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Not unaccepted such pure omen came ;

That gentle voice the present God revealed, And back the lonian chief returned in shame,

Checked by the virtue of that simple shield.

THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. — Bryant.

The melancholy days have come, the saddest of the

year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows

brown and sear. Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the withered

leaves lie dead; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's

tread. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the

shrubs the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all

the gloomy day.

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that

lately sprang and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sister.

hood ? Alas! they all are in their graves ; the gentle race of

flowers Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good

of ours. The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold No

vember rain Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones

again.

THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.

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The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the sum

mer glow; But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the

wood, And the yellow sunflower by the brook, in autumn

beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls

the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone, from

upland, glade, and glen.

And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still

such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter

home, When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all

the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, The south wind searches for the flowers whose fra

grance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream

no more. And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty

died, The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by

my side : In the cold, moist earth we laid her, when the forest

cast the leaf, And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so

brief; Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend

of ours, So gentle, and so beautiful, should perish with the

flowers,

THE CORAL GROVE.- Percival.

Deep in the wave is a coral grove,
Where the purple mullet and gold-fish rove;
Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue,
That never are wet with falling dew,
But in bright and changeful beauty shine,
Far down in the green and glassy brine.
The floor is of sand, like the mountain drift,
And the pearl-shells spangle the flinty snow ;
From coral rocks the sea-plants lift
Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow;
The water is calm and still below,
For the winds and the wayes are absent there,
And the sands are bright as the stars that glow
In the motionless fields of upper air:
There, with its waving blade of green,
The sea-flag streams through the silent water,
And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen
To blush like a banner bathed in slaughter :
There, with a light and easy motion,
The fan-coral sweeps through the clear, deep sea ;
And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean
Are bending like corn on the upland lea :
And life, in rare and beautiful forms,
Is sporting amid those bowers of stone,
And is safe, when the wrathful spirit of storms
Has made the top of the waves his own :
And when the ship from his fury flies,
When the myriad voices of ocean roar,
When the wind-god frowns in the murky skies,
And demons are waiting the wreck on the shore ;
Then, far below, in the peaceful sea,
The purple mullet and gold-fish rove,
Where the waters murmur tranquilly
Through the bending twigs of the coral grove.

A HAPPY LIFE.

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A HAPPY LIFE. — Sir Henry Wotton.

How happy is he born and taught,

That serveth not another's will; Whose armor is his honest thought, . And simple truth his utmost skill;

Whose passions not his masters are ;

Whose soul is still prepared for death, Untied unto the world by care

Of public fame, or private breath;

Who envies none, that chance doth raise,

Nor vice; hath ever understood
How deepest wounds are given by praise,

Nor rules of state, but rules of good;

Who hath his life from rumors freed;

Whose conscience is his strong retreat; Whose state can neither flatterers feed,

Nor ruin make oppressors great;

Who God doth late and early pray

More of his grace than gifts to lend; And entertains the harmless day

With a well chosen book or friend.

This man is freed from servile bands

Of hope to rise, or fear to fall ; Lord of himself, though not of lands,

And having nothing, yet hath all.

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KNOWLEDGE and wisdom, far from being one,
Have oft times no connection. Knowledge dwells
In heads replete with thoughts of other men ;
Wisdom, in minds attentive to their own.
Knowledge, - a rude, unprofitable mass,
The mere materials with which wisdom builds, –
Till smoothed, and squared, and fitted to its place,
Does but encumber whom it seems to enrich !
Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much,
Wisdom is humble that he knows no more.

GOOD TEMPER. - More.

Since trifles make the sum of human things
And half our misery from our foibles springs;
Since life's best joys consist in peace and ease,
And though but few can serve, yet all may please ;
O, let the ungentle spirit learn from hence,
A small unkindness is a great offence !

VIRTUE.- Old English Poetry.

The sturdy rock, for all his strength,

By raging seas is rent in twain ;
The marble stone is pierced at length

With little drops of drizzling rain ;
The ox doth yield unto the yoke;
The steel obeyeth the hammer stroke.

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