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THEY ARE ALL GONE INTO THE WORLD OF

LIGHT.

This is one of our favorite poems. It was writ

ten by HENRY VAUGHAN-born 1621, died 1695. We know of nothing superior to it in

all the class of poems to which it belongs. They are all gone into the world of light !

And I alone sit lingering here ! Their memory is fair and bright,

And my sad thoughts doth clear.

It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast

Like stars upon some gloomy grove, Or those faint beams in which the hill is drest

After the Sun's remove.

port the one great principle of moral allegiance to God, and of filial devotion and reliance, and the other virtues will flow from it.

Every vice indicates that the soul is not permeated with that temper, every crime results from the absence of its dominion over the soul. Where this tone of feeling is the under current in the breast, the spirit of life," although the man inay often commit sins, the springs of character are sound, the regenerative principle is within; where this is not the under tone of feeling, although the man may often do good deeds, the springs of character are not healthy, the drift of the heart is wrong, and the man is like a vessel sailing up stream against the current by the force of the wind. The permanent influence is the other way; let the wind change, and the barque will drift down in the direction of the tide. The safety and health of character depend upon the drift we have-the direction of the tidal currents, thought, feeling, and sympathy, upon our "spirit of life.”

And thus our subject leads us again to say that as there was a "spirit of life" in Jesus, so there is a spirit of life in every man. son is living a consecrated or an unconsecrated life. Temptations differ, natural temperaments differ, influences are less favorable in some cases than in others, the grades of Christian attainment vary widely in different hearts, but in every breast there is, or there is not, a settled and determined self-devotion to duty, a recognition of God's goodness and claims to our service,

I see them walking in an air of glory,

Whose light doth trample on my days ;
My days which are at best but dull and hoary,

Mere glimerings and decays.
O holy hope ! and high humility!

High as the heavens above !
These are your walks, and you have shew'd them

Each per

me

To kindle my cold love.

Dear, beauteous deach ; the Jewel of the Just !

Shining no where but in the dark ; What mysteries do lie beyond the dust,

Could man outlook that mark !

a confession of allegiance. This is the point on

He that hath found some fledg'd bird's nest may

know At first sight if the bird be flown ; But what fair Dell or Grove he sings in now,

That is to him unknown.

which the question turns, whether we are worldly or religious, children of heaven or slaves of the earth. It is a settled and a stern reality, that we are, each of us, one or the other. Our lives are being published every day. Our deeds and words are being printed on the tissues of time. Our thoughts and feelings are ever rising towards heaven to be read and searched in the impartial radiance of eternity. What is the spirit of our work? It is known only to God and to ourselves. We are authors, artists, builders; we are ever busy in our tasks. What is the spirit of our work? I know not, but I know, by the authority of Revelation, that it is worse than worthless if it be not the law of the “spirit of life in Christ Jesus.”

And yet, as Angels in some brighter dreams

Call to the soul when man doth sleep, So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted

themes, And into glory peep. If a star were confined into a Tomb,

Her captive flame must needs burn there ; But when the hand that lockt her up gives room,

She'll shine through all the sphere.

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O Father of eternal life, and all

Created glories under thee !
Resume thy spirit from the world of thrall

Into true liberty !
Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill

My perspective still as they pass ;
Or else remove me hence unto that hill

Where I shall need no glass.

“ Do with willing mind and might,

Do your duty, and be blest.”

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TANCREDE DE BOLA.S.

vessel upon a summer sea, with silken sails all

set and shining in the sun, which richly freightDuring the regency of Anne of Austria, while

ed, and waf:ed by faroring gales, goes gallantly Louis XIV. was yet in his minority, among the

on, to be stranded sudlenly upon some hidden young gallants who adorned the bril.jant court

rock teneath the smiring and deceitful wares ; of France, there was none more distinguished

so was he, in 3 monjeni of fancied security and for personal beauty, for brave bearing in the field, happiness, dashed cruel!s upon the rock of adand courtly address in the salon, than the young afar, and his lofty aspirations, like painted pen

versity, so was his freight of promise strewn Tancrede de Rohan. His father had been killed in battle; and he was now in the spring of life, ants, borne down and lost in the shock. with his high spirit and noble aspirations, the

It was the day on which the decree of the head of the house of de Rohan, and like his il

council had been comm municated to the unfortulustrious and valiant ancestor, whose proud

nate Tancrede, and in the solitude of his own! war-cry had been, “ King I can't, Prince I scorn, apartment he had given way to the first feelings Rohan I am,” he saw nothing above him but

of amazement, shame and despair. He had not the throne. No lower station would they have

seen his mother. She dared not come to him, deigned to reach after or envy, and that they and he felt that her absence from his side at such sought not, for their loyalty was greater than a time, must be proof conclusive of her guilt. their ambition. And the young Tancrede seem. He had paced the wide apartment to and fro ed their fitting representative; for though not

with hurried steps, as if motion of the body haughty or overbearing in his pride, there was might calm the tumult of the mind, and then a high sense of the nobleness of his position throwing himself upon a couch, lay clutching the when he saw himself the head of an illustrious silken canopy with convulsive fingers, with damp

family, and the beir of wealth and honors little hair falling away from his pale brow, and with i less than princely.

white lips and eyes rolling uptrard, like one on How terrible then must have been the blow the verge of madness. to his high spirit when the privy council, at the

The anxious Catherine, who was a sister in instigation of the Prince of Conde, passed a des affection as well as in name, had listened withcree depriving him of his name, titles, and pos

out to her brother's troubled movements, hesitasessions, upon the presumption of illegitimate ting as yet to enter; but when the sound of hurbirth. One day saw him a star at the brilliant

ried steps had ceased, softly unclosing the door court, gay, handsome, and accomplished ; smiled and gliding to the couch, she threw her arm upon by the queen, admired by lovely ladies, and around him, and laying her cheek to his with envied by less favored gentlemen, and the next

all her wonted tenderness, exclaimed, “O, Tanan outcast from the courtly circle, without sta

crede! this is terrible! What can I do for you, tion, titles, or estate.

my poor brother?" Was his mother, the fair Marguerite Sully, the “Am I your brother, dear Catherine? I noble Duchess de Rohan, as frail as she was

thought they said I had no right to the name; beautiful ? the mother he had looked up to and

that I had no longer a mother, a sister, or a loved! could she be so dishonored in the eyes of home.” the world that the council hesitated not thus

“Did

you

think they could take away my love cruelly to deprive him of his birthright? Was it

for you, my brother? Thank heaven that kings indeed to a mother that he must owe the dis

and parliaments, however they may dispose of grace, the stain, which no time, no exertion on titles and estates, possess no power over the afhis part could wipe away? Was his sweet sis

fections! Gladly would I resign the inheritance ter, the lovely Catherine, no more a sister, but

of possessions which can never bring me a mothe heiress of all of which he was deprived ? ment's happiness purchased with the suffering What cared he now for love or life? Disgraced of my only brother. Are we not children of the by his mother, despoiled of his inheritance by his same mother ? Have we not been all in all to sister, despised by the world, he had met injus

each other? Who else have we loved so well? tice on every side, and the bright light of joy and

Have I known any real happiness in which my hope went out in his heart, leaving only the

Tancrede shared no part ? has he felt any joy darkness and bitterness of despair.

or sorrow that was not divided with Catherine ? Alas, poor youth! so early and so suddenly

and shall she turn from him, or he from her, shipwrecked in the voyage of life! Like a brave now that a gulf opens between them? No, let

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love span the yawning terror! let their hands tion ; that I may soon win a name for myself, be clasped closely still !"

or perish sword in hand. Farewell, then, my “Dear Catherine ! And will you still love me, beloved sister, we shall meet under different cirthough branded with my mother's sin ? I thought cumstances, or we shall meet no more.” I should be hateful in your eyes; that you would The unhappy Tancrede joined the party of the turn froin me as one who had no more right to Fronde, and serving under the Marquis of Vitry, your affection than your naine; but I wronged soon became distinguished for his reckless daryou, sweet Catherine, you are my sister still. ing, and contempt of danger. He wore his arAnd oh, my fair sister, may the soul that looks mor day and night, would take no time for rest, forth so truthfully and purely from those tender and was foremost in every active service. He eyes never be veiled in shame, may thy proud kept entirely aloof from his comrades, and joinunsullied name be ever as now free from the ed in no convivial pleasures. breath of reproach, and may no child of thine A life so little valued by its owner, and so curse the hour and the mother that gave him recklessly exposed, could not, except by a mirabirth! Oh, my sister, you are beautiful! how cle, long escape unscathed, and the detachment beautiful I never knew till now, when I seem to in which he served being surprised near Vincenbe looking for the last time in your lovely face; nes by two squadrons of German cavalry, and but beauty is often a fatal gift, and your soft overpowered by numbers, the young Tancrede sweet eyes, your rose-leaf cheek, and waves of was mortally wounded, and being left for dead, silkea hair, will win admiration from the licen- by his comrades, upon the field, was borne to tious and the bold, as well as the modest and vir- the German camp; but he would not reveal his tuous. Keep watch and ward then, over your name, or speak any thing but Dutch while he heart, my precious Catherine; resign it to no lived. After his death, the enemy, believing him other keeping but that of spotless honor; give it to be a person of distinction, from his noble only to one who is without fear and without re- bearing and remarkable beauty, exposed his boproach. Am I young to counsel ? the last few dy on neutral ground, that it might be identified hours have made me old, and it may be that we by his friends; and thus his mother, the Duchess shall meet no more in such familiar intercourse. de Rohan, was apprised of his death. I must go forth an outcast from my home. I We may image her grief and remorse, at the will not bear the pity or contempt of my former woful ending of a life lately so joyous, and so associates. I will not see my mother, who has bright in its promise, a life which her own sin wrought me this soul wrong. I will gird on my had made too bitter to be borne. And deep was sword and lead in the hottest fight, counting a the sorrow of his gentle sister, and mournful the life cheap that has felt the breath of dishonor, hearts of friends and comrades, for him who thus and deeming it well lost if soon sacrificed in the sadly perished the victim of his mother's dispetty wars which distract the country. You honor. shall only bear of me, Catherine, as bravest in Catherine mourned long for her unfortunate battle, or as lying stiff and cold upon the field. brother ; but in time she loved and married M. You shall only see me crowned with martial de Chabot, who took the name of De Rohan, honors, which alone can in a measure hide my with the family estates. It was a marriage of disgrace, or with my hands folded in that sleep affection ; for the beautiful young Duchess had from which, eren by your sisterly caresses, I refused, for his sake, the Comte de Soisons, the could not be awakened.”

Duke de Wiemar, and the Duke de Nemours; " Alas! my brother! must you thus leave me? and it was even rumored that she would have thus leare the paternal home and all that we refused the crown of Poland also, which was have been wont to enjoy together? and are you, then seeking a wearer at the French court. so young, so loved, so tenderly reared, to battle

In a corrupt age, and at an intriguing court, for life with the foe without and the bitterness

where youth and beauty were but too often sacwithin ? Cruel indeed was the blow which thus

rificed to further the ends of policy and ambition, destroyed your peace! Must we indeed part ?

sometimes reluctantly, and sometimes, alas! and now ? ah, do not go so suddenly !"

willingly, an attachment like that of the Duchess " Catherine, I cannot remain here a day or an and M. de Chabot, a union so happy as theirs, hour longer. I will join the army immediately, was seldom known, and could not but be looked and seek the most arduous and dangerous du- upon with wonder and envy. ties, that I may forget myself in constant exer- That there should be love at court, was scarce

ly to be believed by manouvering dames and maids of honor, or by crafty courtiers and diplomatists. But it was nevertheless true, and the fair Duchess found no reason to regret her preference of a private gentleman over Counts and Dukes; and though she never ceased to lament the sad untimely fate of a brother with whom she would have gladly shared her wealth and her blessings, still she was happy in her husband's love and fidelity.

Note. The incidents of the above sketch form a part of the romance of history, though some license has been taken in their arrangement. Hartford, Conn.

Yes, she has suffered—blighted hopes,

And darkening clouds of dread, And guilty thoughts of days gone by,

And its of the dead, All haunt her through the dreary nights

And in her statned halls, While by her side, in grove and bower,

A phantom shadow falls.

0, couldst thou see, as she has seen,

Each cherish'd joy decay, Each glowing vision of delight

Forever fade away ; 0, had thy hand the life-blood drained

Of one more dear than all, Thou wouldst not live to wear like her

Fame's dazzling coronal :

M. A. H. DODD.

ON ENVY NOT A LOT LIKE AERS.

“O that my lot could be like hers,

A dazzling, splendid course of fame !"

For ’neath that weight of woe and guilt,

Thy spirit could not mount
To bask in poesy's bright rays,

And sip its classic fount.
Then better bear in humbleness

A lowly lot like thine,
Than live a splendid, glittering wretch,
Fane's thorny wreath to twine.

ABBIE E. REMINGTON. Centreville, R. I.

O ENVY not a lot like hers,

Nor ask one flashing gem, Nor wish to pluck one single flower

From her fame's diadem. O ask not for her poet lyre

With its entrancing strain, For with each note of melody

Is mingled one of pain.

CARRIE LINDEN'S LETTERS. NO. II.

The tinsel drapery of wealth

Is but a shroud for care,
And in the chambers of her heart

Is graven deep-despair !
And couldst thou read the volume deep

Within that aching breast, Thou’dst ask no more for lot like hers,

But feel more truly blest.

Couldst thou but know the slightest love

Her woman heart has borne, And feel her grief as, one by one,

Each kindred string was torn,Couldst thou but dream of all the woe

Her dreary soul must bear, Thou’dst turn from happiness like hers,

Nor wish her joys to share.

APRIL, 1851. “I have found violets," sings that poet of ours who would lose half his stock in trade were he to give up flowers and kisses. I always recall that gushing opening of his poem on April, when I catch sight for the first time of the darling little sweetnesses, so redolent of the aroma of the woods. I went out into the woods this morning, taking my way over those “classic grounds” so venerable from the remembered footsteps of the great and good, and so attractive from the kind souls one is sometimes fortunate enough to meet there. Nothing very romantic happened this morning, for it was too early to expect the presence of any other “sandal shoon" than the shadow of a slipper gliding along the passage to the chapel, but that belonged to one of that “sober sort” who can be spared when the smelling bottle is not needed. By the way, I did meet Frank, who was walking vigorously in search of an appetite and to get rid of the dyspepsia, but had taken his lessons with bim, showing that comical combination of seet moring and arms swinging, while the face is blank,

Couldst thou but read the fearful doom

That weighs her spirit down, And trace her thread of destiny,

Thou wouldst not ask her crown Of verdant bay-leaves, twined by those

Who bow with worship pure Before the gifted one, whose fate

Is,“ suffer and endure.”

says,

having left the expressive soul in “Room No. the love of one who has “ a feeling for our infir

I am amused many times to see this mities.” Such a spirit as that finds violets walking after something when every step is but where the Spring is not dreamed of by others, a retreating, for of what use is it to “take a and while he is ready to see the trail of the roywalk” when the same care, the same intense al robes of the King of Glory in the path of trithoughtfulness, the same jading of the mind, is umph, he can also own the worth of the tiniest kept up. The fact is, there is far too little value form of winning beauty. “What are they worth set on the "trifles" that win the mind to cheer- in a Christian sense ?" is the query of the cynfulness and shake out the torpor that visits ills ical spirit who regards Jenny Lind's songs as of body on the soul. I have no patience (though nothing worth, because he does not know of a patience is a very maidenly virtue) with the high soul that was converted by them. O wondrous sounding talk about judging every thing by ask- Diogenes in thy tub! didst thou ever know of ing, " Who was ever converted by it?" I took conversion prevented by those songs-conversion up a religious paper yesterday, in which some to any thing good ? I have seen conversions Mawworm denounces Readings, Levees, Par- wrought by the songs of Jenny Lind-a soul ties, and other social gatherings, as devices of taken right away from day-book and ledgerSatan, and “Let us ask the question, Was cankering cares and down pulling anxietiesever any one converted to God through the in- petty strifes and speculating selfishness, and anstrumentality of the concerts of Madam Bishop, other nature opened, another life revealed. Why, Bisscacianti, or Jenny Lind? If not, what are bless me! there was our Astor who made out to they worth in a Christian sense ?" I wonder if attend one of “Miss Lind's" concerts, and he ever found violets ? If they should ever plead plague take me if he did not look handsome after for life as his foot is ready to crush them, the second song; and when the "Echo Song" how interesting must be the question, “ Have was ended, every body saw, for the first time, you ever converted a soul to God ?" If the poor something like a laugh-on any other face it little things should be forced to say No! they are would have been a real gushing of the ecstasies, doomed, and there will no longer be

but every body had so long believed that he was

able only to chuckle over a good bargain, that “A violet by a mossy stone, Half hidden to the eye,”

they thought there must be a mistake, and two

or three ladies took out their smelling-bottles, it will be all gone, and the stone will have suffi- imagining he was going into spasms. O that cient prominence. How ridiculous is such a which opens to our view the possibilities of haptest! As though the beneficent Creator had not

piness within us--that tells us what resources filled the earth with beauty to overflow the soul

are given to our nature to be in harmony with by its very affluence, beyond the demands of our race, is worth something in a Christian utility, and any and every method of explaining

Not by a sudden and overwhelming the why and wherefore. But really, I do just

crash is the foundation of wrong in the soul bronow remember an incident that may hint to this

ken up, but rather is it borne away as one wave “cloud on a holiday” a new idea. Speaking

after another ripples in towards the shore, until with a friend not long since, of the freshness

the rising waters lift the ship and bear it away given to the familiar words of a song by a new

from our sight. One impression after another manner of utterance, this friend told me (I do

favorable to things good, can lift, and at last talk with “ the clergy,” sometimes,) that after

bear away, the sin of the soul. Good, winning he had heard Jenny Lind sing “Come unto me

us from evil, best works the change from sin to all ye who are weary and heavy laden, and I

holiness--a change I want more than any thing will give you rest,” &c., he thought if he could else; and as here and there a cluster of violets go the next day into his pulpit and utter those attract me from the dusty wayside, till I am far words with that searching, fathoming and sub

into the woods, and feel myself at prayer with duing influence, he should convert the whole of Nature in her morning offering, so the clusterthe people. “Never,” said he, “never did I

ing good thoughts of yesterday and to-day, win feel the tenderness, the pitying passionateness of

me farther and farther into the Eden of Christ. those words, as then. It seemed as though a

I have found violets. Yes, in my hand to-day new revelation had been made through thein,

have 1 held them. I have drawn in, as the inand the conquering love of Christ was indeed spiration of the better world, their sweet breath,

and wondered what thoughts the angels have of VOL. XX.

4

sense.

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