billows, with a roaring as though all the monsters of the deep were swarming around us. But not so. Neither the wide mouth of the shark, the brown back of the porpoise, nor the spouting nostril of the whale is visible; the brilliant dolphin, in his opal jacket, has retreated to his own haunts below the storm, and the little "Portuguese man-of-war" has drawn in the pink and purple fringes of his silver sail, and rolls, like a cunning beetle, from wave to wave, as light as the bubble from which he cannot be distinguished. Even the albatross flapped his strong pinion, and wheeled away when he saw the winds gathering dark in the heavens; the Cape pigeon lingered a little, as though caring lightly for the ruffling of his mottled plumage, and then spread his butterfly embroidered wings, and hurried after; but the stormy petrel, though small and delicate as the timid wren, (I will take a lesson from thee, busy, daring little spirit that thou art, bright velvet-winged petrel,) scorns to seek safety, but by breasting the gale. And here he remains, carousing amid the foam, as though those liquid pearls, leaping high in air, and scattering themselves upon the wind, had a magic in them to shield him from danger. He dips his wing in the angry tide as daintily as though it were stirred but in silver ripples; then he darts upward, and then plunges and is lost in the enshrouding foam. But, no; he is again in air, whirling and balancing, wheeling and careering, up and down, as though stark mad with joyousness, and now he vaults upon the back of the nearest foam-bank, and disappears to rise again as before. And still the billows roar and bound, and lash the sides of the trembling ship, and sweep with strange force her decks; and still we reel and plunge, down, down, down, surely. No; we are up again, leaping skyward; we pause a moment - and - what a fearful pitch was that! Ah, my brain grows giddy, but still I cannot hide myself in my dark cabin. Thank God, that He has spread the land before our eyes at last, that He has shielded us, when wrath was stirring in the heavens, and darkness was upon the waters; that He has pinioned the wings of the wind, and said to the waves: "Thus far shalt thou go, and no farther!" WE'VE ALL OUR ANGEL SIDE. THE huge rough stones from out the mine, Unsightly and unfair, Have veins of purest metal hid Beneath the surface there. Few rocks so bare but to their heights In all there is an inner depth, Where, through the windows of the soul, God sends His smiling ray. In every human heart there is A faithful, sounding chord That may be struck, unknown to us, The wayward will in man may try Its softer thoughts to hide Some unexpected tone reveals Despised, and lone, and trodden down, Oh, that some gentle hand of love Brutal, and mean, and dark enough, Our cruse of oil will not grow less Love is the mighty conqueror, Love, with her beaming eyes, can see Α' THE SEVEN AGES OF MAN. LL the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts, Even in the cannon's mouth. And then, the justice, With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, Is second childishness, and mere oblivion: Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. WOLSEY'S SOLILOQUY AFTER HIS DOWNFALL. AREWELL, a long farewell, to all my greatness! FARE This is the state of man; to-day he puts forth Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me. WOLSEY'S ADDRESS TO CROMWELL. ROMWELL, I did not think to shed a tear Cin all my miseries; but thou hast forced me Out of thy honest truth to play the woman. Let's dry our eyes; and thus far hear me, Cromwell; And when I am forgotten, as I shall be, And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not: Thy God's, and truth's; then if thou fall'st, O Cromwell, And Pr'ythee, lead me in: There take an inventory of all I have, To the last penny; 'tis the king's; my robe, And my integrity to heaven, is all I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell, 0 OUR HEROES SHALL LIVE. H, tell me not that they are dead - that generous host, that airy army of invisible heroes. They hover as a cloud of witnesses above this nation. Are they dead that yet speak louder than we can speak, and a more universal language? Are they dead that yet act? Are they dead that yet move upon society, and inspire the people with nobler motives, and more heroic patriotism? Ye that mourn, let gladness mingle with your tears. He was your son, but now he is the nation's. He made your household bright now his example inspires a thousand households. Dear to his brothers and sisters, he is now brother to every generous |