Golden glories glad the gloom,
Streams of gold light up the room;
Ever dancing, ever gay,

Round me gentle moonbeams play,

Dancing joyous at my feet,
Weaving golden threads so sweet,
With dark fancies woof the night,
Giving glimmerings of the light
That will gild my future years,
Making rainbows of my tears.
Then, all ye darker thoughts, away

While sweet moonbeams round me play.

FAIRY BELLS AND BRIDGES.

Brightly danced the shimmering moonlight over Oberon's fair isle,
Hallowing mountain, vale, and river with its mellow, lambent smile;
Peering through the moaning forest as it echoed Ocean's roar,
Flecking with a wild mosaic all its hidden mossy floor;

Not more lightly,

Not more brightly,

Than at midnight danced the fairies its bewildering mazes o'er.
Sweetly fell the tinkling music of their tiny tripping feet,
As they rose and fell so airily, in low, harmonious beat;
And their gem-bespangled garments rustled in the giddy round,
Blithely whirling out their gladness on the moonlit forest ground;—

Far more cheerily,

Far more merrily,

Than upon Rinaldo's spirit fell the strange discordant sound!

For he sought the lonely forest at the silent midnight hour,

That its passion-hushing stillness o'er his spirit might have power,

For the maiden that he worshiped laughed his trembling love to scornHe was but an humble peasant-she a noble lady born!

And the dancing

Sprites, advancing

In their merry whirl, seemed mocking every trembling hope forlorn.

Suddenly toward Rinaldo they approached in bright array,
Closed about the 'wildered lover, and began a dance more gay,
Singing blithely to the measure of their tiny tripping feet,
As they fell and rose so nimbly in their low harmonious beat!

"We can see the lights and shadows play around the hapless lover-
We can build our fairy bridges so that love will soon pass over;
We've a curb and we've a bridle that will fit the proudest maiden,
And we've golden bells to grace them-golden bells with true love laden.
Oh! the fairies weave the meshes

Of the net which Cupid holds,

And the tiny bells they tinkle

Are the bait with which he trolls.

While they throw their curb and bridle
Over all that he enfolds!

Set the fairy bells to ringing!

Cure the heart that pride is stinging!
Build a bridge the slighted lover
May unto his bride pass over!"

Oh, the ringing of the bells!

How across the heart it swells!

And Rinaldo's spirit dances at the ringing of the bells;
Noble pride his heart is filling,

O'er his breast a joy distilling

With the ringing joyous music of the golden fairy bells!
Then a shaking

And a quaking,

Lo, the forest sod is breaking!

And Corilla stands before him, at the ringing of the bells!
Oh, the ringing of the bells,

How across the heart it swells!

And Corilla's spirit dances with the ringing of the bells!

The scorn that curled her ruby lip-the pride that fired her eye,
The fairy-bells had brought them wings, and taught them how to fly;
And when the merry music ceased a smile beamed o'er her face,
Such as before Rinaldo's eye in vain had sought to trace;

Then a rustling

And a bustling,

And their ranks the fairies parted:

Then advancing

Gaily dancing,

Both Corilla and Rinaldo as from out a dream were started.

Lips had met and each gay fairy
Shouted for the bridge, so airy!
Lips had met and bells were ringing,
And each elfin sprite was singing:
"We can crush the pride so hollow,
Making room for love to follow!
We can build a bridge the lover
May unto his bride pass over!"

THE HUMAN BRAIN.

What a strange thing is the human brain, the seat both of physical sensation and of spiritual perception! Who shall say how intimately the two are blended-how far their kingdoms are extended over each other! When we reflect upon the fact that nothing is ever entirely forgotten-that although we may not recall at our will the memory of what once was learned or known, yet that every thought we once had is still stored away in those small, strange chambers within our heads, it is enough to inspire us with awe at our own being; and still more, at the wonderful Power which fashioned us. Recollec

tions of the past called back by the association of the perfume of a flower or a strain of music; the memories which rush through the brain of the drowning or the falling man, showing him every event of his life treasured up within him; the ravings of the old Scotch servant, who talked Hebrew in her delirium-all go to prove that nothing is ever wholly lost which once was ours. How strange to think of these silent, unconscious inhabitants slumbering within our brain, which may at any time start up in witness of past pain and pleasure, error and good! Space they can not occupy, for they are multitudinous beyond expression, yet they are local. Spiritual they are, but indefinitely connected with matter. They belong to us, and not to another. They are in our heads, and not in our feet. What is it that thus chains the material to the immaterial? Secrets hidden away in the keeping of God are many of them mysteries, and vain is the attempt of science and philosophy to expound them. Science may explain all laws of matter, but not the laws of mind; they are of the impenetralia of the spiritual.”

THE KATYDID. O. W. HOLMES.

I love to hear thine earnest voice
Wherever thou art hid,
Thou testy little dogmatist,

Thou pretty Katydid!

Thou 'mindest me of gentlefolks,-
Old gentlefolks are they,-

Thou say'st an undisputed thing

In such a solemn way.

Thou art a female, Katydid!

I know it by the trill

That quivers through thy piercing notes,

So petulant and shrill.

I think there is a knot of you
Beneath the hollow tree,

A knot of spinster Katydids;-
Do Katydids drink tea?

Oh, tell me where did Katy live,
And what did Katy do?

And was she very fair and young,
And yet so wicked too?
Did Katy love a naughty man,
Or kiss more cheeks than one?

I warrant Katy did no more

Than many a Kate has done.

Dear me! I'll tell you all about

My fuss with little Jane

And Ann, with whom I used to walk

So often down the lane,

And all that tore their locks of black,
Or wet their eyes of blue,

Pray tell me, sweetest Katydid,
What did poor Katy do?

Ah no! the living oak shall crash,
That stood for ages still,

The rock shall rend its mossy base,
And thunder down the hill,
Before the little Katydid

Shall add one word, to tell
The mystic story of the maid

Whose name she knows so well.

Peace to the ever-murmuring race!
And when the latest one

Shall fold in death her feeble wings,

Beneath the autumn sun,

Then shall she raise her fainting voice,
And lift her drooping lid,

And then the child of future years
Shall learn what Katy did.

Manhood is disgraced by the consequences of neglected youth. Old age, oppressed by cares that belonged to a former period, labors under a burden not its own. At the close of life the dying man beholds with anguish that his days are finishing, when his preparation for eternity is hardly commenced. Such are the effects of a disorderly waste of time, through not attending to its value. Every thing in the life of such persons is misplaced. Nothing is performed aright, from not being performed in due season.

BEAUTY. DR. CHANNING.

In looking at our nature we discover among its admirable endowments the sense or perception of Beauty. We see the germ of this in every human being, and there is no power which admits greater cultivation; and why should it not be cherished in all? It deserves remark that the provision for this principle is infinite in the universe. There is but a very minute portion of the creation which we can turn into food and clothes or gratification for the body; but the whole creation may be used to minister to the sense of beauty. Beauty is an all-pervading presence. It unfolds in the numberless flowers of the spring; it waves in the branches of the trees and the green blades of grass; it haunts the depths of the earth and sea, and gleams out in the hues of the shell and the precious stone. And not only these minute objects, but the ocean, the mountains, the clouds, the heaven, the stars, the rising and setting sun, all overflow with beauty. The universe is its temple; and those men who are alive to it can not lift their eyes without feeling themselves encompassed with it on every side. Now this beauty is so precious, the enjoyments it gives are so refined and pure, so congenial with our tenderest and noblest feelings, and so akin to worship, that it is painful to think of the multitude of men as living in the midst of it, as if, instead of this fair earth and glorious sky, they were tenants of a dungeon. An infinite joy is lost to the world by the want of culture of this spiritual endowment. Suppose that I were to visit a cottage, and to see its walls lined with the choicest pictures of Raphael, and every spare nook filled with statues of the most exquisite workmanship, and that I were to learn that neither man, woman, nor child ever cast an eye at these miracles of art, how should I feel their privation;

how should I want to open their eyes and to help them to comprehend and feel the loveliness and grandeur which in vain courted their notice! But every husbandman is living in sight of the works of a diviner Artist; and how much would his existence be elevated could he see the glory which shines forth in their forms, hues, proportions, and moral expression! I have spoken only of the beauty of nature; but how much of this mysterious charm is found in the elegant arts, and especially in literature? The best books have most beauty. The greatest truths are wronged if not linked with beauty, and they win their way most surely and deeply into the soul when arrayed in this their natural and fit attire. Now no man receives the true culture of a man in whom the sensibility to the beautiful is not cherished; and I know of no condition in life from which it should be excluded. Of all luxuries this is the cheapest and most at hand; and it seems to me to be most important to those conditions where coarse labor tends to give a grossness to the mind. From the diffusion of the sense of beauty in ancient Greece, and of the taste for music in modern Germany, we learn that the people at large may partake of refined gratifications which have hitherto been thought to be necessarily restricted to a few.

MORNING IN SPRING. GEO. D. PRENTICE.

How sweet-the landscape! Morning-twines
Her tresses round the brow of Day,
And bright mists-o'er the forest pines
Like happy spirits-float away

To revel-on the mountain's crown,

Whence the glad stream comes-shouting down
Through woods-and rocks—that hang on high,

Like clouds against the deep-blue sky.

The woven sounds of bird-and stream

Are falling beautiful and deep

Upon the spirit like a dream

Of music on the ear of sleep;
And sweetly-from the dewy bowers
Soft murmurs,—like the breath of flowers,
Are winding-through the purple grove
And blending-with the notes of love.

A cloud-is on the sky above,

And calmly-o'er the young year's blue 'Tis coming-like a thing of love

To gladden in the rising dew;

Its white waves—with the twilight blend,
And gentle spirits—seem to bend,

From its unrolling folds-to hear

The glad sounds-of our joyous sphere.

The lake, unruffled by the breeze,
Smiles in its sweet, unbroken rest,
As if 't were dreaming-of the trees
And blossoms-pictured on its-breast.