ted, it has the true elements of genuine poetry-simplicity and fidelity to nature. Upwards of one hundred thousand copies, set to music, were sold in 1832. The publishers made two thousand guineas by it in two years. Payne was a native of the city of New York. In 1809 he appeared there as "Young Norval," at the Park Theatre. In 1813 he went to England, where he became a successful playwright. In 1832 he returned to America, and was appointed United States Consul at Tunis, where he died. HOME, SWEET HOME! 'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home! A charm from the skies seems to hallow it there, Which, go through the world, you'll not meet with elsewhere. Home! home, sweet home! There's no place like home! An exile from home, pleasure dazzles in vain: John Bowring. Bowring (1792-1872) was a native of Exeter. In 1825 he became editor of the Westminster Review. He sat some time in Parliament, and in 1854 was knighted and made Governor of Hong-kong. He was the literary executor of Jeremy Bentham. He wrote devotional poetry of merit, and made some excellent translations from the Russian, Polish, and other modern languages. ODE TO GOD. FROM THE RUSSIAN OF GABRIEL ROMANOWITCH DERZHAVIN. O thou Eternal One! whose presence bright In its sublime research, Philosophy May measure out the ocean-deep, may count The sands or the sun's rays; but, God! for thee There is no weight nor measure; none can mount Up to thy mysteries; Reason's brightest spark, Though kindled by thy light, in vain would try To trace thy counsels, infinite and dark; And thought is lost ere thought can mount so high, E'en like past moments in eternity. Thou from primeval nothingness didst call Sprang forth from thee,-of light, joy, harmony, Sole origin; all life, all beauty, thine. Thy word created all, and doth create; Thy splendor fills all space with rays divine. Thou art, and wert, and shalt be! glorious, great, Life-giving, life-sustaining Potentate! Thy chains the unmeasured universe surround, Shine round the silver snow, the pageantry A million torches, lighted by thy hand, Wander unwearied through the blue abyss; They own thy power, accomplish thy command, All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss. What shall we call them? Piles of crystal light, A glorious company of golden streams, Lamps of celestial ether, burning bright, Suns lighting systems, with their joyous beams? But thou to those art as the noon to night. Yes! as a drop of water in the sea, All this magnificence in thee is lost: What are ten thousand worlds compared to thee? And what am I, then? Heaven's unnumbered host, Though multiplied by myriads, and arrayed In all the glory of sublimest thought, Is but an atom in the balance, weighed Against thy greatness,-is a cipher brought Against infinity!-What am I, then?-Naught! Naught! But the effluence of thy light divine, Pervading worlds, hath reached my bosom too: Yes, in my spirit doth thy spirit shine, As shines the sunbeam in a drop of dew. Naught! But I live, and on Hope's pinions fly Eager toward thy presence; for in thee I live, and breathe, and dwell, aspiring high, Even to the throne of thy divinity. I am, O God! and surely thou must be! Thou art directing, guiding all, thou art! Close to the realm where angels have their birth, The chain of being is complete in me; In me is matter's last gradation lost; And the next step is spirit-Deity! I can command the lightning, and am dust! A monarch and a slave; a worm, a god! Whence came I here, and how? So marvellously Constructed and conceived? Unknown? This clod Lives surely through some higher energy; From out itself alone it could not be! Creator, yes! thy wisdom and thy word Created me. Thon source of life and good! Thou spirit of my spirit, and my Lord! Thy light, thy love, in their bright plenitude, Filled me with an immortal soul, to spring O'er the abyss of death, and bade it wear The garments of eternal day, and wing Its heavenly flight, beyond this little sphere, E'en to its source-to thee-its Author there! O thought ineffable! O vision blessed! Though worthless our conceptions all of thee, And when the tongue is eloquent no more, WISDOM AND WEALTH. I once saw a poor fellow, keen and clever, Gave him a welcome. "Strange!" cried he; "whence is it?" He walked on this side, then on that, He tried to introduce a social chat; Now here, now there, in vain he tried; A rich man burst the door, He could not pride himself upon his wit; He had what some think better-he had wealth. "Allow me, sir, the honor;" then a bow The poor man hung his head, "This is indeed beyond my comprehension:" But wisdom none can borrow, none can lend ?” TRUE COURAGE. Onward! throw all terrors off! Mark the slowly-moving plough: It defiles the emerald sod, 'Whelms the flowers beneath the clod. Wait the swiftly-coming hours, Fairer green and sweeter flowers, Cornucopias of the year! Sir John Herschel. Herschel, the celebrated astronomer, was born at Slough, near Windsor, in 1792, and studied at St. John's College, Cambridge. He died at Collingwood, Kent, in 1971, aged seventy-nine. Profoundly versed as he was in the physical sciences, he was master of an elegant English style, and did not utterly neglect poetry. Intellectually, he was symmetrically developed. His expedition to the Cape of Good Hope, and his residence there four years, at his own expense, for a purely scientific object, shows the extent of his devotion to science. On his return, he was covered with honorary distinctions. In reference to the notion that scientific study leads to a doubt of the immortality of the soul, he declares that the effect on every well-constituted mind must be the direct contrary. Of the hexameter stanzas we quote, the first was made in a dream in 1841, and written down immediately on waking. THROW THYSELF ON THY GOD. Throw thyself on thy God, Nor mock him with feeble denial; Sure of his mercy at last; Bitter and deep though the draught, Yet shun not the cup of thy trial, But in its healing effect, Smile at its bitterness past. Pray for that holier cup While sweet with bitter lies blending, Smiles on the sorrowing cheek, Death expiring in life, When the long-drawn struggle is ending; Hew Ainslie. Ainslie (1792-1878) was a native of the parish of Dailly, Ayrshire. He was for a time the amanuensis of Dugald Stewart. In 1822, having married, he set sail for New York, tried farming, then had some experience with Robert Owen's community at New Harmony, Ind., then tried the occupation of a brewer, then that of superintending the erection of mills and factories in the Western States. He finally (1827) settled in Louisville, Ky., where, his son getting into prosperous circumstances, the old man was enabled to devote himself to literary pursuits the rest of his life. His volume of "Scottish Songs, Ballads, and Poems" was published by Redfield, New York, in 1855. Ainslie was a poet from his youth, and in some of his productions exhibits much of the spirit of Burns. He lived to his eighty-sixth year, and his death was caused by a severe shock from falling. SIGHINGS FOR THE SEA-SIDE. At the stent o' my string, When a fourth of the earth And waters as bright As the sun in midsummer And surrounded wi' a' O' mortal could need, I ha'e paused in sic plenty, In their red heather bloom, And hillocks o' broom,To some loup in our loch, Whar the wave gaes to sleep, Or the black craggy headlands That bulwark the deep;Wi' the sea lashing in Wi' the wind and the tide— Ay, 'twas then that I sickened, "Twas then that I cried : O gie me a sough o' the auld saut sea, A scent o' his brine again, To stiffen the wilt that this wilderness Has brought on this breast and brain. Let me hear his roar on the rocky shore, Your sweeping floods an' your waving woods Ay, gie me the jaup o' the dear auld saut, To stiffen the wilt that this wilderness |