The tickled ears no heart-felt raptures raise; Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. The priest-like father reads the sacred page, How Abram was the friend of God on high; Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage With Amalek's ungracious progeny; Or how the royal Bard did groaning lie Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire: Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry; Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire; Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. Compar'd with this, how poor religion's pride, In all the pomp of method, and of art, When men display to congregations wide Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart! The Power, incens'd, the pageant will desert, The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; But haply, in some cottage far apart, May hear, well pleas'd, the language of the soul; And in his book of life the inmates poor enrol. The bright scenes of my youth, — all gone out now. How eagerly its flickering blaze doth catch On every point now wrapped in time's deep shade! Into what wild grotesqueness by its flash And fitful checkering is the picture made! When I am glad or gay, Let me walk forth into the brilliant sun, And with congenial rays be shone upon: When I am sad, or thought-bewitched would be, Let me glide forth in moonlight's mystery, But never, while I live this changeful life, This past and future with all wonders rife, Never, bright flame, may be denied to me Thy dear, life-imaging, close sympathy. What but my hopes shot upwards e'er so bright? What but my fortunes sank so low in night? Why art thou banished from our hearth and hall, Thou who art welcomed and beloved by all? Was thy existence then too fanciful For our life's common light, who are so dull? Did thy bright gleam mysterious converse hold With our congenial souls? secrets too bold? Well, we are safe and strong; for now we sit Beside a hearth where no dim shadows flit; Where nothing cheers nor saddens, but a fire Warms feet and hands, nor does to more aspire; By whose compact, utilitarian heap, The present may sit down and go to sleep, Nor fear the ghosts who from the dim past walked, And with us by the unequal light of the old wood-fire talked. E. S. H. GIVE ME THE OLD. I. OLD wine to drink! Ay, give the slippery juice That drippeth from the grape thrown loose Within the tun; Plucked from beneath the cliff And ripened 'neath the blink Tempered with well-boiled water! Good stout old English porter. II. Old wood to burn! Ay, bring the hillside beech From where the owlets meet and screech, And ravens croak; The crackling pine, and cedar sweet; Shall light us at our drinking; While the oozing sap Shall make sweet music to our think ing. III. Old books to read! Ay, bring those nodes of wit, The brazen-clasped, the vellum-writ, Time-honored tomes! The same my sire scanned before, Of Oxford's domes: Old Horace, rake Anacreon, by IV. Old friends to talk! Ay, bring those chosen few, Him for my wine, him for my stud, With soulful Fred; and learned Will, R. H. MESSINGER. TO A CHILD. I WOULD that thou might always be As innocent as now, That time might ever leave as free I would life were all poetry That nought but chastened melody The silver stars may purely shine, But they who kneel at woman's Breathe on it as they bow. N. P. WILLIS. THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. BETWEEN the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupa<tions That is known as the children's hour. I hear in the chamber above me From my study I see in the lamplight, Descending the broad hall-stair, |