But some night-wandering man, whose heart was pierced With the remembrance of a grievous wrong, Or slow distemper, or neglected love, (And so, poor wretch! filled all things with himself, And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale Of his own sorrow)-he, and such as he, First named these notes a melancholy strain. Poet who hath been building up the rhyme When he had better far have stretched his limbs By sun or moonlight, to the influxes Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements My Friend, and thou, our Sister! we have learnt And I know a grove They answer and provoke each other's songs And one low piping sound more sweet than all- That should you close your eyes, you might almost You may perchance behold them on the twigs, A most gentle Maid, (Even like a lady vowed and dedicate To something more than Nature in the grove) Glides through the pathways; she knows all their notes, On blossomy twig still swinging from the breeze, And to that motion tune his wanton song Like tipsy joy that reels with tossing head.” COLERIDGE. But the chorus of birds, the full harmony of the grove, is the great charm of a sunny springtime. Ol Drayton has made his rough verse musical with the ever-varied songs of the leafy Arden:- "When Phoebus lifts his head out of the winter's wave, For, with their vocal sounds, they sing to pleasant May: (The more to use their ears) their voices sure would spare, As man to set in parts at first had learn'd of her. To Philomel, the next the linnet we prefer; And by that warbling bird the wood-lark place we then, The tydy from her notes as delicate as they, DRAYTON. Wordsworth holds, and with a deep philosophy, that the language of birds is the expression of pleasure. Let those whose hearts are attuned to peace, in listening to this language, not forget the poet's moral: : "I heard a thousand blended notes, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran; Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The birds around me hopped and played; The budding twigs spread out their fan, And I must think, do all I can, We may fitly conclude this selection with Shelley's exquisite ode to the Sky Lark:' "Hail to thee, blithe spirit! Bird thou never wert, That from heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still and higher, From the earth thou springest Like a cloud of fire; The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. All the earth and air With thy voice is loud As, when night is bare, From one lonely cloud Chorus hymeneal, Or triumphal chaunt, Matched with thine would be all But an empty vaunt The moon rains out her beams, and heaven A thing wherein we feel there is some With music sweet as love, which overflows Or how could thy notes flow in such a [We give a paper by the celebrated Dr. Franklin, which has been perhaps as much read as any thing ever written, but which may be new to many of our younger readers. It has been often printed under the name of 'The Way to Wealth; but we scarcely know at the present time where to find it, except in the large collection of the author's works. 'Poor Richard' was the title of an almanac which Franklin published for twenty-five years, when he was a printer in America, and the sayings in the following paper are extracted from those Almanacs. His subsequent career as a man of science and a statesman exhibits what may be accomplished by unwearied industry and a vigilant exercise of the reasoning powers. The great characteristics of Franklin were perseverance, temperance, and common sense. There have been many higher minds, but few more formed for practical utility. Benjamin Franklin was born at Boston, in 1706; he died in 1790.] Courteous Reader, I have heard, that nothing gives an author so great pleasure as to find his works respectfully quoted by others. Judge, then, how much I must have been gratified by an incident I am going to relate to you. I stopped my horse, lately, where a great number of people were collected at an auction of merchants' goods. The hour of the sale not being come, they were conversing on the badness of the times; and one of the company called to a plain, clean, old man, with white locks, “Pray, father Abraham, what think you of the times? Will not those heavy taxes quite ruin the country? how shall we be ever able to pay them? What would you advise us to?" Father Abraham stood up, and replied, "If you would have my advice, I will give it you in short; 'for a word to the wise is enough,' as poor Richard says." They joined in desiring him to speak his mind, and, gathering round him, he proceeded as follows: "Friends," says he "the taxes are indeed very heavy; and, if those laid on by the government were the only ones we had to pay, we might more easily discharge them; but we have many others, and much more grievous to some of us. We are taxed twice as much by our idleness, three times as much by our pride, and four times as much by our folly; and from these taxes the commissioners cannot ease or deliver us by allowing an abatement. However, let us hearken to good advice, and something may be done for us; 'God helps them that help themselves,' as poor Richard says. "I. It would be thought a hard government that should tax its people one-tenth part of their time to be employed in its service; but idleness taxes many of us much more: sloth, by bringing on diseases, absolutely shortens life. 'Sloth, like rust, consumes faster than labour wears, while the used key is always bright,' as poor Richard says. But dost thou love life, then do not squander time, for that is the stuff life is made of,' as poor Richard says. How much more than is necessary do we spend in sleep; forgetting that 'The sleeping fox catches no poultry, and that there will be sleeping enough in the grave,' as Poor Richard says. "If time be of all things the most precious, wasting time must be,' as Poor |