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Thou that wouldst taste it, still do thy best; Use it, not waste it,-else 'tis no rest.

Wouldst behold beauty near thee? all round? Only hath duty such a sight found.

Rest is not quitting the busy career; Rest is the fitting of self to its sphere.

"Tis the brook's motion, clear without strife, Fleeing to ocean after its life.

Deeper devotion nowhere hath knelt; Fuller emotion heart never felt.

'Tis loving and serving the highest and best; 'Tis onward! unswerving, and that is true rest.

VANITAS! VANITATUM VANITAS!
FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE.

I've set my heart upon nothing, you see;
Hurrah!

And so the world goes well with me.

Hurrah!

And who has a mind to be fellow of mine, Why, let him take hold and help me drain These mouldy lees of wine.

I set my heart at first upon wealth:
Hurrah!

And bartered away my peace and health;
But, ah!

The slippery change went about like air,
And when I had clutched me a handful here,—
Away it went there!

I set my heart upon woman next;

Hurrah!

For her sweet sake was oft perplexed;
But, ah!

The False one looked for a daintier lot,
The Constant one wearied me out and out,
The Best was not easily got.

I set my heart upon travels grand;

Hurrah!

And spurned our plain old father-land;

But, ah!

Naught seemed to be just the thing it should,Most comfortless beds and indifferent food!

My tastes misunderstood!

I set my heart upon sounding fame;

Hurrah!

And, lo! I'm eclipsed by some upstart's name; And, ah!

When in public life I loomed quite high, The folks that passed me would look awry: Their very worst friend was I.

And then I set my heart upon war; Hurrah!

We gained some battles with éclat.

Hurrah!

We troubled the foe with sword and flame (And some of our friends fared quite the same). I lost a leg for fame.

Now I've set my heart upon nothing, you see;
Hurrah!

And the whole wide world belongs to me.
Hurrah!

The feast begins to run low, no doubt;
But at the old cask we'll have one good bout:
Come, drink the lees all out!

Henry B. Hirst.

AMERICAN.

Hirst was born in Philadelphia in 1813. He began the study of the law in 1830. His earliest poems appeared in Graham's Magazine when he was about thirty. In the preface to his "Endymion" (written before he had ever seen the "Endymion" of Keats), he says: "Until the age of twenty-three, I entertained a holy horror of poetry— an almost ludicrous result of an exceedingly prosaic existence. *** It would be safe to say that I have written, not published, more English rhyme than I have read." In 1845 he put forth, in Boston, "The Coming of the Mammoth," "The Funeral of Time, and other Poems;" and in 1848 appeared his "Endymion," a poem of one hundred and twenty pages, in which there is an occasional passage not unworthy of Keats. In 1849 he published "The Penance of Roland: a Romance of the Peine Forte et Dure, and other Poems." It is rather a tragic story of a husband who, in a fit of unjust jealousy, slays his wife.

PARTING OF DIAN AND ENDYMION.
FROM "ENDYMION."

The goddess gasped for breath, with bosom swelling:
Her lips unclosed, while her large, luminous eyes
Blazing like Stygian skies,

With passion on the audacious youth were dwelling: She raised her angry hand, that seemed to clasp Jove's thunder in its grasp.

HENRY B. HIRST.-THOMAS OSBORNE DAVIS.-ROBERT NICOLL.

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Thomas Osborne Davis.

Davis (1814-1845) was a native of Mallow, County Cork, Ireland. He was a close student from early youth, entered Trinity College, and was admitted to the Irish Bar. In company with John Dillon and Charles Gavan Duffy, in 1842 he founded The Nation, a powerful organ for the most radical of the Irish patriots. He showed as much lyrical as political fervor in his contributions. Of an exuberant, joyous spirit, and a strict lover of truth and right, he did not live to redeem the high promise of his youth.

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Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you, And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you.

Light is my heart since the day we were plighted, Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted; The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, And the linnets are singing, "True lovers! don't sever."

I'll pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you choose them;

Or, after you've kissed them, they'll lie on my bosom. I'll fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire you; I'll fetch from my fancy a tale that won't tire you; Oh! your step's like the rain to the summer-vexed

farmer,

Or sabre and shield to a knight without armor; I'll sing you sweet songs till the stars rise above

me,

Then, wandering, I'll wish you in silence to love

me.

We'll look through the trees at the cliff and the eyrie, We'll tread round the rath on the track of the fairy, We'll look on the stars, and we'll list to the river, Till you ask of your darling what gift you can give her.

Oh! she'll whisper you, "Love as unchangeably beaming,

And trust, when in secret, most tunefully streaming,

Till the starlight of heaven above us shall quiver, As our souls flow in one down eternity's river."

So come in the evening, or come in the morning, Come when you're looked for, or come without warning,

Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you! And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you!

Light is my heart since the day we were plighted; Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted; The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, And the linnets are singing, "True lovers! don't sever!"

THE WELCOME.

Come in the evening, or come in the morning, Come when you're looked for, or come without warning,

Robert Nicoll.

Nicoll (1814-1837), a youth of high promise, cultivated literature amidst many discouragements, and died in his twenty-fourth year, of consumption. He was a native of Auchtergaven, in Perthshire, Scotland. When about thirteen he began to note down his thoughts and to

scribble verses. When twenty, he remarked, in a letter to a friend, "I am a Radical in every sense of the term;" and in 1836 he became editor of the Leeds Times, representing the extreme of the liberal class of opinions. He added largely to its circulation. His poems are short occasional pieces and songs-the latter much inferior to his serious poems. His "People's Anthem" rises into somewhat of true grandeur by virtue of simplicity; and his lines on "Death," believed to be the last of his compositions, are entitled to similar praise. Ebenezer Elliott styles him "Scotland's second Burns."

PEOPLE'S ANTHEM.

Lord, from Thy blesséd throne, Sorrow look down upon!

God save the Poor! Teach them true libertyMake them from tyrants freeLet their homes happy be! God save the Poor!

The arms of wicked men

Do Thou with might restrainGod save the Poor!

Raise Thou their lowlinessSuccor Thou their distressThou whom the meanest bless! God save the Poor!

Give them staunch honesty
Let their pride manly be-
God save the Poor!
Help them to hold the right;
Give them both truth and might,
Lord of all LIFE and LIGHT!
God save the Poor!

These woods have shaken mighty human souls:
Like a sepulchral echo drear they sound;
E'en as the owl's wild whoop at midnight rolls
The ivied remnants of old ruins round.
Yet wherefore tremble? Can the soul decay?
Or that which thinks and feels, in aught e'er fade
away?

Are there not aspirations in each heart

After a better, brighter world than this? Longings for beings nobler in each part

Things more exalted-steeped in deeper bliss? Who gave us these? What are they? Soul, in thee The bud is budding now for immortality!

Death comes to take me where I long to be;
One pang, and bright blooms the immortal flower;
Death comes to lead me from mortality,

To lands which know not one unhappy hour;
I have a hope, a faith-from sorrow here
I'm led by death away-why should I start and fear?

If I have loved the forest and the field,
Can I not love them deeper, better there?
If all that power hath made, to me doth yield
Something of good and beanty-something fair—
Freed from the grossness of mortality,
May I not love them all, and better all enjoy ?

A change from woe to joy-from earth to heaven,— Death gives me this-it leads me calmly where The souls that long ago from mine were riven

May meet again! death answers many a prayer: Bright day, shine on! be glad: days brighter far Are stretched before my eyes than those of mortals are!

LIFE IN DEATH.

The dew is on the summer's greenest grass,
Through which the modest daisy blushing peeps;
The gentle wind that like a ghost doth pass,
A waving shadow on the cornfield keeps;
But I who love them all shall never be
Again among the woods, or on the moorland lea!

The sun shines sweetly-sweeter may it shine;
Blessed is the brightness of a summer day;
It cheers lone hearts; and why should I repine,
Although among green fields I cannot stray!
Woods! I have grown, since last I heard you wave,
Familiar now with death, and neighbor to the grave!

Alexander Beaufort Meek.

AMERICAN.

A native of Columbia, S. C., Meek was born in 1814, and died in 1865. He made the law his profession. He edited for a time The Southron, a literary monthly published at Tuscaloosa, Ala. In 1836 he served as lieutenant of volunteers against the Seminoles. He was United States Attorney for the Southern District of Alabama from 1846 to 1850, and associate editor of the Mobile Daily Register from 1848 to 1853. In 1859 he was elected Speaker of the Alabama Legislature. In 1855 he published "The Red Eagle: a Poem of the South ;" and in 1857 a volume of orations, songs, and poems of the South. His spirited poem describing the charge at Balaklava was for a long time attributed to Alexander Smith, the young Scottish poct. Many critics of the day professed to prefer it to Tennyson's "Charge of the Light Brigade."

BALAKLAVA.

Oh the charge at Balaklava!

ALEXANDER BEAUFORT MEEK.

Oh that rash and fatal charge!

Never was a fiercer, braver,
Than that charge at Balaklava,

On the battle's bloody marge!
All the day the Russian columns,

Fortress huge, and blazing banks,
Poured their dread destructive volumes
On the French and English ranks!
On the gallant allied ranks;
Earth and sky seemed rent asunder
By the loud, incessant thunder!
When a strange but stern command-
Needless, heedless, rash command—
Came to Lucan's little band,—
Scarce six hundred men and horses
Of those vast contending forces:—
England's lost unless you save her!
Charge the pass at Balaklava!"

Oh that rash and fatal charge,
On the battle's bloody marge!

Far away the Russian Eagles

Soar o'er smoking hill and dell, And their hordes, like howling beagles, Dense and countless, round them yell! Thundering cannon, deadly mortar, Sweep the field in every quarter! Never, since the days of Jesus, Trembled so the Chersonesus!

Here behold the Gallic Lilies-
Stout St. Louis' golden Lilies-
Float as erst at old Ramillies!
And beside them, lo! the Lion!

With her trophied Cross, is flying!
Glorious standards-shall they waver
On the field of Balaklava?

No, by heavens! at that command-
Sudden, rash, but stern command-
Charges Lucan's little band!

Brave Six Hundred! lo! they charge,
On the battle's bloody marge!

Down yon deep and skirted valley,

Where the crowded cannon play,-Where the Czar's fierce cohorts rally, Cossack, Calmuck, savage Kalli,

Down that gorge they swept away! Down that new Thermopylæ, Flashing swords and helmets see!

Underneath the iron shower,

To the brazen cannon's jaws, Heedless of their deadly power,

Press they without fear or pause,-
To the very cannon's jaws!
Gallant Nolan, brave as Roland

At the field of Roncesvalles,
Dashes down the fatal valley,
Dashes on the bolt of death,
Shouting, with his latest breath,
"Charge, then, gallants! do not waver,
Charge the pass at Balaklava!"
Oh that rash and fatal charge,
On the battle's bloody marge!

Now the bolts of volleyed thunder
Rend that little band asunder,
Steed and rider wildly screaming,

Screaming wildly, sink away;
Late so proudly, prondly gleaming,
Now but lifeless clods of clay,-
Now but bleeding clods of clay!
Never, since the days of Jesus,
Saw such sight the Chersonesus!

Yet your remnant, brave Six Hundred,
Presses onward, onward, onward,

Till they storm the bloody pass,-
Till, like brave Leonidas,

Lo, they storm the deadly pass!
Sabring Cossack, Calmuck, Kalli,
In that wild, shot-rended valley,-
Drenched with fire and blood, like lava,-
Awful pass at Balaklava!

Oh that rash and fatal charge,
On that battle's bloody marge!

For now Russia's rallied forces,
Swarming hordes of Cossack horses,
Trampling o'er the reeking corses,

Drive the thinned assailants back,
Drive the feeble remnant back,
O'er their late heroic track!
Vain, alas! now rent and sundered,
Vain your struggles, brave Two Hundred!
Thrice your number lie asleep,
In that valley dark and deep.
Weak and wounded you retire
From that hurricane of fire;—
But no soldiers, firmer, braver,

Ever trod the field of fame, Than the Knights of Balaklava,— Honor to each hero's name!

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