Near Purgatory's entrance the radiant Angels wait;

It was the great St. Michael who closed that gloomy gate, When the poor wandering spirit came back to meet her fate.

"Pass on," thus spoke the Angel: "Heaven's joy is deep and vast;

Pass on, pass on, poor Spirit, for Heaven is yours at last; In that one minute's anguish your thousand years have passed."

GOD.
DERZHAVIN.

O THOU eternal One! whose presence bright
All space doth occupy, all motion guide;
Unchanged through time's all-devastating flight;
Thou only God! There is no God beside!
Being above all beings! Mighty one!

Whom none can comprehend, and none explore;
Who fill'st existence with Thyself alone;
Embracing all-supporting - ruling o'er-
Being whom we call God- and know no more!
Thou from primeval nothingness didst call,
First chaos, then existence; - Lord! on Thee
Eternity had its foundation; -all

Sprung 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,
Light-giving, life-sustaining Potentate!

PERILS OF YOUTH.

A YOUNG man just entering on life, embarks on an unknown and a perilous voyage. If the interest of the fact itself will not suffer by the comparison, his condition may be likened to that of a ship that has never yet tried the waves and storms, as it first leaves the port. This world, so full of beautiful things, furnishes few objects so lovely as such a vessel, when, with her sails all spread, and with a propitious breeze, she sails out of the harbor.

But who can tell what that vessel is to encounter; into what unknown seas she may yet be drifted; between what masses of ice she may be crushed; on what hidden rocks she may impinge; what storms may whistle through her shrouds, and carry away her tall masts; or on what coasts her broken timbers may be strewed? Now, as the waves gently lap her sides, nothing can be more beautiful, or more safe; but storms arise on that ocean which now looks so calm; and, in those storms, her beautifully modeled form, her timbers framed together to defy the tempest, her ropes and her canvas, will avail nothing: if she is saved, none but He can do it, who rides on the whirlwind and directs the storm."

66

CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.

TENNYSON.

HALF a league, half a league,

Half a league onward,

All in the valley of death

Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!" he said.
Into the valley of death,

Rode the six hundred.

"Forward the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismayed?
Not though the soldiers knew
Some one had blundered;
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die:
Into the valley of death,
Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them,

Volleyed and thundered:

Stormed at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well;

Into the jaws of death,

Into the mouth of hell,

Rode the six hundred.

Flashed all their sabers bare,

Flashed as they turned in air,
Sab'ring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while

All the world wondered:

Plunged in the battery-smoke,

Right through the line they broke;

Cossack and Russian

Reeled from the saber-stroke,

Shattered and sundered:
:-
Then they rode back, but not,
Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,

Cannon to left of them,

Cannon behind them,

Volleyed and thundered:

Stormed at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,

They that had fought so well,
Came through the jaws of death,

Back from the mouth of hell,
All that was left of them,

Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
Oh, the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made!
Honor the Light Brigade,

Noble six hundred !

THE PASSIONS.

COLLINS.

WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Thronged around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possessed beyond the Muse's painting;
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined:
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired,

From the supporting myrtles round,

They snatched her instruments of sound;

And, as they oft had heard apart

Sweet lessons of her forceful art,

Each for madness ruled the hour

Would prove his own expressive power.

First, Fear his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewildered laid;
And back recoiled, he knew not why,
E'en at the sound himself had made.

Next, Anger rushed, his eyes on fire,
In lightnings owned his secret stings;
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,

And swept with hurried hand the strings.

With woful measures, wan Despair

Low, sullen sounds! - his grief beguiled, A solemn, strange, and mingled air; 'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.

But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure?
Still it whispered promised pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail!
Still would her touch the strain prolong;

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
She called on Echo still through all her song:
And where her sweetest theme she chose,

A soft responsive voice was heard at every close; And Hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden

hair.

And longer had she sung — but, with a frown,

Revenge impatient rose.

He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down;

And, with a withering look,

The war-denouncing trumpet took,

And blew a blast so loud and dread,

Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe;

And ever and anon he beat

The doubling drum with furious heat.