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THEY ARE ALL GONE.

BY HENRY VAUGHAN.

They are all gone into a world of light,

And I alone șit lingering here! Their very memory is fair and bright,

And my sad thoughts doth clear.

It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,

Like stars upon some gloomy grove, Or those faint beams in which the hill is dressed,

After the sun's remove.

6. Then take me on your knee, mother,

And listen, mother of mine :-
A hundred fairies danced last night,

And the harpers they were nine. " And merry was the glee of the harp-strings,

And their dancing feet so small; But, oh, the sound of their talking

Was merrier far than all !" "* And what were the words, my Mary,

That you did hear them say?" “I'll tell you all, my mother

But let me have my way! 6. And some they played with the water,

And roll'd it down the hill; · And this,' they said, shall speedily turn

The poor old miller's mill;

I see them walking in an air of glory,

Whose light doth trample on my days,-
My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,

Mere glimmerings and decays.
O holy hope, and high humility,

High as the heavens above!
These are your walks, and ye have showed them me,

To kindle my cold love.
Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the just!

Shining nowhere but in the dark !
What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,

Could man outlook that mark !

67 For there has been no water

Ever since the first of May; And a busy man shall the miller be

By the dawning of the day!

5. Oh, the miller, how he will laugh,

When he sees the mill-dam rise! The jolly old miller, how he will laugh,

Till the tears fill both his eyes !!

He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may know,

At first sight, if the bird be flown;
But what fair field or grove he sings in now,

That is to him unknown.

". And some, they siezed the little winds,

That sounded over the hill,
And each put a horn into his mouth,

And blew so sharp and shrill —

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And yet, as angels, in some brighter dreams,

Call to the soul, when man doth sleep, So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted

themes, And into glory peep!

56. And there,' said they, the merry winds go

Away from every horn;
And those shall clear the mildew dank

From the blind old widow's corn!

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- And with that I could not help but laugh,

And I laughed out loud and free;
And then on the top of the Caldon-Low

There was no one left hut me.

" And all, on the top of the Caldon-Low,

The mists were cold and gray, And nothing I saw but the mossy stones

That round about me lay.

“ But as I came down from the hill-top,

I heard a jar below;
How busy the jolly miller was,

And how merry the wheel did go!

" And I peeped into the widow's field,

And, sure enough, was seen The yellow ears of the mildewed corn

All standing stiff and green.

Let those have night, that blush to let men know
The baseness they ne'er blush to do;
Let those have night, that love to have a nap
And loll in Ignorance's lap,
Let those, whose eyes, like owls, abhor the light,
Let those have night, that love the night :
Sweet Phosphor, bring the day!
How sad delay
Afflicts dull hopes ! Sweet Phosphor, bring the day!
Alas! my light-in-vain-expecting eyes
Can find no objects, but what rise
From this poor mortal blaze, a dying spark
Of Vulcan's forge, whose flames are dark,
A dangerous, dull, blue-burning light,
As melancholy as the night :
Here's all the suns that glitter in the sphere
Of earth: Ah me! what comfort's here?
Sweet Phosphor bring the day!
Haste, haste away,
Heaven's loitering lamp! Sweet Phosphor, bring the

day!
Blow, ignorance ! O thou, whose idle knee
Rocks earth into a lethargy,
And with thy sooty fingers hast benight
The world's fair cheeks, blow, blow thy spite !
Since thou hast puffed our greater taper, do
Puff on, and out the lesser too :
If e'er that breath-exiled flame return,
Thou hast not blown, as it will burn:
Sweet Phosphor, bring the day!
Light will repay
The wrongs of night: Sweet Phosphor, bring the

day!

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THE DEATH-BED.

Will 't ne'er be morning ? Will that promised light
Ne'er break and clear those clouds of night ?
Sweet Phosphor, bring the day.
Whose conquering ray
May chase these fogs! Sweet Phosphor, bring the

day!

BY THOMAS HOOD.

How long, how long shall these benighted eyes
Languish in shades, like feeble flies
Expecting Spring? How long shall darkness soil
The face of earth, and thus beguile
Our souls of sprightful action? When, when will

day
Begin to dawn, whose new-born ray
May gild the weathercocks of our devotion,
And give our unsouled souls new motion ?
Sweet Phosphor, bring the day!
Thy light will fray
These horrid mists: Sweet Phosphor, bring the day!

We watched her breathing through the night,

Her breathing soft and low,
As in her breast the wave of life

Kept heaving to and fro.
So silently we seemed to speak,

So slowly moved about,
As we had lent her half our powers

To eke her being out.
Our very hopes belied our fears,

Our fears our hopes belied ;
We thought her dying when she slept,

And sleeping when she died.
For when the morn came dim and sad

And chill with early showers,
Her quiet eyelids closed ;-she had

Another morn than ours.

Let those have night, that slyly love to immure Their cloistered crimes, and sin secure ;

BY CHARLES LAMB.

GRACE BEFORE MEAT.

turbation of the mind, inconsistent with the purposes of the grace, at the presence of venison or turtle.

When I have sate (a rurus hospes) at rich men's The custom of saying grace at meals had, proba- tables, with the savory soup and messes steaming up bly, its origin in the early times of the world, and the nostrils, and moistening the lips of the guests the hunter-state of man, when dinners were precious with desire and a distracted choice, I have felt the things, and a full meal was something more than a introduction of that ceremony to be unseasonable. common blessing! when a belly-full was a wind. With the ravenous orgasm upon you, it seems im. fall, and looked like a special providence. In the pertinent to interpose a religious sentiment. It is shouts and triumphal songs with which, after a sea a confusion of purpose to mutter our praises from a son of sharp abstinence, a lucky booty of deer's or mouth that waters. The heats of epicurism pnt out goat's flesh would naturally be ushered home, exist. the gentle flame of devotion. The incense which ed, perhaps, the germ of the modern grace. It is rises round is pagan, and the belly god intercepts it not otherwise easy to be understood, why the bless- for his own. The very excess of the provision being of food—the act of eating-should have had a yond the needs, takes away all the sense of proporparticular expression of thanksgiving annexed to it, tion between the end and means. The giver is veildistinct from that implied and silent gratitude with ed by his gists. You are startled at the injustice of which we are expected to enter upon the enjoyment returning thanks-for what ?--for having too much, of the many other various gifts and good things of while so many starve. It is to praise the Gods existence.

amiss. I own that I am disposed to say grace upon twen I have observed this awkwardness felt, scarce ty other occasions in the course of the day besides consciously perhaps, by the good man who says the my dinner. I want a form of prayer for setting out grace. I have seen i: in clergymen and others—a upon a pleasant walk, for a moonlight ramble, for a sort of shame—a sense of the co-presence of circumfriendly meeting, or a solved problem. Why have stances which unhallow the blessing. ' After a dewe none for books, those spiritual repasts—a gracevotional tone put on for a few seconds, how rapidly before Milton—a grace before Shakspeare—a devo- the speaker will fall into his common voice! helptional exercise proper to be said before reading the ing himself or his neighbor, as if to get rid of some Fairy Queen ?—but the received ritual having pre- uneasy sensation of hypocrisy. Not that the good scribed these forins to the solitary ceremony of man man was a hypocrite, or was not most conscientious ducation, I shall confine my observations to the ex. in the discharge of his duty; but he felt in his inperience which I have had of the grace, properly so most mind the incompatibility of the scene and the called ; commending my new scheme for extension viands before him with the exercise of a calm and to a niche in the grand philosophical, poetical, and rational gratitude. perchance in part heretical, liturgy, now compiling I hear somebody exclaim,-Would you have Chrisby my friend Homo Humanus, for the use of a cer- tians sit down at table, like hogs to their troughs, tain snug congregation of Utopian Rabelæsian Chris- without remembering the Giver !-no— I would have tians, no matter where assembled.

them sit down as Christians, remembering the Giver, The forın, then, of the benediction before eating and less like hogs. Or if their appetites must run has its beauty at a poor man's table, or at the simple riot, and they must pamper themselves with deand unprovocative repasts of children. It is here licacies for which east and west are ransacked, I that the grace becomes exceedingly graceful. The would have them postpone their benediction to a indigent man, who hardly knows whether he shall fitter season, when appetite is laid; when the still have a meal the next day or not, sits down to his small voice can be heard, and the reason of the grace fare with a present sense of the blessing, which can returns-with temperate diet and restricted dishes. be but feebly acted by the rich, into whose minds Gluttony and surfeiting are no proper occasions for the conception of wanting a dinner could never, but thanksgiving. When Jeshurun waxed fat, we read by some extreme theory, have entered. The proper that he kicked. Virgil knew the harpy-nature betend of food-the animal sustenance-is barely con- ter, when he put into the mouth of Celæno anything templated by them. The poor man's bread is his but a blessing. We may be gratefully sensible of daily bread, literally his bread for the day. Their the deliciousness of some kinds of food beyond others, courses are perennial.

though that is a meaner and inferior gratitude: but Again the plainest diet seems the fittest to be pre- the proper object of the grace is sustenance, not ceded by the grace. That which is least stimulative relishes; daily bread, not delicacies; the means of to appetite, leaves the mind most free for foreign life, and not the means of pampering the carcass. considerations. A man may feel thankful, heartily With what frame or composure, I wonder, can a city thankful, over a dish of plain mutton with turnips, chaplain pronounce his benediction at some great and have leisure to reflect upon the ordinance and Hall-feast, when he knows that his last concluding institution of eating ; when he shall confess a per- pious word—and that in all probability, the sacred

name which he preaches—is but the signal for sotically. I own that (before meat especially) they many impatient harpies to commence their foul seem to involve something awkward and unseasonorgies, with as little sense of true thankfulness able. Our appetites, of one or another kind, are ex(which is temperance) as those Virgilian fowl! It cellent spurs to our reason, which might otherwise is well if the good man himself does not feel his debut feebly set about the great ends of preserving and votions a little clouded, those foggy sensuous steams continuing the species. They are fit blessings to be mingling with and polluting the pure altar sacrifice. contemplated at a distance with a becoming grati

The severest satire upon full tables and surfeits tude; but the moment of appetite (the judicious is the banquet which Satan, in the Paradise Regain. reader will apprehend me) is, perhaps, the least fit ed, provides for a temptation in the wilderness : season for that exercise. The Quakers, who go A table richly spread in regal mode

about their business of every description with more

calmness than we, have more title to the use of these With dishes piled, and meats of noblest sort And savor ; beasts of chase, or foul of game,

benedictory prefaces. I have always admired their

silent grace, and the more because I have observed. In pastry built, or from the spit, or boiled, Gris-amber-steamed; all fish from sea or shore,

their applications to the meat and drink following to

be less passionate and sensual than ours. They are Freshet or purling brook, for which was drained Pontus, and Lucrine bay, and Afric coast.

neither gluttons nor wine-bibbers as a people. They

eat, as a horse bolts his chopped hay, with indifferThe Tempter, I warrant you, thought these cates ence, calmness, and cleanly circumstances. They would go down without the recommendatory preface neither grease nor slop themselves. When I see a of a benediction. They are like to be short graces citizen in his bib and tucker, I cannot imagine it a where the devil plays the host. Iam afraid the poet surplice. wants his usual decorum in this place. Was he think I am no Quaker at my food. I confess I am not ing of the old Roman luxury, or of a gaudy day at indifferent to the kinds of it. Those unctuous morCambridge? This was a temptation fitter for a sels of deer's flesh were not made to be received Heliogabalus. The whole banquet is too civic and with dispassionate services. I hate a man who swal

inary, and the accompaniments altogether a pro- lows it, affecting not to know what he is eating. I fanation of that deep, abstracted, holy scene. The suspect his taste in higher matters. I shrink instincmighty artillery of sauces, which the cook-fiend con- tively from one who professes to like minced veal. jures up, is out of proportion to the simple wants There is a physiognomical character in the tastes and plain hunger of the guest. He that disturbed for food. C- holds that a man cannot have a him in his dreams, from his dreams might have been pure mind who refuses apple dumplings. I am not taught better. To the temperate fantasies of the certain but he is right. With the decay of my first famished Son of God, what sort of feasts presented innocence, I confess a less and less relish daily for themselves? He dreamed indeed,

those innocuous cates. The whole vegetable tribe -As appetite is wont to dream,

have lost their gust with me. Only I stick to aspaOf meats and drinks, nature's refreshment.sweet. ragus, which still seems to inspire gentle thoughts.

I am impatient and querulous under culinary disapBut what meats ?

pointments; as to come home at the dinner hour, for Him thought, he by the brook of Cherith stood,

instance, expecting some savory mess, and to find And saw the ravens with their horny beaks

one quite tasteless and sapid less. Butter ill meltedFood to Elijah bringing even and morn;

that commonest of kitchen failures-puts me beside Though ravenous, taught to abstain from what they my tenor. The author of the Rambler used to make brought :

inarticulate animal noises over a favorite food. Was He saw the prophet also how he fled

this the music quite proper to be preceded by the Into the desert and how there he slept,

grace ? or would the pious man have done better to Under a juniper; then how awaked

postpone his devotions to a season when the blessing He found his supper on the coals prepared,

might be contemplated with less perturbation? I And by the angel was bid rise and eat,

quarrel with no man's tastes, nor would set my thin And ate the second time after repose,

face against those excellent things, in their way, The strength whereof sufficed him forty days :

jollity and feasting. But as these exercises, however Sometimes, that with Elijah he partook,,

laudable, have little in them of grace or gracesulness, Or as a guest with Daniel at his pulse.

a man should be sure, before he ventures so to grace Nothing in Milton is finelier fancied than these tem- them, that while he is pretending his devotions otherperate dreams of the divine Hungerer. To which of wise, he is not secretly kissing his hand to some these two visionary banquets, think you, would the great fish—his Dagon-with a special consecration introduction of what is called the grace have been of no ark but the fat tureen before him. Graces are the most fitting and pertinent ?

the sweet preluding strains to the banquets of angels Theoretically I am no enemy to graces; but prac- and children ; to the roots and severer repasts of the

Chartreuse ; to the slender, but not slenderly acknowledged, refection of the poor and humble man: but at the heaped-up boards of the pampered and the luxurious they become of dissonant mood, less timed and tuned to the occasion, methinks, than the noise „f those better befitting organs would be which children hear tales of, at Hog's Norton. We sit too long at our meals, or are too curious in the study of them, or are too disordered in our application to them, or engross too great a portion of those good things (which should be common) to our share, to be able with any grace to say grace. To be thankful for what we grasp exceeding our proportion, is to add hypocrisy to injustice. A lurking sense of this truth is what makes the performance of this duty so cold and spiritless a service at most tables. In houses where the grace is as indispensable as the napkin, who has not seen that never-settled question arise, as to who shall say it? while the good man of the house and the visitor clergyman, or some other guest betike of next authority, from years or gravity, shall be bandying about the office between them as a matter of compliment, each of them not unwilling to shift the awkward burthen of an equivocal duty from his own shoulders ?

I once drank tea in company with two Methodist divines of different persuasions, whom it was my fortune to introduce to each other for the first time that evening. Before the first cup was handed round, one of these reverend gentlemen put it to the other, with all due solemnity, whether he chose to say anything. It seems it is the custom with some sectaries to put up a short prayer before this meal also. His reverend brother did not at first quite apprehend him, but upon an explanation, with little less importance he made answer that it was not a custom known in his church: in which courteous evasion the other acquiescing for good manners' sake, or in compliance with a weak brother, the supplementary or tea-grace was waived altogether. With what spirit might not Lucian have painted two priests, of his religion, playing into each other's hands the compliment of performing or omitting a sacrifice,-the hungry God meantime, doubtful of his incense, with expectant nostrils hovering over the two flamens, and (as between two stools) going away in the end without his supper !

THE OCEAN. BY JOHN AUGUSTUS SHEA. Likeness of Heaven! Agent of power! Man is thy victim! Shipwrecks thy dower! Spices and jewels From valley and sea, Armies and banners Are buried in thee. What are the riches of Mexico's mines, To the wealth that far down In the deep water shines ? The proud navies that cover The conquering westThou flingest them to death With one heave of thy breast. From the high hills that view Thy wreck-making shore, When the bride of the mariner Shrieks at thy roar; When Jike lambs in the tempest, Or mews in the blast, O'er thy ridge broken billows The canvass is cast. How humbling to one With a heart and a soul, To look on thy greatness And list to its roll; To think how that heart In cold ashes shall be, While the voice of eternity Rises from thee! Yes! where are the cities Of Thebes and of Tyre? Swept from the nations Like sparks from the fire; The glory of Athens, The splendor of Rome, Dissolved—and for everLike dew in thy foam. But thou art almighty, Eternal—sublineUnweakened-unwastedTwin brother of Time! Fleets, tempests, nor nations · Thy glory can bow; As the stars first beheld thee, Still chainless art thou ! But hold! when the surges No longer shall roll, And that firmament's length Is drawn back like a scroll; Then-then shall the spirit That sighs by thee now, Be more mighty-more lastingMore chainless than thou.

Stone walls do not a prison make,

Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take

That for an hermitage :
If I have freedom in my love,

And in my soul am free;
Angels alone, that soar above,
Enjoy such liberty.

RICHARD LOVELAÇE.

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