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Daughter of music?-hath thy golden lute,
With dust upon its broken strings, grown mute;
Thy fancy, rainbow-hued, forgot to soar?
To hush thy warbling is a grievous wrong-
Come back! come back to sunlight and to song!

Marion Paul Aird.

Miss Aird is a native of Glasgow, where she was born in 1815. In 1846 appeared her first work, "The Home of the Heart, and other Poems;" and in 1853 a volume of prose and verse, entitled "Heart Histories." Her hymn, "Far, far Away," is sung in almost every Sunday-school in Scotland. Her mother was a niece of Hamilton Paul (1773-1854), a Scottish poet of some note.

Frederick William Faber.

Faber (1815-1863) was originally a clergyman of the Church of England, but became a convert to the Catholic religion, and a priest in that Church. He was the author of some five volumes of poems, some of them of singular grace, tenderness, and beauty. He wrote "The Cherwell Water-Lily, and other Poems" (1840); "The Styrian Lake, and other Poems" (1842); "Sir Lancelot: a Poem" (1844); "The Rosary, and other Poems" (1845); and several papers in the "Lives of the English Saints," edited by Dr. Newman. Faber became distinguished as an earnest and eloquent preacher. His theological writ ings, after his conversion, were numerous and able.

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It was the calm and silent night!

Seven hundred years and fifty-three
Had Rome been growing up to might,
And now was queen of land and sea.
No sound was heard of clashing wars,
Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain;
Apollo, Pallas, Jove, and Mars,

Held undisturbed their ancient reign
In the solemn midnight,
Centuries ago.

'Twas in the calm and silent night, The senator of haughty Rome, Impatient, urged his chariot's flight,

From lordly revel rolling home;

Triumphal arches, gleaming, swell

His breast with thoughts of boundless sway;

What recked the Roman what befell

A paltry province far away,
In the solemn midnight,
Centuries ago?

Within that province far away
Went plodding home a weary boor:
A streak of light before him lay,

Fallen through a half-shut stable door
Across his path. He passed, for naught
Told what was going on within;
How keen the stars, his only thought-
The air, how calm, and cold, and thin,
In the solemn midnight,
Centuries ago!

O strange indifference! low and high Drowsed over common joys and cares;

Philip James Bailey.

Bailey, a native of Nottingham, England, was born in 1816. He published at the age of twenty a poem entitled "Festus," which passed through many editions both in England and America. Few poems have so immediately excited so much attention. It was followed by "The Angel World" (1850), "The Mystic" (1855), "The Age: a Colloquial Satire" (1858), and "The Universal Hymn" (1867). No one of these had a success equal to his first juvenile production.

LOVE, THE END OF CREATED BEING.
FROM "FESTUS.”

Love is the happy privilege of the mind-
Love is the reason of all living things.
A Trinity there seems of principles,
Which represent and rule created life-
The love of self, our fellows, and our God.
In all throughout one common feeling reigns:
Each doth maintain, and is maintained by the other:
All are compatible-all needful; one

To life, to virtue one, and one to bliss:
Which thus together make the power, the end,
And the perfection of created Being:
From these three principles comes every deed,
Desire, and will, and reasoning, good or bad;
To these they all determine-sum and scheme:
The three are one in centre and in round;
Wrapping the world of life as do the skies
Our world. Hail, air of love, by which we live!
How sweet, how fragrant! Spirit, though unseen-

Void of gross sign-is scarce a simple essence,
Immortal, immaterial, though it be.

One only simple essence liveth-God,-
Creator, uncreate. The brutes beneath,
The angels high above us, with ourselves,

Are but compounded things of mind and form.
In all things animate is therefore cored
An elemental sameness of existence;

For God, being Love, in love created all,
As he contains the whole and penetrates.
Seraphs love God, and angels love the good:
We love each other; and these lower lives,
Which walk the earth in thousand diverse shapes,
According to their reason, love us too:
The most intelligent affect us most.

Nay, man's chief wisdom's love-the love of God.
The new religion-final, perfect, pure,—

Was that of Christ and love. His great command-
His all-sufficing precept-was't not love?
Truly to love ourselves we must love God,-
To love God we must all his creatures love,-
To love his creatures, both ourselves and him.
Thus love is all that's wise, fair, good, and happy!

THOUGHTS FROM "FESTUS."

We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths; In feelings, not in figures on a dial.

We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best; And he whose heart beats quickest lives the longest; Lives in one hour more than in years do some Whose fat blood sleeps as it slips along their veins.

Keep the spirit pure

From worldly taint by the repellent strength
Of virtue. Think on noble thoughts and deeds
Ever; still count the rosary of truth,
And practise precepts which are proven wise.
Walk boldly and wisely in the light thou hast :
There is a hand above will help thee on.
I am an omnist, and believe in all
Religions,—fragments of one golden world
Yet to be relit in its place in heaven.

John Godfrey Saxe.

AMERICAN.

One of the most popular of the humorous poets of America, Saxe was born in Highgate, Vt., in 1816, and was graduated at Middlebury College in the class of 1839. After practising law for a time, he abandoned it

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The tender emotion I feel

Is one that they never return; "Tis idle to quarrel with fate,

For, struggle as hard as I can, They're mated already, you know, And I'm a superfluous man!

No wonder I grumble at times,

With women so pretty and pleuty, To know that I never was born

To figure as one of the Twenty; But yet, when the average lot With critical vision I scan, I think it may be for the best That I'm a superfluous man!

Just so you would have praised the PopeJustine, you love me not!

I know, Justine-for I have heard
What friendly voices tell-
You do not blush to say the word,

"You like me passing well;"

And thus the fatal sound I hear

That seals my lonely lot: There's nothing now to hope or fearJustine, you love me not!

JUSTINE, YOU LOVE ME NOT! "Hélas! vous ne m'aimez pas."-PIRON.

I know, Justine, you speak me fair
As often as we meet;
And 'tis a luxury, I swear,

To hear a voice so sweet;

And yet it does not please me quite, The civil way you've got;

For me you're something too politeJustine, you love me not!

I know, Justine, you never scold
At aught that I may do:
If I am passionate, or cold,

'Tis all the same to you. "A charming temper," say the men, "To smooth a husband's lot:"

I wish 'twere ruffled now and thenJustine, you love me not!

I know, Justine, you wear a smile
As beaming as the sun;
But who supposes all the while

It shines for only one?
Though azure skies are fair to see,

A transient cloudy spot

In yours would promise more to meJustine, you love me not!

I know, Justine, you make my name
Your eulogistic theme,

And say-if any chance to blame-
You hold me in esteem.

Such words, for all their kindly scope,
Delight me not a jot;

Philip Pendleton Cooke.

AMERICAN.

The son of an eminent lawyer, Cooke (1816-1850) was a native of Martinsburg, Va. He entered Princeton College at fifteen, studied law with his father, and before he was of age had married and begun practice. He was extravagantly fond of field sports, and grew to be the most famous hunter of the Shenandoah Valley. He published a volume of "Froissart Ballads " in 1847, in which his "Florence Vane" is introduced; wrote novels and tales for the Southern Literary Messenger, when it was edited by Poe; and also for Graham's Magazine; and became an accomplished man of letters instead of a busy lawyer. He died young, of pneumonia, got in a hunting expedi tion; leaving one son and several daughters. John Esten Cooke, his brother (born 1830), has been a prolific and interesting writer, chiefly of prose. Of Philip he says: "I can sum up my brother's character by saying that he was an admirable type of a sensitive, refined, and highly cultivated gentleman." Impulsive and chivalrous, he once galloped twenty miles to throw a bouquet into the window of his cousin, the "Florence Vane" of his graceful little lyric, which, it is interesting to know, was the offspring of a genuine passion, and not of mere fancy. He was profoundly read in the English masters of verse, from Chaucer to our own day.

FLORENCE VANE.

I loved thee long and dearly,
Florence Vane.

My life's bright dream, and early
Hath come again;

I renew in my fond vision
My heart's dear pain,
My hope, and thy derision,
Florence Vane.

The ruin lone and hoary,
The ruin old,

Where thou didst mark my story,
At even told,-

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