And, as he was dreaming, an angel song Oh, the years are many, the years are long, Ah, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand, Awaiting the touch of a little hand, The smile of a little face; And they wonder, as waiting these long years thro' What has become of our Little Boy Blue, Since he kissed them and put them there. CHIDE MILDLY THE ERRING. Chide mildly the erring, kind language endears; Chide mildly the erring, jeer not at their fall; Chide mildly the erring, entreat them with care, The grace which redeems us must come from the skies. 66 174.-CONTRASTED SOLILOQUIES. JANE TAYLOR. 'Well," exclaimed a young lady just returned from school, "my education is at last finished! Indeed, it would be strange if, after five years' hard application, anything were left incomplete. Happily, that is all over now, and I have nothing to do but exercise my various accomplishments. "Let me see! As to French, I am mistress of that, and speak it, if possible, with more fluency than English. Italian I can read with ease and pronounce very well. Music I have learned till I am perfectly sick of it. But now that we have a grand piano, I must continue to practice a little; yes, music is the only thing I need now improve myself in. "My drawings are universally admired, especially the shells and flowers, which are beautiful, certainly; besides this, I have a decided taste in all kinds of fancy ornaments. And then in my dancing and waltzing, our master himself owned that he could take me no further! Since I have just the figure for it, certainly it would be unpardonable if I did not excel. "As to common things-geography, history, philosophy, and all that—thank my stars I'm through them all! There's nothing more to be learned in that direction; and I may now consider myself not only perfectly accomplished, but also thoroughly wellinformed! Well, to be sure, how much I have fagged through! The only wonder is that one head can contain it all." "Ah!" exclaimed a silver-haired sage, "how narrow is the utmost extent of human science! I have spent my life in acquiring knowledge, but how little do I know! The more deeply I attempt to penetrate the secrets of nature, the more I am bewildered. Beyond a certain limit all is but conjecture or confusion, so that the advantage of the learned over the ignorant is, greatly, in having ascertained how little can be known. "It is true that I can measure the sun and compute the distances of the planets; I can calculate their periodical movements, and even comprehend the laws by which they perform their sublime revolutions; but with regard to their construction and the beings which inhabit them, what do I know more than the clown? "I remark that all bodies, unsupported, fall to the ground, and I am taught to account for this by the law of gravitation. But what have I gained here more than a term, a word? Does it convey to my mind any idea of the nature of that mysterious and invisible chain which draws all things to a common centre? I observe the effect, I give a name to the cause; but can I explain or comprehend it? "Pursuing the track of the naturalist, I have learned to distinguish the animal, vegetable and mineral kingdoms, but can I tell, after all this toil, whence a single blade of grass derives its vitality? Could the most minute researches enable me to discover the exquisite pencil that paints and fringes the flower of the field? Have I ever detected the secret that gives their brilliant color to the ruby and the emerald, or the art that enamels the delicate shell? "Leaving the material creation, my thoughts have often ascended to loftier subjects and indulged in metaphysical speculation. And here, while I perceive in myself the two distinct qualities of matter and mind, I am baffled in every attempt to comprehend their mutual dependence and mysterious connec tion. When my hand moves in obedience to my will, have I the most distant conception of the manner in which the volition is either communicated or understood? "Ever has man been struggling with his own impotence, and vainly endeavoring to overleap the bounds which limit his anxious inquiries. What have I gained by my laborious researches but a humbling conviction of my weakness and ignorance? How little has man, at his best estate, of which to boast! What folly in him to glory in his contracted powers, or to value himself upon his imperfect acquisitions !" 175.-THE FATE OF VIRGINIA. T. B. MACAULAY. "Why is the Forum crowded? What means this stir in Rome?" 'Claimed as a slave, a free-born maid is dragged here from her home. On fair Virginia, Claudius has cast his eye of blight; The tyrant's creature, Marcus, asserts an owner's right. O, shame on Roman manhood! Was ever plot more clear? But look! the maiden's father comes! Behold Virginius here!" Straightway Virginius led the maid a little space aside, To where the reeking shambles stood, piled up with horn and hide. Oh! how I loved my darling! Though stern I sometimes be, He little deems that, in this hand, I clutch what still can save Then clasp me round the neck once more, and give me one more kiss; And now, mine own dear little girl, there is no way but this!" Then, for a little moment, all people held their breath; A cry as if the Volscians were coming o'er the wall; Till, with white lips and bloodshot eyes, Virginius tottered nigh, And he hath passed in safety unto his woful home, And there ta'en horse to tell the camp what deeds are done in Rome. 176.-METAMORPHOSIS. LLOYD MIFFLIN. She spake so kindly unto all, So tenderly and true, She seemed the sweetest soul, I thought, That ever met my view. Her form and features, grace and mien, Were lovely past compare; To me, a halo seemed to rest Above her yellow hair; When lo! a scornful lip she curled, I shuddered, though I could have wept Take serpent shapes, and squirm and writhe Ah, they who keep their angel shapes Bear still an angel mind; And they are ever loveliest, Who deepest love their kind. For beauty dwells not in a form, But they who bear the sweetest souls 177. IF WE KNEW. ANONYMOUS. If we knew the woe and heart-ache Pressed against the window pane, Would the bright eyes of our darling Ah, those little ice-cold fingers! Strange we never prize the music Till the sweet-voiced bird has flown; Strange that we should slight the violets Till the lovely flowers are gone; Strange that summer skies and sunshine Never seem one-half so fair |