How lightly then it flashed along! Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore, On winding lakes and rivers wide, That ask no aid of sail or oar,

That fear no spite of wind or tide: Nought cared this body for wind or weather When Youth and I lived in't together.

Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like;
Friendship is a sheltering tree;

O, the joys, that came down shower-like,
Of Friendship, Love and Liberty,
Ere I was old!

Ere I was old? Ah, woeful ere,
Which tells me Youth's no longer here!
O Youth! for years so many and sweet,
"Tis known that thou and I were one;
I'll think it but a fond conceit;

It cannot be that thou art gone:
Thy vesper-bell hath not yet tolled;
And thou wert aye a masker bold;
What strange disguise hast now put on
To make believe that thou art gone?
I see these locks in silvery slips,

This drooping gate, this altered size,
But spring-tide blossoms on thy lips,

And tears take sunshine from thine eyes:
Life is but thought; so think I will
That Youth and I are house-mates still.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

SECLUDED BEAUTY.

(From "Lalla Rookh.")

H what a pure and sacred thing

Is Beauty, curtained from the sight

Of the gross world, illumining

One only mansion with her light! Unseen by man's disturbing eye,

MUSIC.

USIC is well said to be the speech of angels; in fact, nothing among the utterances allowed to man is felt to be so divine. It brings us near to the Infinite; we look for moments, across the cloudy elements, into the eternal sea of light, when song leads and inspires us. Serious nations, all nations that can still listen to the mandate of nature, have prized song and music as the highest; as a vehicle for worship, for prophecy, and for whatsoever in them was divine. Their singer was a vates, admitted to the council of the universe, friend of the gods, and choicest benefactor to man.

THOMAS CARLYLE.

SONG OF STEAM.

The world, the world is mine:

JARNESS me down with your iron bands, The rivers the sun hath earliest blessed,

Be sure of your curb and rein;

For I scorn the power of your puny hands,

As the tempest scorns a chain;

Or those where his last beams shine,
The giant streams of the queenly West,
Or the Orient floods divine!

How I laughed as I lay concealed from sight The ocean pales where'er I sweep,

For many a countless hour,

At the childish boast of human might,
And the pride of human power!

When I saw an army upon the land,
A navy upon the seas,
Creeping along, a snail-like band,

Or waiting the wayward breeze;
When I marked the peasant faintly reel
With the toil which he daily bore,

As he feebly turned the tardy wheel,
Or tugged at the weary oar;

To hear my strength rejoice;
And the monsters of the briny deep

Cower, trembling, at my voice.

I carry the wealth and the lord of earth,
The thoughts of his godlike mind;

The wind lags after my going forth,
And the lightning is left behind.

In the darksome depths of the fathomless

mine,

My tireless arm doth play;

Where the rocks never saw the sun decline,
Or the dawn of the glorious day,

When I measured the panting courser's speed, I bring earth's glittering jewels up

The flight of the carrier-dove,

As they bore the law a king decreed,

Or the lines of impatient love;

I could not but think how the world would

feel,

As these were outstripped afar,

From the hidden caves below,
And I make thy fountain's granite cup
With a crystal gush o'erflow.

I blow the bellows, I forge the steel,
In all the shops of trade;

When I should be bound to the rushing keel, I hammer the oar, and turn the wheel,

Or chained to the flying car.

Ha! Ha! Ha! they found me at last;
They invited me forth at length;

And I rushed to my throne with a thunder-
blast,

And laughed in my iron strength. Oh, then ye saw a wondrous change On the earth and the ocean wide, Where now my fiery armies range, Nor wait for wind or tide.

Hurrah! hurrah! the waters o'er,

The mountain's steep decline,
Time, space, have yielded to my power;

Where thy arms of strength are made;

I manage the furnace, the mill, the mint;
I carry, I spin, I weave;

And all my doings I put into print

On every Saturday eve.

I've no muscle to weary, no breast to decay,
No bones to be lald on the shelf;
And soon I intend you shall go and play,

While I manage this world by myself.
But harness me down with your iron bands,
Be sure of your curb and rein,

For I scorn the power of your puny hands,
As the tempest scorns a chain.

GEORGE WASHINGTON CUTTER.