sculptor
Gazing on the breathing stone
From the chaos of the marble
Into godlike being grown.
But a gloom was on his forehead,
In his eye a drooping glance,
And at length the heavy sorrow
From the lip found utterance:

"Holy Art! thy shapes of beauty
Have I carved, but ne'er before
Reached my thought a faultless image,
Still unbodied would it soar;
Still the pure unfound Ideal
Would ensoul a fairer shrine;
In my victory I perish,
And no loftier aim is mine."

Noble artist! thine the yearning,
Thine the great inspiring word,
By the sleepless mind forever
In its silent watches heard;
For the earthly it is pleasure
Only earthly ends to gain;
For the seeker of the perfect,
To be satisfied is pain.

Visions of an untold glory
Milton saw in his eclipse,
Paradise to outward gazers
Lost, with no apocalypse;
Holier Christ and veiled Madonnas,
Painted were on Raphael's soul;
Melodies he could not utter
O'er Bethoven's ear would roll.

Ever floats the dim Ideal
Far before the longing eyes;
Ever, as we travel onward,
Boundless the horizon flies;
Not the brimming cups of wisdom
Can the thirsty spirit slake,
And the molten gold in pouring
Will the mould in pieces break.

Voice within our inmost being,
Calling deep to answering deep,
Midst the life of weary labor
Thou shalt waken us from sleep!
All our joy is in our Future
And our motion is our rest,
Still the True reveals the Truer,
Still the good foretells the Best.

JUNE TWENTY-NINTH, EIGHTEEN FIFTY-NINE.

BY CAROLINE M. KIRKLAND.

To talk about the weather is the natural English and American mode of
beginning an acquaintance.

This day--the one that glares upon us at our present writing--is eminently
able to melt away what is called the frost of ceremony, and to induce the
primmest of us to throw off all disguises that can possibly be dispensed
with. It is a day to bring the most sophisticated back to first
principles. The very thought of wrapping anything up in mystery, to-day,
brings a thrill like the involuntary protest of the soul against cruelty.
We are not even as anxious as usual to cover up our faults. We hesitate at
enveloping a letter.

The shimmer that lives and moves over yonder dry fallow, as if ten
thousand million fairies were fanning them