Juggling's no sin, for we must have victual: Nature allows us to bait for the fool. Holding one's own makes us juggle no little; But, to increase it, hard juggling's the rule. You that are sneering at my profession, Haven't you juggled a vast amount? There's the Prime Minister, in one Session, Juggles more games than my sins 'll count. I've murder'd insects with mock thunder: Ay! and I've had my smile from the Queen: Bravo, Jerry! she meant: God bless her! Ain't this a sermon on that scene? I've studied men from my topsy-turvey But if it's a woman, old girl, that makes me We two were married, due and legal: Honest we've lived since we've been one. Lord! I could then jump like an eagle: You danced bright as a bit o' the sun. Birds in a May-bush we were! right merry! All night we kiss'd-we juggled all day. Joy was the heart of Juggling Jerry! Now from his old girl he's juggled away. It's past parsons to console us: No, nor no doctor fetch for me: I can die without my bolus; Two of a trade, lass, never agree! Parsons and Doctors-don't they love rarely, I, lass, have lived no gipsy, flaunting Finery while his poor helpmate grubs: Coin I've stored, and you won't be wanting: You shan't beg from the troughs and tubs. Hand up the chirper! ripe ale winks in it; Once a stout draught made me light as a linnet. Yonder came smells of the gore, so nutty, Gold-like and warm: it's the prime of May. Better than mortar, brick, and putty, Is God's house in a blowing day. Lean me more up the mound; now I feel it; All the old heath-smells! Ain't it strange? There's the world laughing, as if to conceal it, But He's by us, juggling the change. I mind it well, by the sea-beach lying, Once-it's long gone-when two gulls we beheld, Which, as the moon got up, were flying Down a big wave that sparkl'd and swell'd. Crack! went a gun: one fell: the second Wheel'd round him twice, and was off for new luck: There in the dark her white wing beckon'd:- NIGHT. JAMES MONTGOMERY. Night is the time for rest; How sweet, when labors close, To gather round an aching breast The curtain of repose, Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head Upon our own delightful bed! Night is the time for dreams; The gay romance of life, When truth that is, and truth that seems, Blend in fantastic strife; Ah! visions less beguiling far Than waking dreams by daylight are! Night is the time for toil; To plough the classic field, Its wealthy furrows yield; Night is the time to weep; To wet with unseen tears Those graves of memory where sleep The joys of other years; Hopes that were angels in their birth, But perished young like things on earth! Night is the time to watch; On ocean's dark expanse Night is the time for care; Brooding on hours misspent, To see the spectre of despair Come to our lonely tent; Like Brutus, 'midst his slumbering host, Summoned to die by Cæsar's ghost. Night is the time to think; Then from the eye the soul Takes flight, and on the utmost brink Of yonder starry pole, Discerns beyond the abyss of night The dawn of uncreated light. Night is the time to pray; Our Saviour oft withdrew To desert mountains far away; So will his followers do; Steal from the throng to haunts untrod, And commune there alone with God. Night is the time for death; When all around is peace, Calmly to yield the weary breath, From sin and suffering cease: Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign To parting friends-such death be mine! GOD'S FIRST TEMPLES. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. The groves were God's first temples. Ere man learned To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, The sound of anthems,-in the darkling wood, And from the gray old trunks, that, high in heaven, Let me, at least Father, thy hand Hath reared these venerable columns; thou Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died That, from the inmost darkness of the place, In the tranquility that thou dost love, Passes; and yon clear spring, that, 'midst its herbs, Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and grace, In all the proud old world beyond the deep, My heart is awed within me, when I think Of the great miracle that still goes on, In silence, round me-the perpetual work Of thy creation, finished, yet renewed Forever. Written on thy works, I read The lesson of thy own eternity. Lo! all grow old and die: but see, again, How, on the faltering footsteps of decay, Youth presses-ever gay and beautiful youth, In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees Wave not less proudly that their ancestors Moulder beneath them. O, there is not lost One of earth's charms: upon her bosom yet, After the flight of untold centuries, The freshness of her far beginning lies, And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate Of his arch enemy Death-yea, seats himself Upon the sepulchre, and blooms and smiles, And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth From thine own bosom, and shall have no end. There have been holy men, who hid themselves The swift, dark whirlwind, that uproots the woods, Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite; Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good. Ring out old shapes of foul disease; Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace. Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be. AND FARE THEE WELL. RICHARD H. DANA. The sun was nigh its set, when we were come Once more where stood the good man's lowly home. We sat beside the door; a gorgeous sight Above our heads-the elm in golden light. Thoughtful and silent for awhile-he then Talked of my coming.-"Thou'lt not go again From thine own vale; and we will make thy home Pleasant; and it shall glad thee to have come." Then of my garden and my house he spoke, And well ranged orchard on the sunny slope; And grew more bright and happy in his talk Of social winter eve, and summer walk. And, while I listened, to my sadder soul A sunnier, gentler sense in silence stole; Nor had I heart to spoil the little plan Which cheered the spirit of the kind old man. At length I spake "No! here I must not stay; I'll rest to-night-to-morrow go my way." He did not urge me. Looking in my face, As he each feeling of the heart could trace, He prest my hand, and prayed I might be blest,— Where'er I went, that Heaven would give me rest. The silent night has past into the prime Of day-to thoughtful souls a solemn time. For man has wakened from his nightly death, And shut up sense to morning's life and breath. He sees go out in heaven the stars that kept Their glorious watch while he, unconscious, slept,Feels God was round him while he knew it notIs awed-then meets the world—and God's forgot. So may I not forget thee, holy Power! Be to me ever as at this calm hour. The tree tops now are glittering in the sun: Away! 'Tis time my journey was begun. Why should I stay, when all I loved are fled, Strange to the living, knowing but the dead; A homeless wanderer through my early home; Let me go, rather, where I shall not find Aught that my former self will bring to mind. These old, familiar things, where'er I tread, Are round me like the mansions of the dead. No! wide and foreign lands shall be my range, That suits the lonely soul, where all is strange. Then for the dashing sea, the broad full sail! And fare thee well, my own green, quiet vale. PICTURE OF DOMESTIC LOVE. THOMAS CAMPBELL-" PLEASURES OF HOPE." Thy pencil traces on the lover's thought Some cottage-home, from towns and toil remote, Where love and lore may claim alternate hours, With peace embosomed in Idalian bowers! Remote from busy life's bewildered way, O'er all his heart shall Taste and Beauty sway! Free on the sunny slope, or winding shore, With hermit-steps to wander and adore. There shall be love, when genial morn appears, Like pensive Beauty smiling in her tears, To watch the brightening roses of the sky, And muse on nature with a poet's eye! And when the sun's last splendor lights the deep, The woods and waves, and murmuring winds asleep, When fairy harps the Hesperian planet hail, And the lone cuckoo sighs along the vale, His path shall be where streamy mountains swell Their shadowy grandeur o'er the narrow dell; Where mouldering piles and forests intervene, Mingling with darker tints the living green; No circling hills his ravished eye to bound, Heaven, earth, and ocean blazing all around! The moon is up-the watch tower dimly burnsAnd down the vale his sober step returns; But pauses oft, as winding rocks convey The still sweet fall of music far away; And oft he lingers from his home awhile, To watch the dying notes-and start, and smile! Let winter come! let polar spirits sweep The darkening world, and tempest-troubled deep! Though boundless snows the withered heath deform, And the dim sun scarce wanders through the storm, Yet shall the smile of social love repay, With mental light, the melancholy day! And, when its short and sullen noon is o'er, The ice-chained waters slumbering on the shore, How bright the fagots in his little hall Blaze on the hearth, and warm the pictured wall! "THERE IS NO DEATH." LORD LYTTON. There is no death! the stars go down There is no death! the dust we tread The granite rocks disorganized To feed the hungry moss they bear; The forest trees drink daily life From out the viewless air. There is no death! the leaves may fall, The flowers may fade and pass away; They only wait, through wintry hours, The coming of the May. There is no death! an angel form Walks o'er the earth with silent tread; He bears our best-loved things awayAnd then we call them "dead." He leaves our hearts all desolate; He plucks our fairest, sweetest flowers; Transplanted into bliss, they now Adorn immortal bowers. For where he sees a smile too bright, The bird-like voice whose joyous tones Made glad this scene of sin and strife, Sings now the everlasting song Amid the Tree of Life. Though passed beyond our tear-dimmed sight, 'Tis but a larger life to gain; We feel their presence oft-the same, And ever near us, though unseen, Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment. SEVEN AGES OF MAN. SHAKSPEARE. All the world's a stage, Even in the cai.non's mouth. And then, the justice, POLONIUS'S ADVICE TO HIS SON. SHAKSPEARE. Give thy thoughts no tongue, Nor any unproportioned thought his act. THE LAOCOON. J. G. HOLLAND. Laocoon! thou great embodiment Is but a marble dream, and dreams are all To all the generations yet to come TO CELIA. BEN JONSON-"THE FOREST." Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup, And I'll not look for wine. But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I sent thee late a rosy wreath, It could not withered be. Since when, it grows, and smells, I swear, |