answer for him, and say in the dark, gray city. Oh! they do greatly err who think that the stars are all the poetry which cities have; and, therefore, that the poet's only dwelling should be in sylvan solitudes, under the green roofs of trees. Beautiful, no doubt, are all the forms of Nature, when transfigured by the miraculous power of poetry; hamlets and harvestfields, and nut-brown waters flowing ever under the forest vast and shadowy, with all the sights and sounds of rural life. But, after all, what are these but the decorations and painted scenery in the great theatre of human life? What are they but the coarse materials of the poet's song? Glorious, indeed, is the world of God around us, but more glorious the world of God within us. There lies the land of song; there lies the poet's native land. The river of life, that flows through streets tumultuous, bearing along so many gallant hearts, so many wrecks of humanity; the many homes and households, each a little world in itself; revolving round its fireside, as a central sun; all forms of human joy and suffering, brought into that narrow compass, and to be in this and to be a part of this: acting, thinking, rejoicing, sorrowing with his fellow-men-such, such should be the poet's life. If he would describe the world, he should live in the world. The mind of the scholar, also, if you would have it large and liberal, should come in contact with other minds. It is better that this armor should be somewhat bruised even by rude encounters than hang forever rusting on the wall.

Nor will his themes be few or trivial

because apparently shut in between the walls of houses and having merely the decorations of street scenery. A ruined character is as picturesque as a ruined castle. There are dark abysses and yawning gulfs in the human heart which can be rendered passable only by bridging them over with iron. nerves and sinews, as island channels and torrent ravines are spanned with chain bridges. These are the great themes of human thought; not green grass and flowers and moonshine. Besides, the mere external forms of Nature we make our own, and carry with us into the city by the power of memory. HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

A CHALLENGE.

From "Lines and Rhymes," by permission of the author.

"GOOD-N

OOD-NIGHT," he said, and he held her hand,
In a hesitating way,

And hoped that her eyes would understand
What his tongue refused to say.

He held her hand, and he murmured low:
"I'm sorry to go like this.

It seems so frigidly cool, you know,

This 'Mister' of ours, and 'Miss.'

"I thought-perchance-" and he paused to note If she seemed inclined to frown,

But the light in her eyes his heartstrings smote, As she blushingly looked down.

She spoke no word, but she picked a speck

Of dust from his coat lapel;

So small, such a wee, little, tiny fleck, 'Twas a wonder she saw so well;

But it brought her face so very near,

In that dim uncertain light,

That the thought, unspoken, was made quite clear, And I know 'twas a sweet "Good-night."

JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY.

WHE

TRUE ELOQUENCE.

HEN public bodies are to be addressed on momentous occasions; when great interests are at stake, and strong passions excited; nothing is valuable, in speech, farther than it is connected with high intellectual and moral endowments. Clearness, force, and earnestness are the qualities which produce conviction. True eloquence, indeed, does not consist in speech. It cannot be brought from afar. Labor and learning may toil for it, but they will toil in vain. Words and phrases may be marshalled in every way, but they cannot compass it. It must exist in the man, in the subject, and in the occasion. Affected passion, intense expression, the pomp of declamation, all may aspire after it-they cannot reach it. It comes, if it comes at all, like the outbreaking of a fountain from the earth, or the bursting forth of volcanic fires, with spontaneous, original,

native force. The graces taught in the schools, the costly ornaments and studied contrivances of speech, shock and disgust men, when their own lives, and the fate of their wives, their children, and their country, hang on the decision of the hour. Then, words have lost their power, rhetoric is vain, and all elaborate oratory contemptible. Even genius itself then feels rebuked and subdued, as in the presence of higher qualities. Then patriotism is eloquent; then, selfdevotion is eloquent. The clear conception, outrunning the deductions of logic, the high purpose, the firm resolve, the dauntless spirit, speaking on the tongue, beaming from the eye, informing every feature, and urging the whole man onward, right onward to his object-this, this is eloquence; or rather, it is something greater, and higher than all eloquence-it is action! noble, sublime, godlike action! LOVELL.

THE DANCE OF DEATH.

NIGHT and morning were at meeting

Waterloo;

Cocks had sung their earliest greeting;
Faint and low they crew.

For no paly beam yet shone

On the heights of Mount Saint John;
Tempest clouds prolong'd the sway
Of timeless darkness over day;
Whirlwind, thunderclap, and shower,

Mark'd it a predestined hour.

Broad and frequent through the night,
Flash'd the sheets of levin-light;

Muskets, glancing lightnings back,
Show'd the dreary bivouack
Where the soldier lay,

Chill and stiff, and drench'd with rain,
Wishing dawn of morn again,

Though death should come with day. "Tis at such a tide and hour,

Wizard, witch, and fiend, have power,
And ghastly forms through mist and shower.
Gleam on the gifted ken;

And then th' affrighted prophet's ear
Drinks whispers strange of fate and fear
Presaging death and ruin near

Among the sons of men ;-
Apart from Albyn's war-array
'Twas there gray Allan sleepless lay;
Gray Allan, who, for many a day,

Had follow'd stout and stern,
Where, through battle's rout and reel,
Storm of shot and hedge of steel,
Led the grandson of Lochiel,

Valiant Fassiefern.

Through steel and shot he leads no more,
Low laid 'mid friend's and foeman's gore--

But long his native lake's wild shore,
And Sunart rough, and high Ardgower,
And Morven long shali tell,

And proud Ben Nevis hear with awe,