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EXTRACTS FROM "CRITICISM.”'

159

What woful stuff this madrigal would be,
In some starved hackney sonneteer, or me!
But let a lord once own the happy lines,
How the wit brightens! how the style refines!
Before his sacred name flies every fault,
And each exalted stanza teems with thought!

To what base ends, and by what abject ways,
Are mortals urged through sacred lust of praise!
Ah ne'er so dire a thirst of glory boast,
Nor in the critic let the man be lost.
Good-nature and good-sense must ever join;
To err is human, to forgive--divine.

*

*

*

Be silent always, when you doubt your sense;
And speak, though sure, with seeming diffidence:
Some positive, persisting fops we know,
Who, if once wrong, will needs be always so;
But

you, with pleasure own your errors past, And make each day a critique on the last.

*

MEMORIES.

BARRY CORNWALL,

S

ING a low song

!
A tender cradle measure soft and low,

Not sad or long,
But such as we remomber long ago,

When Time, now old, was flying
Over the sunny seasons bright and fleet,

And the red rose was lying
Amongst a crowd of flowers all too sweet.

“Down to Sleep."
"Tovember woods are bare and still,

November days are clear and bright,
Each moon burns up the morning's chill,

The morning's snow is gone by night.
Each day my steps grow slow, grow light,
As through the woods I reverent creep,

Watching all things lie "down to sleep."
I never knew before what beds

Fragrant to smell and soft to touch,
The forest sifts and shapes and spreads.

I never knew before how much
Of human sound there is in such
Low tones as through the forest sweep

When all wild things lie “down to sleep."
Each day I find now coverlids

Tucked in and more sweet eyes shut tight,
Sometime the viewloss mother bids
Her ferns kneel known full in my sight,
I hear their chorus of “good night,'
And half I smile, and half I weep,
Listening while they lie "down to sleep."
November woods are bare and still,

November days are bright and good,
Life's noon burns up life's morning chill,
Life's night rests feet that long have stood.
Some warm soft bed in field or wood
The mother will not fail to keep,
Where we can “lay us down to sleep."
Helen Hunt Jackson.

GOD KNOWETH.

MRS. MARY G. BRAINARD, CHANGED BY P. P. BLISS.

I know not what awaits me,

God kindly veils mine eyes,
And o’er each step of my onward way

He makes new scenes to rise;
And every joy he sends me, comes

A sweet and glad surprise.

Where he may lead I'll follow,

My trust in Him repose;
And every hour in perfect peace

I'll sing, He knows, He knows.

One step I see before me,

'Tis all I need to see,
The light of heaven more brightly shines,

When earth's illusions flee;
And sweetly through the silence, came

His loving “Follow Me.”

O blissful lack of wisdom,

'Tis blessed not to know;
He holds me with His own right hand,

And will not let me go,
And lulls my troubled soul to rest

In Him who loves me so.

So on I go not knowing,

I would not if I might;
I'd rather walk in the dark with God

Than go alone in the light;
I'd rather walk by faith with Him

Than go alone by sight.

[graphic]

As You Go Through Life. | Don't look for the flaws as you go through life;

And even when you find them,
It is wise and kind to be somewhat blind

And look for the virtue behind them.
For the cloudiest night has a hint of light

Somewhere in its shadows hiding;
It is better by far to hunt for a star

Than the spots on the sun abiding.
The current of life runs ever away

To the bosom of God's great ocean.
Don't set your force 'gainst the river's course

And think to alter its motion.
Don't waste a curse on the universe-

Remember, it lived before you.
Don't butt at the storm with your puny form-

But bend and let it go o'er you.
The world will never adjust itself

To suit your whims to the letter. Some things must go wrong your whole life long,

And the sooner you know it the better, It is folly to fight with the Infinite,

And go under at last in the wrestle. The wiser man shapes into God's plan

As the water shapes into a vessel. -Ella Wheeler Wilcox in Young Ladies' Home

Journal.

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