voice amid the braying of the multitude; and ever | Lo, I am tall and strong, well skilled to hunt, and anon comes the temptation to sing louder than Patient of toil and hunger, and not yet they, and drown the voices that cannot thus be forc- Have seen the danger which I dared not look ed into perfect tune. But this were a pitiful expe- Full in the face; what hinders me to be riment; the melodious tones, cracked into shrillness; | A mighty Brave and Chief among my kin ?" would only increase the tumult. So, taking up his arrows and his bow, As if to hunt, he journeyed swiftly on, Until he gained the wigwams of his tribe, Where, choosing out a bride, he soon forgot, In all the fret and bustle of new life, The little Sheemah and his father's charge.

Stronger, and more frequently, comes the temptation to stop singing, and let discord do its own wild work. But blessed are they that endure to the endsinging patiently and sweetly, till all join in with loving acquiescence, and universal harmony prevails, without forcing into submission the free discord of a single voice.

This is the hardest and the bravest task, which a true soul has to perform amid the clashing elements of time. But once has it been done perfectly, unto the end; and that voice, so clear in its meekness, is heard above all the din of a tumultuous world; one

after another chimes in with its patient sweetness, and, through infinite discords, the listening soul can perceive that the great tune is slowly coming into harmony.

A CHIPPEWA LEGEND.

BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

The old Chief, feeling now well-nigh his end,
Called his two eldest children to his side,
And gave them, in few words, his parting charge:
"My son and daughter, me ye see no more;
The happy hunting-grounds await me, green
With change of spring and summer through the year;
But, for remembrance, after I am gone,
Be kind to little Sheemah for my sake:
Weakling he is and young, and knows not yet
To set the trap, or draw the seasoned bow;
Therefore of both your loves he hath more need,
And he, who needeth love, to love hath right;
It is not like our furs and stores of corn,
Whereto we claim sole title by our toil,
But the Great Spirit plants it in our hearts,
And waters it, and gives it sun, to be
The common stock and heritage of all:
Therefore be kind to Sheemah, that yourselves
May not be left deserted in your need."

Alone, beside a lake, their wigwam stood,
Far from the other dwellings of their tribe;
And, after many moons, the loneliness

Wearied the elder brother, and he said,

Now when the sister found her brother gone,
And that, for many days, he came not back,
She wept for Sheemah more than for herself;
For Love bides longest in a woman's heart,
And flutters many times before he flies,
And then doth perch so nearly, that a word
May lure him back, as swift and glad as light;
And Duty lingers even when Love is gone,
Oft looking out in hope of his return;
And, after Duty hath been driven forth,
Then Selfishness creeps in the last of all,
Warming her lean hands at the lonely hearth,
And crouching o'er the embers, to shut out
Whatever paltry warmth and light are left,
With avaricious greed, from all beside.
So, for long months, the sister hunted wide,
And cared for little Sheemah tenderly;
But, daily more and more, the loneliness
Grew wearisome, and to herself she sighed,
"Am I not fair? at least the glossy pool,
That hath no cause to flatter, tells me so;
But, O, how flat and meaningless the tale,
Unless it tremble on a lover's tongue!
Beauty hath no true glass, except it be
In the sweet privacy of loving eyes."
Thus deemed she idly, and forgot the lore
Which she had learned of nature and the woods,
That beauty's chief reward is to itself,
And that the eyes of Love reflect alone
The inward fairness, which is blurred and lost
Unless kept clear and white by Duty's care.
So she went forth and sought the haunts of men,
And, being wedded, in her household cares,
Soon, like the elder brother, quite forgot
The little Sheemah and her father's charge.

But Sheemah, left alone within the lodge,
Waited and waited, with a shrinking heart,
Thinking each rustle was his sister's step.
Till hope grew less and less, and then went out,
And every sound was changed from hope to fear.
Few sounds there were :-the dropping of a nut,
The squirrel's chirrup, and the jay's harsh scream,
Autumn's sad remnants of blithe Summer's cheer,
Heard at long intervals, seemed but to make
The dreadful void of silence silenter.

Soon what small store his sister left was gone,

And, through the Autumn, he made shift to live
On roots and berries, gathered in much fear
Of wolves, whose ghastly howl he heard ofttimes,
Hollow and hungry, at the dead of night.
But Winter came at last, and, when the snow,
Thick-heaped for gleaming leagues o'er hill and plain,
Spread its unbroken silence over all,
Made bold by hunger, he was fain to glean,
(More sick at heart than Ruth, and all alone,)
After the harvest of the merciless wolf,
Grim Boaz, who, sharp-ribbed and gaunt, yet feared
A thing more starving than himself;

Till, by degrees, the wolf and he grew friends,
And shared together all the winter through.

Late in the Spring, when all the ice was gone,
The elder brother, fishing in the lake,
Upon whose edge his father's wigwam stood,
Heard a low moaning noise upon the shore :
Half like a child it seemed, half like a wolf,
And straightway there was something in his heart
That said, "It is thy brother Sheemah's voice."
So, paddling swiftly to the bank, he saw,
Within a little thicket close at hand,

A child that seemed fast changing to a wolf,
From the neck downward, gray with shaggy hair,
That still crept on and upward as he looked.
The face was turned away, but well he knew
That it was Sheemah's, even his brother's face.
Then with his trembling hands he hid his eyes,
And bowed his head, so that he might not see
The first look of his brother's eyes, and cried,
"O, Sheemah! O, my brother, speak to me !
Dost thou not know me, that I am thy brother?
Come to me, little Sheemah, thou shalt dwell
With me henceforth, and know no care or want!"
Sheemah was silent for a space, as if

'T were hard to summon up a human voice,
And, when he spake, the sound was of a wolf's:
"I know thee not, nor art thou what thou say'st;
I have none other brethren than the wolves,
And, till thy heart be changed from what it is,
Thou art not worthy to be called their kin."
Then groaned the other, with a choking tongue,
"Alas! my heart is changed right bitterly;
'T is shrunk and parched within me even now!"
And, looking up fearfully, he saw
Only a wolf that shrank away and ran,
Ugly and fierce, to hide among the woods.

This rude, wild legend hath an inward sense,
Which it were well we all should lay to heart;
For have not we our younger brothers, too,
The poor, the outcast, and the trodden down,
Left fatherless on earth to pine for bread?
They are ahungered for our love and care,
It is their spirits that are famishing,
And our dear Father, in his Testament,
Bequeathed them to us as our dearest trust,

Wherefore we shall give up a straight account.
Woe, if we have forgotten them, and left
Those souls that might have grown so fair and glad,
That only wanted a kind word from us,
To be so free and gently beautiful,—
Left them to feel their birthright as a curse,
To grow all lean, and cramped, and full of sores,
And last, sad change, that surely comes to all
Shut out from manhood by their brother-man,—
To turn mere wolves, for lack of aught to love!

Hear it, O England! thou who liest asleep
On a volcano, from whose pent-up wrath,
Already some red flashes, bursting up,
Glare bloodily on coronet and crown
And gray cathedral looming huge aloof,
With dreadful portent of o'erhanging doom!
Thou Dives among nations! from whose board,
After the dogs are fed, poor Lazarus,
Crooked and worn with toil, and hollow-eyed,
Begs a few crumbs in vain!

I honour thee
For all the lessons thou hast taught the world,
Not few nor poor, and freedom chief of all;
I honour thee for thy huge energy,

Thy tough endurance, and thy fearless heart:
And how could man, who speaks with English words,
Think lightly of the blessed womb that bare
Shakspeare and Milton, and full many more
Whose names are now our earth's sweet lullabies,
Wherewith she cheers the infancy of those
Who are to do her honour in their lives?
Yet I would bid thee, ere too late, beware,
Lest, while thou playest off thine empty farce
Of Queenship to outface a grinning world,
Patching thy purple out with filthy rags,
To make thy madness a more bitter scoff,
Thy starving millions,—who not only pine
For body's bread, but for the bread of life,
The light which from their eyes is quite shut out
By the broad mockery of thy golden roof,-
Should turn to wolves that hanker for thy blood.
Even now their cry, which, o'er the ocean-stream,
Wanders, and moans upon the awe-struck ear,
Clear-heard above the sea's eternal wail,
But deeper far, and mournfuller, than that,
(For nought so fathomless as woe unshared,)
Hath learned a savage meaning of the wolf,
Whose nature now half-triumphs in the heart
Of the world-exiled and despairing Man.

And thou, my country, who to me art dear
As is the blood that circles through my heart,
To whom God granted it in charge to be
Freedom's apostle to a trampled world,
Who shouldst have been a mighty name to shae
Old lies and shams, as with a voice from Heaven,
Art little better than a sneer and mock,
And tyrants smile to see thee holding up

Which would have made our earth smile back on al opinions. He has been, almost as truly as Ben

ishness and of credulity have a place, but by no lamp-light-and be wafted away in perfume and means an exclusive one. Thus, Bentham continually missed the truth which is in the traditional opinions, and Coleridge, that which is not of them. But each found much of what the other missed.

Critique on Coleridge's writings.

praise. As surely as the human thought has power to fly abroad over an expanse of a thousand years, it has need to rest on that far shore and meditate"where now are the flatteries and vanities, and cumpetitions which seemed so important in their duty? Where are the ephemeral reputations, the glow-worm ideas, the gossamer sentiments which the impertinent voice of Fashion, pronounced immortal and divine? The deluge of oblivion has swept over them all, while the minds which were really immortal and divine, are still there, forever singing as they shine' in the firmament of thought, and mirrored in the deep of ages out of which they rose."

Literary Lionism.

We talk of the world, of fate, of chance, and mischance, often in a very bad humour. But how much of this world have we seen ?-how much have we not seen? How much can-will-we not see for sheer indolence and blindness? I have seen wonders

The true scholar will feel that the richest romance, the noblest fiction that was ever woven, the heart and soul of beauty, lies enclosed in human life. Itself of surpassing value, it is also the richest material for his creations. * * * He must bear his share of the common load. He must work with men in houses, and not with their names in books. His needs, appetites, talents, affections, accomplishments, are keys that open to him the beautiful museum of human life. Why should he read it as an Arabian tale, and not know in his own beating bosom its sweet and smart? Out of love and hatred, out of earnings and borrowings and lendings and losses, out of sickness and pain, out of wooing and worship-to-day in this most frivolous and godless of cities, ping, out of travelling and voting and watching and caring, out of disgrace and contempt, comes our tuition in the serene and beautiful laws. Let him not slur his lesson; let him learn it by heart. Let him endeavour exactly, bravely, and cheerfully, to solve the problem of that life which is set before him; and this by punctual action, and not by promises and dreams. Literary Lionism.

Many are the thousands who have let the man die within them from cowardly care about meat and drink, and a warm corner in this great asylum of safety, whose gates haye ever been thronged by the multitude who cannot appreciate the free air and open heaven. And many are the hundreds who have let the poet die within them, that their com placency may be fed, their vanity intoxicated, and themselves securely harboured in the praise of their immediate neighbours. Few, very few are there who, noble in reason," and conscious of being "infinite in faculties," have faith to look before and after; faith to go on, to reverence the dreams of their youth; faith to appeal to the god-like human mind yet unborn. Among the millions who are now thinking and feeling on our own soil, is it not likely that there is one who might take up the song of Homer, one who might talk the night away with Socrates, one who might be the Shakespeare of an age, when our volcanoes shall have become regions of green pasture and still waters, and new islands shall send forth human speech from the midst of the sea? What are such men about? If one is pining in want, rusting in ignorance, or turning from angel to devil under oppression, it is too probable that another may be undergoing extinction in drawing rooms-surrendering his divine faculties to wither in

Berlin. What lives in women whom I found in the lowest, grass-grown, neglected, hovels! How different is every thing among the lower classes from what the wise in this world have published, printed, read, and believed! God alone knows how much real, simple-minded, sterling honesty and truth He has sent into the world. Blessed be his name that he has given me eyes to see it.

RAHEL.

VOICES OF THE TRUE-HEARTED.

No. 15.

And palsy-struck it looked. Then all sounds merged That seems but apt to stir a maiden's hair,