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Thebes, such as old Homer knew it, is then faintly
"Once more I gazed; Tithonus' royal son
Rode forth : to battle with the warrior Greeks
shone upon the day,
surging deluge of the victorious invader :
“Through every gate
temples crash in thunder down ;
And thus ends the dream. Amidst applause the poet himself retires, and the Sheldonian Theatre pours forth its crowded occupants.
W. M. W.
“ WHAT SORROW WORKETH.” WRITTEN FOR THE YOUTHS' MAGAZINE, BY AN OLD FRIEND. A LADY sat in a stately room, a babe lay on her knee ; Her eyes were fixed on its marble brow, sadly, despairingly: For she knew by the sobbing, flickering breath, by the glassy, half
By the nerveless limb, and the clay.cold hand, that her only child But even then, though the sun of her life was eclipsed, for many
And she moved not, she scarcely dared to speak, as tho' silence could
retain The spirit, that God having only lent, was taking back again : Vain hope !—for one sharp, quick struggle came, one ray from the
dark eyes shone, One cry, one lifting of the hands, and the baby to rest has gone. Then the mother clasped o'er her burning brow, her hands so thin and
pale: And from her pallid lips there came, one low heart-broken wail; And rising, she calmly laid her child in his little cradle bed; And the morning light broke on her there, still kneeling by the dead. Why thus alone? was there none to soothe, to strengthen, to sympathize, To comfort ? (for oh! how it softens grief to see tears in loving eyes,) There was one, but he is where the child is now; and her spirit
could not bear That others should witness the bitter pangs of a sorrow they could
Bright, but too brief, was her wedded life, three summers it had not
seen, When the cold grave hid from her tear-dimmed oyes, the form that
so late had been Thc shrine of as noble and pure a soul as ever life's dark waves
crossed; And the mourner said that she knew not his worth, till the priceless
gem was lost.
a day, Her child was a sign, like the fringe of light, that the darkness
should pass away; And although her tears were like summer showers, thought like a
sunbeam fell On the glistening drops—and Hope's rainbow seemed a bright future
But the sunbeam paled, and the rainbow arch with the sunbeam
passed away, And a night hath fallen upon her soul, with no hope of returning
day. For she felt that the spirit light was gone (earth without it is ever
drear,) And she could not look on to the far off land, that God-lit, unsorrow
And a lonely grave ever haunted her, and a sealed coffin lid;
And ever in sleep were the warm soft arms, as of old round her
neck entwined; Oh! to waken, and fancy she heard his cry in the wailing of the
Yet a Guardian was watching over her, unknown and yet a friend :
end. And He grieveth not willingly, and but afflicts, to the end, that the
spirit tried May pass through affliction's furnace, freed from earth's dross and
And He knocked at the door of her heart, and spoke in the sym.
pathizing tone That draweth with cords of love to kneel at the footstool of His
throne: Seeking pardon for all her repining vain, where her pleasant plants
seemed to die, Now she knew they were only transplanted to the garden above the And while waiting the welcome summons that should call her to join
them there, Knowing well that an idle Christian is a thing God cannot bear ; She visited widows, and fatherless babes, childless mothers too she
sought: To comfort them with the comfort wherewith her mind was now
peacefully fraught. And to life's young and happy ones she was ever wont to tell Of the danger of setting our hopes on earth, and of loving the world
too well. For she knew by her own experience, every idol God takes away; For He suffereth not that a rival power should reign where He holdeth
And the warning I echo; and pray you, try yourselves by this simple
test, “What thought cometh first with the early morn, what last ere I
sink to rest ? ” Whether wealth or fame, or friends or home be the idol you dearest
prize, Remember, “ He buildeth his nest too low who buildeth below the
A DISCOURSE OF FLOWERS. Happy is the man that loves flowers! Happy even if his love be adulterated with vanity and strife. For human passions nestle in flowers too. Some have their zeal chiefly in horticultural competitions, or in the ambitions of floral shows; others love them as curiosities, and search for novelties, and monstrosities. We have been led through costly collections, by men whose chief pleasure seemed to be in the effect which their treasures produced on others, not on themselves.
But there is a choice in vanities and ostentations. A contest of roses is better than of horses. We had rather take a premium for the best tulip, dahlia, or ranunculus, than for the best shot. Of all fools, a floral fool deserves the eminence.
But these aside, blessed be the man that really loves flowers !-loves them for their own sakes, for their beauty, their associations, the joy they have given and always will give; so that, if there was not another creature on earth to admire or praise, he would just as much sit down among them as friends and companions! But such men need no blessing of mine. They are blessed of God! Did He not make the world for such men ? Are they not clearly the owners of the world, and the richest of all men ?
The end of art is to inoculate men with the love of nature. But those who have it in the natural way, need no pictures nor galleries. Spring is their designer, and the whole year their artist.
He who only does not appreciate floral beauty is to be pitied like any other man who is born imper. fect. But men who contemptuously reject flowers as effeminate and unworthy of manhood, reveal their coarseness. Were flowers fit to eat or drink, were they stimulative of passions, or could they be gambled with like stocks and public consciences, they would take them up just where finer minds would drop them, who love them as revelations of God's sense of beauty; as addressed to the taste, and to something finer and deeper than taste, that power within us which spiritualizes matter, and communes with God through His work.
Many persons lose much of the enjoyment by indulging false associations. The term weed ends the glory of some flowers. But all flowers are weeds, and somewhere our rarest flowers are somebody's commonest. Flowers growing in noisome places, in desolate corners, upon rubbish, or rank desolation, become disagreeable. Road-side flowers, ineradicable, and hardy beyond all discouragement, lose themselves from our sense of delicacy and protection. And, generally, there is a disposition to undervalue common flowers. If a plant be uncouth, it has no attractions