one by one receiving the reward of intellectual toil, and mental strife, I saw a drop gathering in his eye, and turned away his thoughts.

Of whom the busy world hears least,"

says Wordsworth; and Beattie tells us

"Many a soul sublime

By Poverty's unconquerable bar,

In life's low vale remote has pined alone,

Then dropt into the grave, unpitied and unknown!"

Both are true.

There was another whom I had known for years. Noble, high-minded, generous, he won the esteem of all. Of a calm,

placid, ingenuous disposition, and an intellect of strength and energy, he faithfully subdued its capacities to the routine here presented for fulfillment. No vain ambition goaded him on; he courted no ephemeral applause, but sought only to fit himself for future usefulness.

The world before him seemed to hold out no honored cup of pleasure for his enjoyment, but he studiously husbanded his resources for whatever might befall him in life. Friends smiled on his acquirements, and he may have striven for their satisfaction; yes, when the ills of life were thronging on him, when his relaxed energies courted repose, their cheers may have incited-may have stung him with the consciousness that his vigor was wasting. Howbeit he battled with the weakness of the flesh, until it conquered him. ·

The strength of manhood, the flush and vigor of youth, strove beside him-how could he see his weakness?-how could he feel it? The fire of his eye flashed on, as the tottering step betrayed him; and only in the solitude of his chamber, would the mournful, oh! thrice mournful truth flash upon him,—that he was consuming himself. Friends were not by, to see that languid smile, to hear those close respirations, else why-how those incitements to effort, which came ever and anon, like oil to the fire, raging at his vitals. The chill of collegiate authority, diffusing itself over him as over the wanton throng, grated harshly on his sensitive, diseased mind.

I can now tell the sequel of his story. He was successful in his every effort; and while his cheek was flushed with the calm satisfaction of having pleased those who watched him with friendly solicitude, disease glowed there, at its triumph. And in a year, in a distant, secluded village, away from his home,—a few friends, endeared by his amiable character, followed him to the grave.

34

THE SONG OF THE STARS.

[Nov.

How few of the thronging, busy world know that one, who, had he lived, would have graved his name high on his country's annals, has passed away like the autumn leaf! What a leveller is Death!

"The star that glitters on the bier,

Can only say, Nobility lies here."

Kind reader, had you seen him, had you known him, the tear would glisten on your cheek, as you read his name,

Charles St. John Eldredge.

But time is passing, and time is more to me than it was when I was 'roguish Tom Brainard.' The clock ticks faster than it did in boyhood. I know the hours roll sooner round; I feel the months slipping under my feet. I lay my hand upon the new year, and welcome him with mirth. I change my date with all the enthusiasm I did when a boy; but while I smile in recurrence to past scenes, the year is old; and I weep as I sport with his silver locks, for I know he will soon be in his grave!

THE SONG OF THE STARS.

"When the morning stars sang together."

OH, 'tis a glorious, solemn sight,

When wandering forth at dead of night,
We view the vault of the cloudless sky,
And all the starry host on high,

And the slumbering earth and the rolling sea,
Beneath that glittering canopy.

'Twas such a scene that met my eye

As forth I went 'neath the evening sky:

The heavens above were veiled in white,
With a robe of pale and misty light;
And the stars from thrones of changeless blue,
Seemed looking down and gazing through.

'Tis said, that by each radiant star,
Wide as creation's glories are,
Honor and praise are nightly given

To Him who kindled those lamps of heaven,
As the morning stars once swelled abroad

The praise of their Creator God;

And the new-born earth to the joyful sky,
Echoed the heavenly minstrelsy.

I listened to catch the melodious strains,
That rolled along the ethereal plains;
For those bright orbs seemed marching by,
Moved by celestial harmony.

When sudden that veil was rolled away,-
Each star shot forth a brighter ray,—
And Silence hushed the whispering breeze,
And brooded o'er the dark blue seas;
Voiceless was now the murmuring rill,
The thousand forest leaves were still,
And Nature, silent, waiting stood
In presence of all nature's God.

When lo, a sweet seraphic strain,

From the farthest rank of that heavenly train,

First faintly low,-then softly clear,-
Came swelling richly on the ear.
For a gentle, mildly-beaming star,

That shot its radiance from afar,
Had thus the heavenly song begun,—
"Glory and praise to the Holy One."
And a fiery star from his sky-built throne,
Flaming with zenith splendors down,
Answered with full majestic tone-
"Glory and praise to the Holy One."
While all the glittering hosts above,
That on in bright procession move,
Far as the thrilling accents ran,
The anthem of the skies began,
And rolled around the Eternal Throne-
"Glory and praise to the Holy One."

They ceased, the voice of praise was still,

Save from the distant echoing hill,—

Back to its native skies was given

The softened melody of Heaven.

Silence returned;-nor beast, nor bird,

From their deep and Heaven-charmed melody stirred; Obedient to its Maker's will,

Earth's thousand voices all were still;

And a holy calm in the breathing air
Silently taught me that God was there.

But now the tuneful skies again,
Awoke their glad melodious strain :
Soft murmurs rose from the distant west,
Like the hymn of infant spirits blest ;

The east, with its bright and glittering throng,
Echoed a clearer and louder song;

It rolled along the northern sky,

In sounds of glorious majesty ;

36

THE SONG OF THE STARS.

It floated by on the gliding breeze,
And died away o'er the southern seas;-
And I listened to catch the parting lay
Of that sweet but dying melody.

The music of earth I have ever loved,
And have felt the spirit within me moved
By the silvery sound of the soft lute's tone,
With the voice of a loved and gentle one;
I have heard the pealing organ raise
Its thrilling notes of lofty praise;
I have heard the mourner's plaintive lay,
And have wept in childish sympathy;
Yet I never listened to sounds so blest

As those which rose in the distant west,—
To anthem thrilling the soul so high,

As that which pealed from the northern sky;—
Never did earthly music, greet

My raptured ear with notes so sweet

As that same soft and parting lay,

In its distant, dying melody.

I heard no more ;-for a fringe of light
Bordered the eastern veil of night;
The morning breeze came roaring by,
Bowing the forest heads on high,

And the tuneful march of the stars gave way

To the busy hum of the rising day.

I know that the faithless world may deem
This but a wandering fancy's dream,—
For seldom to mortal ear is given,
To hear the harmony of Heaven.
And grant that the carping world is right;-
Be it a dream of the shadowy night;-
Yet its impress upon my soul hath grown
Deeper and deeper as years roll on,—
And in memory's trust shall it ever lie,
As a cherished and loved reality.

I ne'er shall see that bright rayed star,

Or that which meekly beamed afar,

Or gaze on the glorious northern sky,
Whence rolled those sounds of majesty,

But my heart shall swell with this thought alone

"Glory and praise to the Holy One."

And when God shall grant me to soar away,

Dropping this veil of mortal clay;

When backward roll the clouds that stay

The day-spring of eternity,

Then, then will I mount on triumph's wing,

To join with the glittering throng and sing—
With the myriads round the Eternal Throne-

[Nov.

THE POETRY OF THE HOLY SCRIPTURES.

IN that age of the world when tyranny had moulded man's independent spirit to the most abject servility—when the primitive religion was lost in unholy rites and senseless superstition, and when all the avenues to the sources of knowledge were closed by the jargon of a mystical philosophy; in this period of darkness, appeared the first of that series of Divine communications, in which are contained our religion and the higher portion of our knowledge. They have descended to us through a troubled ocean, but the Controller of storms has conducted them in safety. The arts and malice of enemies could not destroy them; the deep, sluggish shade of ignorance could not obscure them. It may not, then, be uninteresting, it cannot be impertinent, to inquire by what means the Creator has secured for his volume the reverence and attention of man, so degraded in taste and so bewildered in understanding; and by what arts he has thrown around it all the interest of romance, while he has filled it with the perfection of wisdom?

The sway of philosophy is limited and imperfect; mankind must be governed not by speculation, but by fact, by influences which affect the senses, which flash upon the understanding in palpable forms, and suit themselves to life without the labor of reasoning and deduction. Hence, in every age and every advance of society, men have been disposed to throw off the restrictions of logical and philosophical rules, and to express their ideas in the freer and more majestic language of poetry. Among other nations, this impulse has suggested the most absurd fictions and led away the imagination into the wildest vagaries. Among the Jews it was the friend, the guardian of truth, the faculty of expressing ideas too sublime for the comprehension of definite language, and too closely interwoven with human life to be conveyed in the abstract terms of philosophy. The history of the Jews was a succession of wonders, and supplied an inexhaustible fund for the most grasping imagination. Within the boundaries of truth, the poet found the widest, highest range for thought, and by that very means was happily excluded from the arts of falsehood and exaggeration, which have often degraded and polluted the poetry of other nations. He wandered among the stately monuments and crumbling ruins of the past, or plunged into the future and watched its unborn changes. No pensioner upon royal bounty, no dependent upon the favor of men, the Jewish poet never for a moment sunk to the panegyrist or the flatterer. He looked not into the countenance but into the hearts of men. Such is the character whom we are to introduce before you, and such is the medium through which the Creator chose to instruct the human race.