nursery overhead after their day in the free, blessed air of lake and mountain.

"After all," says the Dominie, in thoughtful thankfulness, as the fire burns low and red," there is deep and beautful significance in the fable of the Libyan

wrestler, who gained new strength whenever he touched the earth. 'As one whom his mother comforteth!' She is my Alma Mater. I am content to lie upon her bosom and grow young again!"

THE OLD CATHEDRAL!

IN realms beyond the sea are churches grand,
Where once old temples stood on Pagan land;
Up toward the heavens blue their towers arise,
Linking the weary earth to sunny skies!
Let us forget the years, and, by thought led,
The old cathedral's floor with reverence tread!
And, called by music sweet o'er fields of time,
Answer the silver tones of bells that chime.
Within these solemn walls fair glories shine,
On marble monument and stone-cut vine;
Softly the rainbow hues, through pictured glass,
Fall on the tablet aisles o'er which we pass.

It is the place of prayer for weary souls,
And here the deep-toned chant its grandeur rolls;
It is the abode of God, where griefs are healed,
And here is Mary's Son to faith revealed.

The monarch here puts off "the golden round"
With which his kingly brows the bishop crowned
The conqueror here forgets his laurels won,
And begs the shield of faith at heaven's throne.
Figures, and sculptured walls, the story tell
Of Him who once on earth with men did dwell;
Jewels, which love hath brought, suggest the prize
Held by those wounded hands before our eyes.
Yonder is one who prays-that dropping tear
Came while her wounded soul recalled the bier,
On which her life, and love, and hope were borne
When death had from her arms her idol torn.

Here the sweet harmony of faith and art
Fills with its soothing tone her lonely heart,
And kneeling at the cross she finds relief,
And drops some tears of joy amidst Ler grief.

And often joyous peals have pierced the air,

When, through these portals quaint, the young and fair
Have to the altar gone, for priest to bless

And seal to love its vow and sacredness.

Down through the high-arched aisles, amidst the throng,
Dreaming of naught but bliss they move along,-

If, in the solemn cript, the dead could speak,

How would they warn these souls God's grace to seek!

Alas! within these walls, with age so gray,

Error was mixed with truth and dimmed her ray,

Poor, simple souls believed what they were taught,

And prayed to holy saints, in marble wrought.

VOL. IX.-6

How oft a picture rare of Christ, our Lord,
Was, by those kneeling crowds, itself adored;
And not the old alone, but children fair
Received the holy cross to kiss and wear.

Blindly both guide and flock in error strayed,
When to some relic old they homage paid-
Yet when the lofty spire toward heaven arose
Faith gazed upon its cross in safe repose!

Oft, in the twilight gloom, the whispered prayer
From some deep grieving heart its load did bear,
And at the day's gray dawn, the world asleep,
Some sweet and holy soul her vow did keep.

O'er these cathedrals old the floating clouds

Have spread their changing hues and gloomy shrouds,
On roof, and crowded door, lightnings and storms
Have glanced and played around the chiseled forms.

The ages have not marred the fertile stone,

Where 'neath the sculptor's hand fair flowers have grown,
Angels, and horrid shapes of strange design,

The peopled niches fill and arches line.

Midnight, and holy morn, have witnessed tears,

Which earth's great kings have wept amidst their fears;
And humble fainting souls have comfort found,

In this the poor man's home, on holy ground.
These old cathedrals now majestic stand,
As when, by thought inspired, the artist's hand
Upreared their massive forms to tell again
That God, in very deed, will dwell with men.

Midst holy thought and love the workmen wrought,
And canvas glowed with life when fancy caught

In heavenly visions rapt, the face divine,

Through which God's love and grace doth ever shine.

And here, in marble fair, or picture warm,

Was ever, close at hand, the lovely form

Of Mary with her child, whose thorn-pierced brow

A crown divine doth wear, in glory now.

We call that time corrupt when love profound

Stamped deep the stone-formed cross upon the ground!
We call those ages dark when glistening high

The dear and holy cross shone in the sky!

How little do we know of God's wise plan
To save from utter wreck the hopes of man,-
The truth has still been kept, in vessels frail,
'Midst error's fatal snares her light we hail!
Blind superstitions held the simple mind,
But yet some saving truth with it combined;
From centuries remote the growing light
Hath shone upon God's word divinely bright.

The liberty of prayer was precious then

When tyrants' rule oppressed those humble men;
Struggling toward starry heights the towers they climb,
Where, listening, they might catch the "sphery chime!"

It is not meet for us, in latter days,

To censure where the truth sent feeble rays,-
These old cathedral stones shall yet record
The triumphs of our dear and blessed Lord!

THE PARADISE OF OLD SAILORS.

THE river Thames is but a muddy and insignificant stream, to have watered so great space in English fiction and history. There is scarcely an English book that does not, in some form, pay tribute to it. That fine old knight, Sir Roger de Coverley, sails down the Thames in the "Spectator," and makes several reflections on the greatness of the British nation, as "that one Englishman could beat three Frenchmen; that the Thames was the noblest river in Europe, and that London-bridge was a greater piece of work than any of the seven wonders of the world." I am inclined to say amen to Sir Roger's opinion of London-bridge; it is one of the many grey old structures, dotted over England, that seem to grow out of the earth, rather than to have been built upon it, by men's hands, as if they might have come into being with the ground they stand on, that they might serve as patterns to build from thereafter.

have passed to the tender mercies of the headsman; we pass over, without knowing it, that tremendous bore, the Thames Tunnel, and gradually leave behind us the dingy walls and disreputable suburbs, that always hang over the banks of rivers in a city.

After a while the river begins to clear its character from the stains of man's imperfections, and the bright green grass slopes down on either bank to meet its caresses.

Greenwich (or Grinnidge as the English call it) must find favor in all eyes that approach it from the water. The Hospital rears a noble front close upon the river, and on an eminence beyond, rises the Observatory where Longitude begins. A young Englishman accompanied us, whom we had looked upon as a most valuable guide, but it came out as we landed, that this was also his first visit to the Hospital. Knowing he could see it any time, he had never seen it at

The opaque water has often closed over all, like the old farmer whom Lowell

"One more unfortunate,

Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death,"

and hidden many sorrowful sights, results of the crime and misery accumulating in London, as in every great city, but it bears on its surface, an abundant and busy life, that gives small thought to anything but its own daily cares.

Plenty of gay little steamers, like the one which we boarded at the bridge, ply up and down the river all day, carrying deck-loads of passengers, for there is no cabin accommodation. Londoners shed rain as easily as a flock of ducks; if they always went in when it rained, they would stay in most of their lives.

We take a long look at the "Traitor's Gate," which opens from the river, into the "Tower" yard, through which so many souls, innocent as well as guilty,

found among the White Hills, who had always lived within a mile of the "Old Man of the Mountain," and had never cared to look towards it.

We went first into a grand entrance hall of no great age, hung round with portraits of naval heroes; the ceiling was one vast fresco on some mythological subject, and I was content to believe it a miracle of art, rather than to break my neck in striving to examine its merits.

This hall opens into the "Painted Chamber," having one whole side covered with an allegorical picture of those Hanoverian despots, the Georges; the painter, not content with his name or monogram in the corner, has introduced a full length of himself, and is decidedly the finest looking man in the group.

Here is exhibited in a glass case the coat and vest, with a bullet-hole in it,

which Nelson wore, when death found is now divided into bedrooms for the him at Trafalgar.

MOMENTS.