It seemed to him as if the unknown tenant of that grave had opened his lips of dust, and spoken to him the words of consolation which his soul needed, and which no friend had yet spoken. In a moment the anguish of his thoughts was still. The stone was rolled away from the door of his heart; death was no longer there, but an angel clothed in white. He stood up, and his eyes were no more bleared with tears; and, looking into the bright morning heaven, he said, "I WILL BE STRONG!"

Men sometimes go down into tombs, with painful longings to behold once more the faces of their departed friends; and, as they gaze upon them lying there so peacefully, with the semblance that they wore on earth, the sweet breath of heaven touches them, and the features crumble and fall together, and are but dust. So did his soul then descend for the last time into the great tomb of the past, with painful longings to behold once more the dear faces of those he had loved; and the sweet breath of heaven touched them, and they would not stay, but crumbled away and perished as he gazed. They, too, were dust. And thus, far-sounding, he heard the great gate of the past shut behind him as the divine poet did the gate of paradise, when the angel pointed him the way up the holy mountain; and to him likewise was it forbidden to look back.

In the life of every man, there are sudden transitions of feeling, which seem almost miraculous. At once, as if some magician had touched the heavens and the earth, the dark clouds melt into the air, the wind falls, and serenity succeeds the storm. The causes which produce these sudden changes may have been long at work within us, but the changes themselves are instantaneous, and apparently without sufficient cause. It was so with Flemming, and from that hour forth he resolved that he would no longer veer with every shifting wind of circumstance; no longer be a child's plaything in the hands of fate, which we ourselves do make or mar. He resolved henceforward not to lean on others; but to walk self-confident and self-possessed: no longer to waste his years in vain regrets, nor wait the fulfilment of boundless hopes and indiscreet desires; but to live in the present wisely, alike forgetful of the past, and careless of what the mysterious future might bring. And from that moment he was calm and strong; he was reconciled with himself!

His thoughts turned to his distant home beyond the sea. An indescribable, sweet feeling rose within him. "Thither will I turn my wandering footsteps," said he; "and be a man

among men, and no longer a dreamer among shadows. Henceforth be mine a life of action and reality! I will work in my own sphere, nor wish it other than it is. This alone is health

and happiness.

This alone is life

"Life that shall send

A challenge to its end,

And when it comes, say, Welcome, friend!'

"Why have I not made these sage reflections, this wise resolve, sooner? Can such a simple result spring only from the long and intricate process of experience? Alas! it is not till Time, with reckless hand, has torn out half the leaves from the book of human life, to light the fires of passion with, from day to day, that man begins to see that the leaves which remain are few in number, and to remember, faintly at first, and then more clearly, that upon the earlier pages of that book was written a story of happy innocence, which he would fain read over again. Then come listless irresolution and the inevitable inaction of despair; or else the firm resolve to record upon the leaves that still remain, a more noble history than the child's story with which the book began."

97.-POEMS FROM LOWELL.

THE HERITAGE.

The rich man's son inherits lands,
And piles of brick, and stone, and gold,
And he inherits soft white hands,

And tender flesh that fears the cold,
Nor dares to wear a garment old;

A heritage, it seems to me,
One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits cares;

The bank may break, the factory burn,
A breath may burst his bubble shares,
And soft white hands could hardly earn
A living that would serve his turn;
A heritage, it seems to me,
One scarce would wish to hold in fee.
The rich man's son inherits wants,

His stomach craves for dainty fare;
With sated heart, he hears the pants
Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare,
And wearies in his easy-chair;

A heritage, it seems to me,

One scarce would wish to hold in fee.'

Hyperion.

What dotn the poor man's son inherit?
Stout in cles and a sinewy heart,
A hardy frame, a hardier spirit;
King of two hands, he does his part
In every useful toil and art;
A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee,
What doth the poor man's son inherit?
Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things,
A ran ljudged by toil-won merit,
Content that from employment springs,
A heart that in his labor sings;

A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.
What doth the poor man's son inherit?
A patience learned of being poor,
Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it,
A fellow-feeling that is sure

To make the outcast bless his door;
A heritage, it seems to me,

A king might wish to hold in fee.

O rich man's son ! there is a toil

That with all others level stands; Large charity doth never soil,

But only whiten, soft white hands,This is the best crop from thy lands; A heritage, it seems to be,

Worth being rich to hold in fee.

O poor man's son! scorn not thy state; There is worse weariness than thine, In merely being rich and great;

Toil only gives the soul to shine,
And makes rest fragrant and benign;
A heritage, it seems to me,
Worth being poor to hold in fee.

Both, heirs to some six feet of sod,
Are equal in the earth at last ;
Both, children of the same dear God,
Prove title to your heirship vast
By record of a well-filled pas*;

A heritage, it seems to me,
Well worth a life to hold in fee

THE TOKEN.

It is a mere wild rosebud

Quite sallow now, and dry,
Yet there's something wondrous in it,
Some gleams of days gone by,

Dear sights and sounds that are to me
The very moons of memory,

And stir my heart's blood far below
Its short-lived waves of joy and woe.

Lips must fade and roses wither,
All sweet times be o'er;

They only smile, and, murmuring "Thither!"
Stay with us no more:

And yet ofttimes a look or smile,
Forgotten in a kiss's while,

Years after from the dark will start,
And flash across the trembling heart.
Earth's stablest things are shadows,
And, in the life to come,
Haply some chance-saved trifle
May tell of this old home:

As now sometimes we seem to find,
In the dark crevice of the mind,
Some relic, which, long pondered o'er,
Hints faintly at a life before.

SHEPHERD OF KING ADMETUS.

There came a youth upon the earth,
Some thousand years ago,

1

Whose slender hands were nothing worth,
Whether to plough, or reap, or sow.

Upon an empty tortoise shell

He stretched some chords, and drew Music that made men's bosoms swell

Fearless, or brimmed their eyes with dew.

Then King Admetus, one who had
Pure taste by right divine,
Decreed his singing not too bad

To hear between the cups of wine:

And so, well pleased with being soothed
Into a sweet half sleep,

Three times his kingly beard he smoothed,
And made him viceroy o'er his sheep.

His words were simple words enough,
And yet he used them so,

That what in other mouths was rough
In his seemed musical and low.

Men called him but a shiftless youth,
In whom no good they saw;

And yet, unwittingly, in truth,

They made his careless words their law.

They knew not how he learned at all,
For idly, hour by hour,

He sat and watched the dead leaves fall,
Or mused upon a common flower.

It seemed the loveliness of things
Did teach him all their use,

For, in mere weeds, and stones, and springs,
He found a healing power profuse.

Men granted that his speech was wise,
But, when a glance they caught

Of his slim grace and woman's eyes,

They laughed, and called him good-for-naught.

Yet after he was dead and gone,

And e'en his memory dim,

Earth seemed more sweet to live upon,

More full of love, because of him.

And day by day more holy grew
Each spot where he had trod,
Till after poets only knew

Their first-born brother as a god.

INCIDENT IN A RAILROAD CAR.

He spoke of Burns: men rude and rough
Pressed round to hear the praise of one
Whose heart was made of manly, simple stuff,
As homespun as their own.

And, when he read, they forward leaned,
Drinking, with thirsty hearts and ears,
His brook-like songs whom glory never weaned
From humble smiles and tears.

Slowly there grew a tender awe,

Sun-like, o'er faces brown and hard, As if in him who read they felt and saw Some presence of the bard.

It was a sight for sin and wrong

And slavish tyranny to see,

A sight to make our faith more pure and strong
In high humanity.

I thought, these men will carry hence,
Promptings their former life above,
And something of a finer reverence
For beauty, truth and love.

God scatters love on every side

Freely among his children all,

And always hearts are lying open wide,
Wherein some grains may tall.