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Man must not spare to spell with care
And work out God's intent.

And know, thou wilt be charged with guilt
Who art but innocent.

The hermit wise (my friend replies),

With equal truth might say,

"This word for me, not do but BE,

Has sempiternal sway.

Effect from cause in Nature's laws

Our succour little needs;

There may be debt for pardon yet

In thy most virtuous deeds."


From the Poetical Remains, of Mrs. GREY, better known as MARY ANNE BROWNE.

Он, woe for those whose dearest themes

Must rest within the bosom's fold;
Oh, woe for those who live on dreams,
Unheeded by the coarse and cold.
They have a hidden life akin

To nothing in this earthly sphere;
They have a glorious world within,

Where nothing mortal may appear—
A world of song, and flower, and gem,
Yet woe for them-oh, woe for them.

Such his perplexing woe who seeks

A refuge upon stranger shores;
In vain to foreign ears he speaks,

In vain their sympathy implores;
The same sad fate a bark might prove,
Laden with gold, or princely store,
Without a guiding star above

And an unmeasured deep before.

The world doth scorn them, gibe, contemn;
Woe for the gifted, woe for them!


Another of W. M. PRAED's graceful Enigmas will be welcome to the reader. The solution is left to his own sagacity.

UNCOUTH Was I of face and form,
But strong to blast and blight,
By pestilence or thunderstorm,
By famine or by fight;

Not a warrior went to the battle plain,
Not a pilot steer'd the ship,
That did not look in doubt and pain,
For an omen of havoc or hurricane,
To my dripping brow or lip.

Within my second's dark recess
In silent pomp I dwelt;
Before the mouth in lowliness
My rude adorers knelt ;

And ever the shriek rang loud within,
And ever the red blood ran;
And amid the sin and smoke and din,
I sat with a changeless endless grin,
Forging my first for man.

My priests are rotting in their grave,
My shrine is silent now,
There is no victim in my cave,
No crown upon my brow;
Nothing is left but dust and clay

Of all that was divine;

My name and my memory pass away;-
And yet this bright and glorious day
Is call'd by mortals mine!


ERNST MORITZ ARNDT, now in his seventy-seventh year, is a Pomeranian, a patriot, a poet, and a professor of philosophy. He has read much, written much, seen much, and suffered much; and no man enjoys a higher character among his countrymen for all the qualities that adorn human nature. His works are very voluminous; but as an author he is chiefly known to the great body of German readers by his songs, most of which are characterized by peculiar fire, energy, and

intensity of expression, though some of his lighter lays, on the other hand, have a childish playfulness about them, that renders them quite the antithesis of those that have gained him the most popularity. A translation of one of these, as a sort of curiosity, is taken from an old number of the Dublin University Magazine.

Oн, the Sun he walks a gentleman full grown,

Though this is but the morning of his birth,
And he rises up so early and alone,

And prepares to make his tour around the earth;
And the little stars draw near him, and they say-
"Do let us keep thee company, we pray!"
But the Sun grows red and wrathful, and cries out,
"Get away from me, you silly little things!
You know I should but scorch your golden eyes out
With my great fiery wings!

Get you gone! All alone

Must I take my daily journey round the earth.”
And the Moon she girds her waist with silver zone,
Though this is but the evening of her birth,
And she rises up so pearly and alone,

And prepares to make her tour around the earth,
And the little stars draw near her, and they say,
"Do let us go along with thee, we pray!"
And the Moon she answers gently as a mother,
"Oh certainly, my pretty little dears!

But mind and don't fall out with one another,
For, through myriads of years

Must we thus, all of us,

Make in company our journey round the earth."

So, ever since, from evening until morn,

The golden stars accompany their Queen;

And the earth, and all that on the earth are born,
Are gladden'd by the glory of their sheen.
In them, as in a looking-glass, the Sage
Sees shadowless the Future's mystic page;
To them the love-sick virgin sighs her sorrows;
And from them (and, on occasions, from the Moon,)
In the stilly summer-night, the poet borrows
Thought for which, during noon,

He in vain duns his brain,

While the Sun is dazzling prosers by his sheen.



Now! it is gone.-Our brief hours travel post,
Each with its thought or deed, its Why or How:
But know, each parting hour gives up a ghost
To dwell within thee-an eternal Now!



Full in the middle of this pleasantness
There stood a marble altar with a tress
Of flowers budded newly: and the dew
Had taken fairy phantasies to strew
Daisies upon the sacred sward last eve,
And so the dawned light in pomp receive.


There once a charnel-house, now a vast cave,
Over whose brow a pale and untrod grave


Throws out her heavy shade, the mouth, thick arms
Of darksome yew, sunproof, for ever choke;
Within rests barren darkness; fruitless drought

Pines in eternal night; the steam of hell

Yields not so lazy air. There, that's her cell.

MARSTON'S Wonder of Women.


What is heaven? A globe of dew,

Filling in the morning new

Some eyed flower, whose young leaves waken On an unimagined world:

Constellated suns unshaken,

Orbits measureless, are furl'd

In that frail and fading sphere,
With ten millions gather'd there,
To tremble, gleam, and disappear.


Upon his brow shame is ashamed to sit,


For 'tis a throne where honour may be crown'd,
Sole monarch of the universal earth.



He had been rear'd

Among the mountains, and he in his heart
Was half a shepherd on the stormy seas.
Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard heard
The tones of waterfalls and inland sounds
Of caves and trees; and when the regular wind
Between the tropics fill'd the steady sail,

And blew with the same breath for days and weeks,
Lengthening invisibly its weary line

Along the cloudless main, he, in those hours

Of tiresome indolence, would often hang

Over the vessel's side, and gaze and


And while the broad green wave and sparkling foam
Rush'd round him, images and hues that wrought
In union with th' employment of his heart,
He, thus by feverish passion overcome
Even with the organs of his bodily eye,
Below him, in the bosom of the deep,

Saw mountains-saw the forms of sheep that grazed
On verdant hills-with dwellings among trees,
And shepherds clad in the same country grey
Which he himself had worn.



In his words

There was an athletic sinew, though they play'd
With great things carelessly, as a fresh wind
Provokes the sea to laughter, and his pride
Ever seem'd well placed, like a castle set
Upon a mountain.

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The bridegroom sea
Is toying with the shore, his wedded bride,
And, in the fulness of his marriage joy,
He decorates her tawny brow with shells,
Retires a space, to see how fair she looks,
Then, proud, runs up to kiss her.


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