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Great fountain-head of evil; highest source
Whence flowed rebellion 'gainst the Omnipotent,
Whence hate of man to man, and all else ill.
Pride at the bottom of the human heart
Lay, and gave root and nourishment to all
That grew above. Great ancestor of vice!
Hate, unbelief, and blasphemy of God;
Envy and slander; malice and revenge;
And murder, and deceit, and every birth
Of damnéd sort, was progeny of pride.
It was the ever-moving, acting force,
The constant aim, and the most thirsty wish
Of every sinner unrenewed, to be
A god:-in purple or in rags, to have
Himself adored: whatever shape or form
His actions took: whatever phrase he threw
About his thoughts, or mantle o'er his life,
To be the highest, was the inward cause
Of all the purpose of the heart to be
Set up, admired, obeyed. But who would bow
The knee to one who served and was dependent?
Hence man's perpetual struggle, night and day,
To prove he was his own proprietor,
And independent of his God, that what
He had might be esteemed his own, and praised
As such. He labored still, and tried to stand
Alone, unpropped-to be obliged to none;
And in the madness of his pride he bade
His God farewell, and turned away to be
A god himself; resolving to rely,
Whatever came, upon his own right hand.

TRUE HAPPINESS.
FROM THE COURSE OF TIME," BOOK V.

True happiness had no localities,
No tones provincial, no peculiar garb.
Where duty went, she went; with justice went;
And went with meekness, charity, and love.
Where'er a tear was dried; a wounded heart
Bound up; a bruiséd spirit with the dew
Of sympathy anointed; or a pang
Of honest suffering soothed; or injury
Repeated oft, as oft by love forgiven;-
Where'er an evil passion was subdued,
Or Virtue's feeble embers fanned; where'er
A sin was heartily abjured, and left;
Where'er a pious act was done, or breathed
A pious prayer, or wished a pious wish-
There was a high and holy place, a spot
Of sacred light, a most religious fane,
Where Happiness, descending, sat and smiled.

HOLY LOVE.

FROM "THE COURSE OF TIME," BOOK V.

Hail, holy love! thou word that sums all bliss!
Gives and receives all bliss; fullest when most
Thou givest. Spring-head of all felicity!
Deepest when most is drawn. Emblem of God!
O'erflowing most when greatest numbers drink.
Essence that binds the uncreated Three;
Chain that unites creation to its Lord;
Centre to which all being gravitates.
Eternal, ever-growing, happy love!
Enduring all, hoping, forgiving all;
Instead of law, fulfilling every law;
Entirely blessed, because it seeks no more;
Hopes not, nor fears; but on the present lives,
And holds perfection smiling in its arms.
Mysterious, infinite, exhaustless love!
On earth mysterious, and mysterious still
In heaven; sweet chord, that harmonizes all
The harps of Paradise; the spring, the well
That fills the bowl, and banquet of the sky.

A MOONLIGHT EVENING.
FROM "THE COURSE OF TIME," BOOK V.

It was an eve of autumn's holiest mood;
The cornfields, bathed in Cynthia's silver light,
Stood ready for the reaper's gathering hand;
And all the winds slept soundly: nature seemed,
In silent contemplation, to adore

Its Maker: now and then the agéd leaf
Fell from its fellows, rustling to the ground;
And, as it fell, bade man think on his end.
On vale and lake, on wood and mountain high,
With pensive wing outspread, sat heavenly Thought,
Conversing with itself; Vesper looked forth
From out her western hermitage, and smiled:
And up the east, unclouded, rode the moon
With all her stars, gazing on earth intense,
As if she saw some wonder walking there.

Ecorge Washington Doane.

AMERICAN.

Born in Trenton, N. J., in 1799, Doane studied for the Episcopal Church, and was consecrated bishop of the diocese of his native State in 1832. He published a collection of poetical pieces in 1824, and was the author of various theological treatises. He died April 27, 1859.

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Not all alone: a watchful eye,

That notes the wandering sparrow's fall: A saving hand is ever nigh,

A gracious Power attends thy call: When sadness holds thy heart in thrall, Is oft His tenderest mercy shown; Seek then the balm vouchsafed to all, And thou canst never be ALONE.

Let the loud laughter peal, the toast go round, My thoughts, my thoughts are thine,- forever

thine!

Forever thine, whate'er this heart betide;

Forever mine, where'er our lot be cast; Fate, that may rob us of all wealth beside, Shall leave us love,-till life itself be past!

FOREVER THINE.

Forever thine, whate'er this heart betide; Forever mine, where'er our lot be cast; Fate, that may rob us of all wealth beside,

Shall leave us love-till life itself be past.

The world may wrong us, we will brave its hate; False friends may change, and falser hopes decline;

Thongh bowed by cankering cares, we'll smile at Fate,

Since thou art mine, beloved, and I am thine!

Forever thine, when circling years have spread Time's snowy blossoms o'er thy placid brow; When youth's rich glow, its "purple light," is fled, And lilies bloom where roses flourish now;

Say, shall I love the fading beauty less

Whose spring - tide radiance has been wholly mine?

No,-come what will, thy steadfast truth I'll bless, In youth, in age-thine own, forever thine!

Forever thine, at evening's dewy hour,

When gentle hearts to tenderest thoughts incline; When balmiest odors from each closing flower Are breathing round me,-thine, forever thine!

Forever thine! 'mid Fashion's heartless throng; In courtly bowers; at Folly's gilded shrine;Smiles on my cheek, light words upon my tongue, My deep heart still is thine,-forever thine!

Forever thine, amid the boisterous crowd,
Where the jest sparkles, with the sparkling wine;
I may not name thy gentle name aloud,
But drink to thee in thought,-forever thine!

I would not, sweet, profane that silvery sound,— The depths of love could such rude hearts divine?

John Abraham Heraud.

An English poet and miscellaneous writer (born 1799), Heraud has been a diligent, if not a successful, cultivator of the poetic art. He has written tragedies, lyrics, and narrative poems: "The Legend of St. Loy" (1821); “The Descent into Hell, and other Poems" (1830); “Judgment of the Flood: a Poem" (1834); "The War of Ideas" (1871). It was his fortune to be snubbed by the critics, and not always unjustly. On his asking Douglas Jerrold whether he had ever seen his "Descent into Hell," the reply was, "No, but I would like to see it." Heraud was a man of genius, though his writings show much misplaced power and abortive striving. Chambers says of him, that "he was in poetry what Martin was in art, a worshipper of the vast, the remote, and the terrible." His "Descent" and "Judgment" are chiefly remarkable as psychological curiosities.

THE EMIGRANT'S HOME. Prepare thee, soul, to quit this spot,

Where life is sorrow, doubt, and pain: There is a land where these are not, A land where Peace and Plenty reign.

And, after all, is Earth thy home?

Thy place of exile, rather, where Thou wert conveyed, ere thought could come, To make thy young remembrance clear.

Oh! there in thee are traces still,

Which of that other country tellThat angel-land where came no ill, Where thou art destined yet to dwell.

Yon azure depth thou yet shalt sail,

And, lark-like, sing at heaven's gate; The bark that shall through air prevail, Even now thy pleasure doth await.

The Ship of Souls will thrid the space "Twixt earth and heaven with sudden flight: Dread not the darkness to embrace,

That leads thee to the Land of Light!

William Kennedy.

Strew with pale flowerets, when pensive moons
shine,

His grassy covering,
Where spirits, hovering,
Chant for his requiem music divine.

Kennedy (1799-1849) was a native of Paisley, Scotland. Before he was twenty-five years old he wrote "My Early Days," a pathetic little story, which had great success, and was republished in Boston. In 1827 appeared his volume of poems, under the title of "Fitful Fancies;" in 1830, "The Arrow and the Rose, and other Poems." He was the literary associate of Motherwell in conducting the Paisley Magazine. Removing to London, he engaged in some literary enterprises with Leitch Ritchie. He accompanied the Earl of Dalhousie to Canada as his private secretary, and was appointed consul at Galves- Feelings akin to the lost poet's own. ton, Texas, where he resided several years. In 1841 he published in two volumes, in London, the "Rise, Prog ress, and Prospects of the Republic of Texas." He returned to England in 1847, retired on a pension, and took up his residence near London, where he died, shortly after a visit to his native Scotland.

Not as a record he lacketh a stone!

Pay a light debt to the singer we've known--
Proof that our love for his name hath not flown
With the frame perishing-
That we are cherishing

LINES

WRITTEN AFTER A VISIT TO THE GRAVE OF MY FRIEND,
WILLIAM MOTHERWELL, NOVEMBER, 1847.

Place we a stone at his head and his feet;
Sprinkle his sward with the small flowers sweet;
Piously hallow the poet's retreat:-

Ever approvingly,

Ever most lovingly,

Turned he to nature, a worshipper meet.

Harm not the thorn which grows at his head;
Odorous honors its blossoms will shed,
Grateful to him, early summoned, who sped
Hence, not unwillingly--
For he felt thrillingly-

To rest his poor head 'mong the low-lying dead.

Dearer to him than the deep minster-bell,
Winds of sad cadence, at midnight, will swell,
Vocal with sorrows he knoweth too well,

Who, for the early day,
Plaining this roundelay,
Might his own fate from a brother's foretell.

Worldly ones treading this terrace of graves,
Grudge not the minstrel the little he craves,
When o'er the snow-mound the winter-blast raves,-
Tears-which devotedly,
Though all unnotedly,

Flow from their spring in the soul's silent caves.

Dreamers of noble thoughts, raise him a shrine,
Graced with the beauty which lives in his line;

A THOUGHT.

Oh that I were the great soul of a world!
A glory in space!

By the glad hand of Omnipotence hurled
Sublime on its race!

Reflecting the marvellous beauty of heaven,
Encircled with joy;

To endure when the orbs shall wax dim that are
given

Old Time to destroy!

Oh that I were this magnificent spirit!
Embodied to prove

The measureless bliss they were sure to inherit,
Who lived in my love:

With elements infinite fitted for taking
All forms of my will,-

To give me forever the rapture of making
More happiness still!

Robert Comfort Sands.

AMERICAN.

Sands (1799-1832) was a native of the city of New York, and a graduate of Columbia College, of the class of 1815. One of his college companions, two years his senior, was James Wallis Eastburn, who was also a poet, and wrote, in conjunction with Sands, the poem of “Yamoyden," founded on the history of Philip, the Pequod chieftain. Eastburn took orders in the Episcopal Church, and died in 1819, in his twenty-second year. The best part of "Yamoyden" is the "Proem," written by Sands, and containing some graceful and pathetic stanzas in reference to Eastburn, one of which we subjoin:

"Go forth, sad fragments of a broken strain,
The last that either bard shall e'er essay!
The hand can ne'er attempt the chords again,
That first awoke them in a happier day:

Where he who in the mortal head1

Where sweeps the ocean breeze its desert way,
His requiem murmurs o'er the moaning wave;
And he who feebly now prolongs the lay,
Shall ne'er the minstrel's hallowed honors crave:

His harp lies buried deep in that untimely grave!"

Sands was a lawyer, but the attractions of literature drew him away from his profession, and he became an associate editor of the Commercial Advertiser. He ventured on several literary projects, edited magazines, and wrote a "Life of John Paul Jones." He did not live to fulfil the promise which his early compositions gave. He died unmarried, having always lived at home in his father's house. His "Writings in Prose and Verse, with a Memoir of the Author," in two volumes, were published by the Messrs. Harper in 1834.

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