Thanks for all the pure and bright
Creations they have left behind,
That shine immortal as the stars,

And shed their light on all mankind.

Thanks to the great, whose lives were passed

Too oft in penury and toil,
Who dared to look beyond the hour,

To till the intellectual soil.
Remember all the scoff and scorn

Their noble natures suffered then;
So borne for Truth, for Freedom, Right,
The noblest attributes of men.

Thanks to the great, whose holy dreams
Are felt by kindred natures here,
Whose words, still breathed by living lips,
Fall sweetly on the listening ear.
Thanks to the departed great,

For all their gifted minds have wrought,
Thanks to all those whose souls have formed
The boundless universe of thought.

A THOUGHT.

I sat upon a river's brink

And watched the stream, like childish dream, Glide musically by,

I looked upon its surface bright,

Its smiling face, with many a trace
Of fadeless purity.

Thus thought I should fair woman be,
With voice as sweet, and noiseless, fleet
Her happy days pass by,

With no dark frown upon her face;
But like the river, bright for ever,
Gliding to eternity.

F

GENTLENESS.

Sweet Gentleness! the pale moonlight,
That sleeps so softly on the stream;
The thickly-clustered stars of night,

That high, too high above us gleam;
Each flower that blooms, each bird that sings,
Each brook that wimples fresh and free;
Each purer thought Reflection brings-
Are emblems beautiful of thee!

Blest name! whose tones once more recal
The memory of kind words spoken;
Kind looks, kind deeds, kind wishes-all
The spirit-bonds time hath not broken ;
The hopes, the aspirations, dreams,

Of Childhood's morning, Youth's bright noon,
Thou bringest back,-like precious gleams
Of sunshine hours that fade too soon.

Sweet Gentleness! thou purest ray
That shines within the human mind!
Peace sheds her glory on thy way,
And guides thee like a parent kind;
Love smiles upon thy angel face,
Enamoured of the beauty there;
And Truth, the matchless child of grace,
Still strews thy path with treasures rare.
Soft nurse of all that's great and good!
The mightiest will feel thy power,
When Passion's scalding lava flood

Hath ceased to roll. In that still hour,
When thought becomes pure blessedness,
Companion'd by sweet Fancy's light,
Thou bringest dreams of happiness
To bless the solitude of night.

༢༠

Sweet gentleness! thou flower-like thing,
That dies not when the summer light
Hath past away, and on the wing

Of Brightness falls the cloud of Night;
Thou art the Poet's soul! to him

The peace-star in this world's dark strife,
A spirit-beauty nought can dim,

The essence of his inner life.

One touch, sweet Gentleness, of thine
On man's proud nature, wakes to birth
Exalted feelings, thoughts divine,

That lift his spirit from the earth—
World-weary, let him turn to thee,
And soothe his aching bosom ever,
As wave that struggles from the sea,
To gain at last some peaceful river.

THE OLD YEAR.

THE old year! What memories cluster round the heart at that simple sentence! How many bright and glorious things have withered in the lapse of one short year! Spring, with all its blooming flowers, its daisied fields, and green-robed hedges-its carolling birds, rejoicing in the sunshine, filling the air with Nature's harmony, hath passed away; Summer, in all its prime of loveliness and beauty, Nature, full-grown, in all her grandeur and magnificence-hath sunk into the gulf of time; Autumn, with its waving corn-fields and ripened fruits, its shortening days and lovely nights, is wrapt once more in the snowy shroud of Winter; and the last light of the old year will soon, alas! be "faded and gone."

Well may the ages of man be compared to the four seasons. Childhood, youth, manhood, and age, are but the types of the changing year. In twelve fleeting months we read the lesson of human life. Truly has the late lamented L. E. L. said, that

"The changeful year itself may read

Its lesson to the human heart;
How pass away its sunshine hours,
How does its loveliness depart."

Look back, ye children of earth! Ye that are toiling and struggling in this wide world; ye that are in the summer of your existence-full of hope and expectation-with all your faculties and affections, like the flowers around you, blossoming into perfection; ye that have left your summer days behind, and contemplate in the calm tranquillity of autumn; and ye that have approached to the last stage, fraught with infirmities and trouble. Cast ye a "longing, lingering look" on the dying year-shadow in your minds the light and darkness that have passed like day and night upon you— recal to your memories the rays of happiness and the clouds of adversity—realize a moving panorama before the vision of the mind-let it pass in all the diversity of change-mingling the dark and bright, the lights and shades of bygone times, and read, in one short year, the history of the whole.

Could we analyse the human heart, ascertain all the varied affections, passions, feelings, hopes, and disappointments that alternately possess it-now borne on the whirlwind of passion, reckless of every danger that may surround it-fevered and restless-plunging into the yawning abyss of evil— indulging in daily dreams of fraud and guilt-familiarizing itself with vice and wretchedness, till it becomes callous and hardened, we would find many, alas! too many that could look not through the vista of time without feelings of the most poignant bitterness. Yet we would find much that is good and pure-many that are fraught with gentleness and benevolence, whose affections have been nurtured beneath the fostering sunshine of happiness, to form a blessed contrast to this darker picture of human nature.

To such as these a review of the old year brings many sweet remembrances. These alone can dwell with tenderness and affection on the vanished joys of the old year; yet they have some degree of pain to mingle with their bliss; ennobled with the sublimest virtues-cherishing good as a boon from heaven, and labouring for the happiness of their fellow-creatures-yet even to them it is denied to escape the blighting influence of grief and sorrow,

"For those who are soonest awake to the flowers

Are always the first to be touched by the thorns."

MOORE.

Now is the time for reflection. Seated over a bright fire on a dreary winter's night, with all our thoughts and fancies let loose to wander and travel at will-imagination bodying forth the form of things that are known and cherished in the mind-dwelling on past events-and hoarding up in the bosom all that is best and purest-this is a season when Nature presents to the human eye a startling picture. Where is her boasted loveliness now? Where are her charms and fascinations? Seek ye the witchery of her sunlit smiles? List ye to hear her cherub voice of music, pouring forth its thousand melodies, unasked, unpaid? Gaze ye now on all the voluptuousness of beauty-worshipping her as an idol, and drawing inspiration from the very sight? Alas! no. Ye look on one cold mass of lifeless snow. Ye have seen Nature in all her Protean shapes. Ye have seen her rising like a phoenix from the ashes into light and loveliness, till bursting on the gazing world a godlike piece of perfection-ye have seen her withering away, like one of her own flowers. Ye have watched her decreasing strength, and mourned over her fallen greatness-and now you see her a pale, cold, and care-worn creature, with the white shroud already around. her: the hand of Death is now open to clutch in his iron grasp the time-worn and emaciated form of her who had all the world for her worshippers. Nature, the goddess, has been despoiled for all her gay and fantastic garments; she has put off her "pleasant robe of green," and is wrapt in the white winding-sheet of her own weaving.

"So falls, so languishes, grows dim, and dies,

All that this world is proud of. From their spheres
The stars of human glory are cast down;
Perish the roses and the flowers of kings,

Princes, and emperors, and the crowns and palms
Of all the mighty, withered and consumed !"
WORDSWORTH'S EXCURSION.

To divert the mind from dwelling too deeply on this melancholy picture, Christmas comes with all its heart-endearing customs; its family meetings, and indoor festivities. Feasts, balls, and mimicry, of every description, tread on each other's heels. Pleasure is the syren that has wound round the whole universe her shell of enchantment. The high-born and the lowly, the rich and the poor, participate in the