of it, they sacrifice but too often even their very souls. The beggar hath it not; in the pressure of stern necessity he steals to save himself from starvation. Imprisoned for his petty crime, he there learns the mysteries of systematic guilt; and scarcely is his punishment over than he commences a course that leads him ere long to the gallows. The tradesman, scarcely able to support his family, is tempted, by fraud and dishonesty, to increase the profits of his business. The lawyer, with his "quiddits, his quillets, his cases, his tenures, and his tricks," grinds down his clients to the last farthing. The sick and dying may perish in their wretchedness, if there is no gold to buy them aid. And this is LIFE!

Would that the tyrant's power extended no farther,—that it influenced only our relation to the world! But there is an inner, a more sacred life, a life of mysteries, understood only by our own hearts; and even here is his power felt. I speak not of those cold hearts, in which all the affections have been dried up, and all kindly feelings withered, by contact with the world; but of those that are unseared, that are full of high and lovely thoughts, that are overflowing with a love that could make even this earth a heaven. And how often have such hearts been sacrificed at the shrine of wealth! How often has the gorgeous bridal garment been folded round a breaking heart!

But it is to this inner life, (where the tyrant's rule is not so absolute,) that we owe all our happiness in this world. We may turn our thoughts from the cold realities that surround us, and let them dwell upon holier things. And while we cherish that flower of a better land within our hearts, whose blossoms, woven into a fairy-like garland, bind together husband and wife, father and child, sister and brother, we may also bathe our wearied spirits in those springs of deep and mysterious thought, which, flowing through a fairy land, have many bright and heavenly flowers upon their banks. And if we guide our bark along these streams of meditation by a right compass, they will lead us at last to another and better life. For who loves to separate from this outward life, and communes so much with his own heart, as he whose mental eye hath learned to mark—

"Th' exceeding grace
Of highest God, that loves his creatures so,
And all his works with mercy doth embrace,
That blessed angels he sends to and fro,
To serve to wicked man, to serve his wicked foe!"

Viewing this life as a pathway to another, his mind is fixed upon the home to which he is journeying; and many bright dreams, and visions of glories yet unseen, fill his imagination; and many sweet communings doth his spirit hold with the messengers of mercy from above. Living a life that is unseen, he goes on his pilgrimage, as a stranger travelling through a country, in whose changing fortunes he hath but a passing interest, towards his native land, -a land of life eternal.

PUCK.

TO THE SPRING.

I WILL not rob thee, beautiful Spring,
Of a single flower of thy cherishing;
I will not gather the violet blue,
Or the delicate cowslip of golden hue.
No! I'll not rob thee, beautiful Spring,
Of a single flower of thy cherishing.

Many a child of thy fruitful womb
Opes to the sunlight her tender bloom;
Under the hedge is the pale primrose,
And in the meadow the oxlip grows.
Yet I'll not rob thee, beautiful Spring,
Of a single flower of thy cherishing.

Oh! that the rude wind would prove like me
Gentle, and kind, and good to thee;-
Oh! that its blasts would pity and spare
All the sweet blossoms that scent the air,

And never steal from thee, beautiful Spring,
One of the flowers of thy cherishing.

Oh! that the Winter, whose iron arm
Withers the forest, would cease to harm;

Hanging upon them its icy gem,

Like crystal stars of a diadem ;

Yet never steal from thee, beautiful Spring,
One of the flowers of thy cherishing.

Oh! that the winter of life were kind,

Sparing life's flowers its killing wind;
Leaving Youth, Beauty, and all things gay; -
Vain is the wish-for they wither away-

Fleeting and fading, beautiful Spring,
E'en as the flowers of thy cherishing.

C. H. H.

Uncomely is thy comeliness;

Alas, too weak thy vaunted power!
Can men relieve thy fierce distress-
Those insect flutterers of an hour!
Weak and impotent art thou;

No strength is thine-no glory now!
For, vain and transient, like a dream,
Is human strength,-man's life a gleam
Of flickering light, which, for a day
Casts dimly round its feeble ray.
Entangled in their powerless pride
Men must the wrath of Heaven abide;
For never can a human counsel move

From its firm base the ordered rule of Jove.

Gazing on thy wayward fate,

STROPHE 2.

ANTISTROPHE 2.

Prometheus, this I learnt to know:
Wisdom, alas! oft comes too late ;
But quickly forth to meet her go.
Late have we raised a twofold strain-
One to rejoice, one to complain;
And different far this woful measure

From those soft tones of love and pleasure,

As, moving round thy bridal bed,

We virgin sisters dances led,
When, the daughter of the sea,
Thou weddedst bright Hesione,-

A dowried partner, and a noble bride,
In bloom of beauty, and in virgin pride.

Enter Io, (in the form of a heifer.)

Io. What land, what race is this? whom see I here?

A mortal, girded round by rocky chains!

His form exposed to winter's blast and storms!
What is thy sin, that thou must undergo
Thy torment here? Oh say, whoe'er thou art,
To what lone land my harassed footsteps stray.
Alas! that sting again! the spectre still
Pursues me: hide it, earth! his hundred eyes
Are glaring on me still- -I see, I see

The earth-born Argus rise before my face;
And horror numbs me at the dreadful sight!
For still that herdsman of the cunning eye
Follows my footsteps; nor, though he is dead,
Can earth conceal him: like a hound of hell,
Crossing the gulf from the infernal world,

He hunts me down; and o'er the sea-washed sand
Drives me forth frenzied, wanting food and rest.
And now the reed's subdued and sleepy tones
Hum in my wretched ear! Oh, gods on high!
When will my troubles-where my wanderings end?
And thou, too, son of Saturn, why hast thou
Linked me by curses to such woful fate?

How have I sinned, that with these madd'ning torments
Thou crush'st my stricken soul? What have I done
To merit such extreme of agony?

Hear me, thou ruler of the deities!

Nor coldly spurn thy suppliant's eager prayer:
Blast me with lightnings, or beneath the earth
Hurl me, or cast my body to the waves,
Food for the monsters of the briny deep;
But make my wanderings cease; in pity spare
To drive me further! I have toiled enough,
Nor know I where to seek a place of rest.
CHORUS.

Hear'st thou the horned maiden's voice

of woe?

PROMETH. HOW can I fail to hear her loud-toned grief? Daughter of Inachus, who fired the heart

Of Zeus with love-but now a tortured wanderer:

Her jealous Juno forcibly compels,

Without a resting-place, about the world.

Io. Whence didst thou learn, who speak'st, my father's name?

Oh, tell a harassed maiden, who thou art!

Comrade in pain, who to my woe-struck ear
Speakest so truly; naming the disease

Which, Heaven-inflicted, drives with madd'ning stings
My frenzied soul a furious race o'er earth.
Hurried with pangs of hunger, close pursued
By hellish wrath, my tortured steps I turn,
Whither I know not. Juno's ireful care,