But I will eat', and drink', and sleep as soft

As captain shall; simply the thing I am

Shall make me live. Who knows himself a braggart,
Let him fear this.

Rust', sword'! cool', blushes'! and, Delgrado', live!
Safest in shame! being fooled, by foolery thrive!
There's place and means for every man alive'.

[Exit.

LXVIII. A PASSAGE IN HUMAN LIFE.

1. In my daily walks into the country, I was accustomed to pass a certain cottage. It had nothing particularly picturesque about it. It had its little garden, and its vine spreading over its front; but, beyond these, it possessed no feature likely to fix it in the mind of the poet or novel-writer, and which might induce him to people it with creatures of his own fancy. In fact, it appeared to be inhabited by persons as little extraordinary as itself. A "good man of the house it might possess, but he was never visible. The only inmates I ever saw, were a young woman, and another female, in the wane of life, no doubt the mother.

2. The damsel was a comely, fresh, mild-looking cottage girl, always seated in one spot, near the window, intent on her needle. The old dame was as regularly busied, to and fro, in household affairs. She appeared one of those good housewives, who never dream of rest, except when in sleep. The cottage stood so near the road, that the fire at the further end of the room, showed you, without your being rudely inquisitive, the whole interior in a single moment of passing. A clean hearth and a cheerful fire, shining upon homely but neat and orderly furniture, spoke of comfort: but whether the old dame enjoyed, or merely diffused that comfort, was a problem.

3. I passed the house many successive days. It was always alike, the fire shining brightly and peacefully,—the girl seated at her post by the window, the housewife going to and fro, catering and contriving, dusting and managing. One morning as I went by, there was a change. The dame

-

was seated near her daughter, her arms laid upon the table, and her head reclined upon her arms. I was sure that it was sickness which had compelled her to that action of repose; nothing less could have done it. I felt that I knew exactly the poor woman's feelings. She had felt a weariness stealing upon her; she had wondered at it, and struggled against it, and borne up, hoping it would pass by; till, loth as she was to yield, it had forced submission.

4. The next day, when I passed, the room appeared as usual; the fire burning pleasantly, the girl at her needle, but her mother was not to be seen; and, glancing my eye upward, I perceived the blind close drawn, in the window above. It is so, said I to myself, disease is in progress. Perhaps it occasions no gloomy fear of consequences, no extreme concern: and yet, who knows how it may end? It is thus, that begin those changes that draw out the central bolt that holds families together; which steal away our fire-side faces, and lay waste our affections.

5. I passed by, day after day. The scene was the same; the fire burning, the hearth beaming clear and beautiful; but the mother was not to be seen; the blind was still drawn above. At length, I missed the girl, and in her place appeared another woman, bearing considerable resemblance to the mother, but of a more quiet habit. It was easy to interpret this change. Disease had assumed an alarming aspect; the daughter was occupied in intense watching and caring for the suffering mother, and the good woman's sister had been summoned to her side, perhaps from a distant spot, and. perhaps, from her family cares, which no less important an event could have induced her to elude.

6. Thus appearances continued some days. There was silence around the house, and an air of neglect within it, till, one morning, I beheld the blind drawn, in the room below, and the window thrown open above. The scene was over; the mother was removed from her family, and one of those great changes effected in human life, which commence with so little observation, but leave behind them such lasting effects.

LXIX. THANATOPSIS.

FROM BRYANT.

THANATOPSIS is composed of two Greek words, thanatos meaning death, and opsis a view. The word, therefore, signifies a view of death, or "Reflections on Death."

1. To him who in the love of Nature, holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And healing sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness ere he is aware.

2.

3.

When thoughts

Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images

Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;—
Go forth, under the open sky, and list

To Nature's teachings, while from all around,
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air,
Comes a still voice:

Yet a few days, and thee,

The all-beholding sun shall see no more

In all his course; nor yet, in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist

Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again;
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix forever with the elements,

To be a brother to the insensible rock,
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold.

4. Yet not to thy eternal resting-place

Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down

5.

6.

With patriarchs of the infant world, with kings,
The powerful of the earth, the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulcher.

The hills,

Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun; the vales,
Stretching in pensive quietness between;

The venerable woods; rivers that move

In majesty, and the complaining brooks

That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,

Are but the solemn decorations all

Of the great tomb of man.

The golden sun,

The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages.

All that tread

The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings
Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce,

Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound,
Save his own dashings-yet-the dead are there;
And millions in those solitudes, since first

The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep: the dead reign there alone.

7. So shalt thou rest; and what if thou shalt fall
Unnoticed by the living; and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one as before will chase
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glides away, the sons of men,

The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron, and maid,
The bowed with age, the infant in the smiles
And beauty of its innocent age cut off,-
Shall, one by one, be gathered to thy side,
By those who in their turn shall follow them.

8. So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, which moves

To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

LXX. THE DEPARTED.

FROM PARK BENJAMIN.

1. THE aeparted! the departed!
They visit us in dreams,

And they glide above our memories
Like shadows over streams;

But where the cheerful lights of home
In constant luster burn,
The departed, the departed,
Can never more return!

2. The good, the brave, the beautiful,
How dreamless is their sleep,
Where rolls the dirge-like music
Of the ever-tossing deep!
Or where the surging night-winds
Pale winter's robes have spread
Above the narrow palaces,

In the cities of the dead!

3. I look around, and feel the awe
Of one who walks alone,
Among the wrecks of former days,
In mournful ruin strown;

I start to hear the stirring sounds
Among the cypress-trees,

For the voice of the departed
Is borne upon the breeze.

4. That solemn voice! it mingles with
Each free and careless strain;

I scarce can think earth's minstrelsy
Will cheer my heart again.