,

Thou wilt not with predestined evil round
Enmesh, and then impute my fall to Sin!

XCII.

O Thou, who Man of baser earth didst make,
And even with Paradise devise the Snake,

For all the sin wherewith the face of Man
Is blackened, Man's forgiveness give-and take!

OPIE, AMELIA (ALDERSON), an English romance writer and poet, born at Norwich, November 12, 1769; died there, December 2, 1853. In 1798 she married John Opie, a painter, who died in 1807. She then returned to Norwich, where she spent the remainder of her life. She was brought up a Unitarian, but in 1827 became a member of the "Society of Friends." She did not commence her literary career until past thirty, when she put forth her Father and Daughter (1801). This book met with immense success, and the following year she issued a volume of poems. Her tales, generally grouped into series of three or four volumes, appeared at intervals until 1828, and were greatly admired in their day. Among these are Simple Tales (1806); Temper (1812); New Tales (1818); Tales of the Heart (1820); Madeline (1822); Illustrations of Lying (1825); Detraction Displayed (1828). She also published from time to time several volumes of verse not destitute of poetical merit.

"Her tales are natural and interesting, and contain a great deal of moral instruction," says the London Literary Journal. The Edinburgh Review finds in her work "truth and delicacy of sentiment, graceful simplicity in dialogue, and the art of presenting ordinary feelings and occurrences in a manner that irresistibly commands our sympathy and affection."

Professor Alexander, of Edinburgh, who visited her the year before she died, says that "the image of the beautiful, cheerful, clever old lady, as she reclined on her sofa and talked with all the vivacity of youth, in a bright, joyous room, with a sweet, joyous voice, remains on his memory as one of the loveliest it has been his good fortune to witness."

THE ORPHAN BOY'S TALE.

Stay, Lady, stay, for mercy's sake,

And hear a helpless orphan's tale.

Ah! sure my looks must pity wake;

'Tis want that makes my cheeks so pale.

Yet I was once a mother's pride,

And my brave father's hope and joy;
But in the Nile's proud fight he died,
And I am now an orphan boy.

Poor, foolish child! how pleased was I
When news of Nelson's victory came,
Along the crowded streets to fly,

And see the lighted windows flame!
To force me home my mother sought;
She could not bear to see my joy,
For with my father's life 'twas bought,
And made me a poor orphan boy.

The people's shouts were long and loud;

My mother, shuddering, closed her ears.
"Rejoice! rejoice!" still cried the crowd;
My mother answered with her tears.
"Why are you crying thus?" said I,

"While others laugh and shout with joy?"
She kissed me; and, with such a sigh,
She called me her poor orphan boy.

"What is an orphan boy?" I cried,

As in her face I looked and smiled;
My mother, through her tears replied,
"You'll know too soon, ill-fated child!"

And now they've tolled my mother's knell,
And I'm no more a parent's joy.
Oh, Lady, I have learned too well
What 'tis to be an orphan boy!

O, were I by your bounty fed !

Nay, gentle Lady, do not chide!Trust me, I mean to earn my bread;

The sailor's orphan boy has pride. Lady, you weep! Ha! this to me?

You'll give me clothing, food, employ? Look down, dear parents; look and see Your happy, happy, orphan boy!