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 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, Many a child of thy fruitful womb Oh! that the rude wind would prove like me And never steal from thee, beautiful Spring, Oh! that the Winter, whose iron arm Hanging upon them its icy gem, Like crystal stars of a diadem ; Yet never steal from thee, beautiful Spring, Oh! that the winter of life were kind, Sparing life's flowers its killing wind; Fleeting and fading, beautiful Spring, C. H. H. Uncomely is thy comeliness; Alas, too weak thy vaunted power! No strength is thine-no glory now! From its firm base the ordered rule of Jove. Gazing on thy wayward fate, STROPHE 2. ANTISTROPHE 2. Prometheus, this I learnt to know: From those soft tones of love and pleasure, As, moving round thy bridal bed, We virgin sisters dances led, A dowried partner, and a noble bride, 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! The earth-born Argus rise before my face; He hunts me down; and o'er the sea-washed sand How have I sinned, that with these madd'ning torments Hear me, thou ruler of the deities! Nor coldly spurn thy suppliant's eager prayer: 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 Which, Heaven-inflicted, drives with madd'ning stings |