Whose 'twas to swear to it.

*

What of style?

There is no style is good, but nature's style.
And the great ancient's writings beside ours
Look like illuminated manuscripts

Before plain press print; all had different minds,

And followed only their own bents; for this
Nor copied that, nor that the other; each

Is finished in his writing; each is best
For his own mind and that it was upon;
And all have lived, are living, and shall live;
But these have died, are dying, and shall die;
Yea, copyists shall die, spark out and out.
Minds which combine and make alone can tell
The bearings and workings of all things
In and
upon each other.

And he who means to be a great bard, must
Measure himself against pure mind and fling
His soul into a stream of thought, as will
A swimmer hurl himself into the water.

Write to the mind and heart, and let the ear
Glean after what it can.

The voice of great

Or graceful thoughts is sweeter far than all

Word music; and great thoughts, like great deeds, need

No trumpet. Never be in haste writing.

Let that thou utterest be of nature's flow,

Not art's-a fountain's, not a pump's. But once
Begun, work thou all things into thy work;

And set thyself about it, as the sea

THE TRUE POET.- -FRIENDSHIP.

About earth, lashing at it day and night;
Ard leave the stamp of thine own soul in it
As thorough as the fossil flower in clay.

FRIENDSHIP.

SHAKSPERE.

I count myself in nothing else so happy,
As in a soul remembering my good friends;
And, as my fortune ripens with my love,
It shall be still thy true love's recompense.

195

THE FINEST ENGLISH EPIGRAM.

DR. DODDRIDGE

"Live while you live," the epicure would say, And seize the pleasures of the present day. "Live while you live," the sacred preacher cries, And give to God each moment as it flies. Lord, in my view, let both united be; I live in pleasure while I live to thee.

OUR INFANT IN HEAVEN.

ILENCE filled the courts of heaven,
Hushed were angel harp and tone,
As a little new-born spirit

Knelt before the eternal throne;

While her small white hands were lifted,
Clasped as if in earnest prayer,
And her voice in low, sweet murmurs,
Rose like music on the air.

Light from the full fount of glory

On her robes of whiteness glistened, And the bright-winged seraphs round her Bowed their radiant heads and listened:

Lord! from thy throne of glory here
My heart turns fondly to another;
O, Lord, our God, the comforter,
Comfort, comfort my sweet mother!
Many sorrows hast thou sent her,
Meekly has she drained the cup,
And the jewels thou hast lent her,
Unrepining, yielded up-
Comfort, comfort my sweet mother.

Earth is frowning darkly round her,
Many, many hast thou taken;

Let her not, though clouds surround her,

Feel herself of thee forsaken.

Let her think, when faint and weary,
We are waiting for her here;

Let each loss that makes earth dreary,

Make the thought of heaven more dear— Comfort, comfort my sweet mother.

Savior! thou in nature human,

Dwelt on earth a little child,
Pillowed on the breast of woman,
Blessed Mary! undefiled.

Thou, who from the cross of suffering,
Marked thy mother's tearful face,
And bequeathed her to thy loved one,
Bidding him to fill thy place-
Comfort, comfort my sweet mother.

Thou, who from the heaven descending,
Tears, and woes, and suffering won;
Thon, who Nature's laws suspending,
Gave the widow back her son;

Thou, who at the grave of Lazarus,
Wept with those who wept their dead;
Thou, who once in mortal anguish,
Bowed thy own anointed head-
Comfort, comfort my sweet mother!

The dove-like murmurs died away
Upon the radiant air,

But still the little suppliant knelt,
With hands still clasped in prayer;
Still were her softly-pleading eyes
Turned to the sapphire throne,