What is its earthly victory? Press on!
For it hath tempted angels. Yet press on!
For it shall make you mighty among men;
And from the eyrie of your eagle thought
Ye shall look down on monarchs. O press on!
For the high ones and powerful shall come
To do you reverence: and the beautiful
Will know the purer language of your brow,
And read it like a talisman of love!
Press on! for it is godlike to unloose
The spirit, and forget yourself in thought;
Bending a pinion for the deeper sky,
And, in the very fetters of your flesh,
Mating with the pure essences of heaven!
Press on! 66
for in the grave there is no work,
And no device."-Press on! while yet ye may!

Ex. XIV.-RHYME OF THE RAIL.

SINGING through the forests,

Rattling over ridges,

Shooting under arches,

Rumbling over bridges;

Whizzing through the mountains,

Buzzing o'er the vale,

Bless me! this is pleasant,

Riding on the rail!

Men of different stations
In the eye of fame,
Here are very quickly
Coming to the same;
High and lowly people,
Birds of every feather,
On a common level,
Traveling together.

Gentlemen in shorts,

Looming very tall;

Gentlemen at large,

Talking very small;

SAXE

Gentlemen in tights,

With a loose-ish mien

Gentlemen in gray,

Looking rather green;

Gentlemen quite old,

Asking for the news,
Gentlemen in black,
In a fit of blues;
Gentlemen in claret,
Sober as a vicar;
Gentlemen in tweed,
Dreadfully in liquor!

Stranger on the right
Looking very sunny,
Obviously reading

Something rather funny. Now the smiles are thickerWonder what they mean? Faith, he's got the Knickerbocker magazine!

Stranger on the left

Closing up his peepers;
Now he snores amain,
Like the seven sleepers;
At his feet a volume
Gives the explanation,
How the man grew stupid
From "association!"

Ancient maiden lady

Anxiously remarks,
That there must be peril
'Mong so many sparks;
Roguish-looking fellow,
Turning to the stranger,
Says it's his opinion,
She is out of danger!

Woman with her baby,
Sitting vis-a-vis ;
Baby keeps a-squalling,
Woman looks at me;

Asks about the distance,
Says it's tiresome talking,
Noisés of the cars

Are so very shocking!

Market woman,

careful

Of the precious casket,
Knowing eggs are eggs,
Tightly holds her basket;
Feeling that a smash,

If it came, would surely
Send her eggs to pot,
Rather prematurely.

Singing through the forests,
Rattling over ridges,
Shooting under arches,

Rumbling over bridges;

Whizzing through the mountains,

Buzzing o'er the vale

Bless me! this is pleasant,

Riding on the rail!

Ex. XV.- THE HOUR OF DEATH.

LEAVES have their time to fall,

FELICIA HEMANS.

And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,

And stars to set-but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh Death!

Day is for mortal care,

Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth,

Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer— But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth.

The banquet hath its hour,

Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine;

There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power, A time for softer tears-but all are thine.

Youth and the opening rose

May look like things too glorious for decay,

And smile at thee-but thou art not of those That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey.

We know when moons shall wane,

When summer birds from far shall cross the sea,

When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain— But who shall teach us when to look for thee?

Is it when spring's first gale

Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie?
Is it when roses in our path grow pale?—
They have one season—all are ours to die!

Thou art where billows foam,

Thou art where music melts upon the air;

Thou art around us in our peaceful home, And the world calls us forth-and thou art there.

Thou art where friend meets friend, Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,
And stars to set-but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh Death!

Ex. XVI.-DEATH OF ORISKA.

L. H. SIGOURNBr.

WHO is yon woman in her dark canoe,
Who strangely toward Niagara's fearful gulf
Floats on unmoved?

Firm and erect she stands,
Clad in such bridal costume as befits
The daughter of a king. Tall, radiant plumes
Wave o'er her forehead, and the scarlet tinge
Of her embroidered mantle, flecked with gold,
Dazzles amid the flood. Scarce heaves her breast,
As though the spirit of that dread abyss,

In terrible sublimity, had quelled

All thought of earthly things.

Fast by her side

Stands a young, wondering boy, and from his lips,

Half bleached with terror, steals the frequent sound Of "Mother! Mother!"

But she answereth not;

She speaks no more to aught of earth, but pours
To the Great Spirit, fitfully and wild,
The death-song of her people. High it rose
Above the tumult of the tide that bore

The victims to their doom. The boy beheld
The strange, stern beauty in his mother's eye,
And held his breath with awe.

Her song grew faint,-
And as the rapids raised their whitening heads,
Casting her light oar to the infuriate tide,

She raised him in her arms, and clasped him close.
Then as the boat with arrowy swiftness drove

On toward the unfathomed gulf, and the chill spray
Rose up in blinding showers, he hid his head

Deep in the bosom that had nurtured him,

With a low, stifled sob.

And thus they took

Their awful pathway to eternity.

One ripple on the mighty river's brink,

Just when it, shuddering, makes its own dread plunge,
And at the foot of this most dire abyss

One flitting gleam-bright robe-and raven tress—
And feathery coronet-and all was o'er,-

Save the deep thunder of the eternal surge
Sounding their epitaph!

Ex. XVII.-LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.

A CHIEFTAIN to the Highlands bound
Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry!
And I'll give thee a silver pound,
To row us o'er the ferry."

CAMPBELL.

"Now, who be ye would cross Loch-Gyle,

66

This dark and stormy water?"

"O, I'm the chief of Ülva's isle,

And this Lord Ullin's daughter.