influences of nature, leaves thee but a knowledge of thy own ignorance; and poetry, glorious poetry, that had almost become a portion of the life-spring of thy heart so long thou hadst fed on its magnificent imaginings-comes only with a dazzling garishness to thy worn and feverish spirit, then go forget thyself, for a while, in the unpretendingness of John Woolman's autobiography.

Wert thou ever ill of a fever? and dost thou recollect the blessedness with which thy eyes closed, as the cool fingers of a beloved friend came and pushed aside the loose hair, and were laid upon thy hot forehead? With such a moonlight feeling will the pure simplicity of Woolman come to thy sick heart. There is no glitter of fancy, no display of stupendous intellect, no splendid imaginations to bewilder thee into tears with their intensity of brightness; it is not even a tale of striking or romantic incident; but it is the beautiful history of a meek heart laid open before thee in all its guilelessness. Thou wilt become familiar with a character of the most perfect humility, full of a simple majesty, yet gentle as a very child, unfaltering in its quiet self-denial, and unbending to its own weak

nesses, assuming no superior sanctity, lifting not up the voice of stern judgment against the frailties of others, and gifted with all the holy and affectionate charities of life.

Thou wilt feel a purifying influence steal gradually over thy heart, as thou bendest over the quiet pages, calming the rude beatings of its pulse into a thankful evenness, and cooling the impatient irritation of thy spirit, with the lesson of its gentle words, and causing thee almost to feel as if the unworldly moments of thy childhood's time had again come back to thee.

E. M. CHANDLER.

THANATOPSIS.

To him who, in the love of Nature, holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And gentle sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness, ere he is aware.
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images

When thoughts

Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;
Go forth, unto the open sky, and list

To Nature's teachings, while from all around-
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air-
Comes a still voice. Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more

In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in th' embrace of ocean, shall exist

Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go

To mix for ever with the elements,

To be a brother to th' insensible rock

And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould;
Yet not to thy eternal resting-place

Shalt thou retire alone-nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world; with kings,
The powerful of the earth; the wise, the good;
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past;
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills,
Rock-ribb'd and ancient as the sun; the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between
The venerable woods-rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks

That make the meadows green, and poured round all,

Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,

Are but the solemn decorations all

Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun.

The planets, all the infinite host of heaven
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings
Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sounds,
Save his own dashings, yet the dead are there,
And millions in these solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep-the dead reign there alone.-
So shalt thou rest; and what if thou shalt fall
Unnoticed by the living, and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase
His favourite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come,
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glide away, the sons of men,

The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years; matron and maid;
The bow'd with age; the infant in the smiles
And beauty of its innocent age cut off,—
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side.