"He made her to give light," said the poet.

"My brother," said the astronomer, "to give light is a great blessing, but to receive praise is nothing; for if the star had been praised every night of her shining it would not have made her any brighter, either in the sight of mankind, or in the eyes of Him that made her. And for what were you made, my brother?"

"I was made," answered the poet, "to sing, but must I sing if men will not listen ?"

"If the apple-tree grows in a desert place," answered the astronomer, "shall she say, it is waste labour for me to bear flowers and ripen fruit, since God has let me grow where there are not hands to gather it ?"

"She may not say so," replied the poet.

"Neither may you say, if men listen not, It is waste labour for me to sing; and if they praise me not, my song is in vain; for if they will not listen it is their fault; but if you give them no sweet sounds to listen to, you make the fault your own,"

"I will sing," answered the poet, "but I would fain be thanked and remembered for it. I covet the love of my fellows; and as for this star, though much that deserves to be held in remembrance must needs be forgotten; she shall have a better fate, and though she did not live for fame, it shall be hers, for I will raise a monument to her bright memory, and upon it shall be recorded, that, as long as she lasted, she lighted us."

So the poet created a stately monument to the memory of the lost star; upon it was engraven the night whereon she vanished, and the place she vanished from, and underneath in golden letters were written these words :

"While she lived, she shone."

Now the poet when he did this was young.

The monument that he erected to the memory of the star was greatly admired in his native city. At first it was the general topic of conversation; all the townspeople came to see it; and all strangers were directed to it, and brought to read the golden letters, "While she lived, she shone!"

Oftentimes, when the poet heard this inscription repeated, he felt that to be thus remembered was, indeed, fame for the star; and, perhaps, he sometimes indulged a wish, that when he was dead, some kind hand might raise such a monument for him.

After a while, however, he left his native city, and travelled among his countrymen, teaching them the things which belonged to his art; instilling into their rude minds many a noble and virtuous sentiment, through the medium of his sweet cadences ;

preserving for them some of the best traditions of their race, in his ballads; teaching humanity, generosity, and truthfulness, in his songs; but so unobtrusively, that many derived advantage, and learnt the poet's lesson, without knowing that they were indebted to him for more than some flowing rhymes; and little thinking that, while their language lasted, their childrens' children would be sung to sleep, and the youth of coming generations would look on the words that he had written.

I am obliged to call him "the poet," because, though I have often heard some of his ballads sung, and though tradition has preserved his maxim, we know neither his place, nor his condition, and posterity is ignorant of his name.

Thus much, however, it remains for me to tell you concerning him ; that he did not revisit his native city till the old astronomer was dead, and all that generation, and till his own hair was white, and he was obliged to use a staff to support him. All his friends were dead or had left the city, when he, at length, returned to it; and the streets and gardens were so much altered that he could scarcely find his way about them. At last, he wandered into the public gardens, and there, under the shadow of some stately trees, which he had left tender saplings, he saw the fair marble monument which he had erected sixty years before, and on it the golden letters, but little effaced, "While she lived, she shone."

How bright those golden letters appeared to him. How they dazzled his eyes till the tears started in them. And he sat down and recalled his youthful thoughts-how he had lamented that anything good and great should pass away without praise; and had imagined that with departed fame died away a man's influence, and that being himself once forgotten, his words and his thoughts were as if they had never been.

"But though fame is not to be won of many," said he, "this star will live in its brightness, and for myself, I look for something better, and also more attainable. Bright star, I do not envy you."

As he said this, a man passed by who read the inscription, and then said to the poet, "Can you tell me, aged sir, the meaning

of these words ? "

"Is it possible," exclaimed the poet, "that you dwell in this city and do not know ?"

"I lead a busy life;" replied the man, "and do not often talk of what does not concern me. I dare say the learned may know their meaning, but I have not heard them speak on the subject."

So the poet in great surprise, related the story of the monument, and the townsman thanked him and passed on. Presently

some young girls approached, and urged by curiosity, the poet asked of them the very same question that the townsman had putto him.

Upon this one of them answered, "Sir, the monument is old, it was erected before our mothers were born, and it is not very certainly known what those words mean, for people interpret them differently; but the most likely tale is, that once upon a time, a certain most beautiful lily grew up in this shadow, and unfolded its starry blossom by night; and that a good astronomer who lived hereabouts, came frequently to admire it; but one night when he came, he found that the bitter east wind had withered it, and blown all its petals away; then he said, I will erect a monument to the memory of the lily, for it was the most beautiful flower the world has ever seen, it was even as beautiful as a star."

"I thank you, maid," said the poet, "I am glad I have heard your tale."

So the young maidens passed on, and the poet fell into a deep reverie, till a youth coming by that way, he stopped him, and asked him also what was the story of the monument.

"What was the true origin of this tradition," he answered, none can say with any certainty. Some declare that a star did indeed disappear, but that we hold to be a superstition; and the better class of people relate, that it was not a star, but a lady; and that once upon a time, there lived in this city, seven beautiful sisters-they were beautiful as stars-and one of them, the most beautiful of all, was seen and loved by a young poet, who wrote a sonnet in her praise, and called it the evening star; but one night so it was, that just about the time the stars came out, this lady sickened, and at the moment when the evening star got below the horizon, she closed her eyes and died, and the poet raised this monument to her memory."

"I thank thee, youth," said the poet, "thou hast told me a truth, though under the guise of a fable. I did once wish for fame," he thought; "but I now neither long for it, nor believe that it existeth; for truly, if men bear a man's deeds in remembrance and report them truly, they forget his name; and if they remember his name, they change the deeds for which they first noted it, into fables.

"But, O golden letters of this useless monument, what would be the fame of the star (if she could have it), compared with the truth that you embody. I am contented for her, and how much more than contented could I now be for myself, if it might be true of me when my course is ended, though no voice might be lifted up to say it, While he lived he shone.'

So the poet went his way, and the lot which contented him

became his own.

ORRIS.

THE BIBLE.

No volume ever commanded such a profusion of readers, or was translated into so many languages. Such is the universality of its spirit, that no book loses less by translation; none has been so frequently copied in manuscript; and none so often printed. King and noble, peasant and pauper, are delighted students of its pages. Philosophers have humbly gleaned from it; and legislation has been thankfully indebted to it.

Its stories charm the child; its hopes inspirit the aged; and its promises soothe the bed of death. The maiden is wedded under its sanction; and the grave is closed under its comforting assurances. Its lessons are the essence of religion; the seminal truths of theology; the first principles of morals; and the guiding axioms of political economy. Martyrs have often bled and been burnt for attachment to it. It is the theme of universal appeal. In the entire range of literature, no book is so frequently quoted or referred to.

The majority of all the books ever published have been in connexion with it. The fathers commented upon it; and the subtle divines of the middle ages refined upon its doctrines. It sustained Origen's scholarship, and Chrysostom's rhetoric; it whetted the penetration of Abelard, and exercised the keen ingenuity of Aquinas. It gave life to the revival of letters, and Dante and Petrarch revelled in its imagery. It augmented the erudition of Erasmus, and roused and blessed the intrepidity of Luther. Its temples are the finest specimens of architecture, and the brightest triumphs of music are associated with its poetry. The text of no ancient author has summoned into operation such an amount of labour and learning, and it has furnished occasion for the most masterly examples of criticism and comment, grammatical investigation, and

J

logical analysis. It has inspired the English muse with her loftiest strains. Its beams gladdened Milton in his darkness, and cheered the song of Cowper in his sadness. It was the star which guided Columbus to the discovery of a new world. It furnished the panoply of that Puritan valour which shivered tyranny in days gone by. It is the Magna Charta of the world's regeneration and liberties. Such benefactors as Francke, Neff, Schwartz, and Howard, the departed Chalmers, and the living Shaftesbury, are cast in the mould of the Bible. The records of false religion, from the Koran to the Book of Mormon, have owned its superiority, and surreptitiously purloined its jewels. Among the Christian classics, it loaded the treasures of Owen, charged the fulness of Hooker, barbed the point of Baxter, gave colours to the palette and sweep to the pencil of Bunyan, enriched the fragrant fancy of Taylor, sustained the loftiness of Howe, and strung the plummet of Edwards. In short, this collection of artless lives and letters has changed the face of the world and ennobled myriads of its population. Finally, and to show the contrast, while millions bid it welcome, the mere idea of its circulation causes the Pope to tremble on his throne, and brings fearful curses from his quivering lips.

A MOTHER'S TALE.

WITH all the care of a mother's love
My beautiful babe I dressed,

And on couch as pure as the winter's snow,

Pillowed her head to rest,

With her dimpled hands, as in act of prayer,
Crossed on her placid breast.

J. H.