delights is she that brings to her hearth a joyous, ardent, and hopeful spirit, and that subtle power whose sources we hardly can trace, but which yet so irradiates a home that all who come near are filled and inspired by the deep sense of womanly presence. We best learn the unsuspected might of a being like this when we try the weight of that sadness that hangs like lead upon the room, the gallery, the stairs, where once her footstep sounded, and now is heard no more. It is not less the energy than the grace and gentleness of this character that works the enchantment. Books can instruct, and books can amuse, and books can exalt and purify; beauty of face and beauty of form will come with bought pictures and statues, and for the government of a household hired menials will suffice; but fondness and hate, daring hope, lively fear, the lust for glory, and the scorn of base deeds, sweet charity, faithfulness, pride, and, chief over all, the impetuous will, lending might and power to feelingthese are the rib of the man, and from these, deepveiled in the mystery of her very loveliness, his true companion sprang. A being thus ardent will often go wrong in her strenuous course—will often alarmsometimes provoke--will now and then work mischief, and even perhaps grievous harm, but she will be our own Eve after all—the sweet-speaking tempter whom Heaven created to be the joy and the trouble of this “pleasing anxious” existence—to shame us away from the hiding-places of a slothful neutrality, and lead us abroad in the world, men militant here on earth, enduring quiet, content with strife, and looking for peace hereafter.


Why so stately, maiden fair,

Rising in thy nurse's arms
With that condescending air,

Gathering up thy queenly charms
Like some gorgeous Indian bird,
Which, when at eve the balmy copse is stirred,

Turns the glowing neck to chide
The irreverent footfall, then makes haste to hide

Again its lustre deep
Under the purple wing, best home of downy sleep.

Not as yet she comprehends

How the tongues of men reprove,
But a spirit o'er her bends,

Trained in Heaven to courteous love,
And with wondering grave rebuke
Tempers to-day shy tone, and bashful look:

Graceless one—'tis all of thee,
Who for her maiden bounty full and free,

The violet from her gay
And guileless bosom, didst no word of thanks repay.




Give me a tender spotless child,

Rehearsing or at eve or morn
His chant of glory undefiled,

The Creed that with the Church was born.

Down be his earnest forehead cast,

His slender fingers joined for prayer,
With half a frown his eye sealed fast

Against the world's intruding glare.

Who, while his lips so gently move,

And all his look is purpose strong,
Can say what wonders, wrought above,

Upon his unstained fancy throng?

The world new-framed, the Christ new-born,

The Mother-Maid, the cross and grave,
The rising sun on Easter morn,

The fiery tongues sent down to save,

The gathering Church, the Fount of Life,

The saints and mourners kneeling round,
The Day to end the body's strife,

The Saviour in His people crowned,

All in majestic march and even

To the veiled eye by turns appear,
True to their time as stars in heaven,

No morning dream so still and clear.

And this is Faith, and thus she wins

Her victory, day by day rehearsed.
Seal but thine eye to pleasant sins,

Love's glorious world will on thee burst.


“REASON ought to direct us," says Lord Chesterfield, “but it seldom does; and he who addresses himself simply to another man's reason, without endeavouring to engage his heart in his interest also, is no more likely to succeed, than a man who should apply only to a king's nominal minister, and neglect his favourite." The illustration is just and beautiful, and the observation deserves the notice of every one whose employment it is to win man to faith and righteousness. Dry reasoning, though ever so solid, will not do alone.


This is the Arsenal! from floor to ceiling,

Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms, But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing,

Startles the villages with strange alarms.

Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary,

When the death angel touches those swift keys ! What loud lament and dismal miséréré

Will mingle with their awful symphonies !

I hear, even now, the infinite fierce chorus,

The cries of agony, the endless groan, Which, through the ages that have gone before us,

In long reverberations reach our own.

On helm and cuirass rings-the Saxon hammer,

Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song; And loud, amid the universal clamour,

O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong.

I hear the Florentine, who from his palace

Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din; And Aztec priests upon their teocallis,

Beat the wild war-drums made of serpents' skin.

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