rrett, Browning, Horne,
Blend their opposing faculties, and speak
For that fresh nature, which in daily things
Beholds the immortal, and from common forms
Extorts the Eternal still! So Baily sings
In Festus; so, upon a humbler rank,
Testing the worth of social policies,
As working through a single human will,
The Muse of Taylor argues--Artevelde,
Being the man who marks a popular growth,
And notes the transit of a thought through time,
Growing as still it speeds.....

Exquisite
The ballads of Campbell, and the lays of Moore,
Appealing to our tastes, our gentler moods,
The play of the affections, or the thoughts
That come with national pride; and as we pause
In our own march, delight the sentiment!
But nothing they make for progress. They perfect
The language, and diversify its powers--
Please and beguile, and, for the forms of art,
Prove what they are, and may be. But they lift
None of our standards; help us not in growth;
Compel no prosecution of our search,
And leave us, where they found us--with the time!

HOPE ON--HOPE EVER.

BY H. CURTISS HINE, U. S. N.

Poor stricken one! whose toil can gain,
And barely gain, the coarsest fare,
From bitter thoughts and words refrain;
Yield not to dark despair!
The blackest night that e'er was born
Was followed by a radiant morn;
Heed not the world's unfeeling scorn,
Nor think life's brittle thread to sever;
Hope on--hope ever!

Hope, though your sun is hid in gloom,
And o'er your care-worn, wrinkled brow,
Grief spreads his shadow--'tis the doom
That falls on many now.
Grim Poverty, with icy hand,
May bind to earth with ruthless band
Bright gifted ones throughout the land;
But struggle still that band to sever--
Hope on--hope ever!

Sit not and pine that FORTUNE led
Another on to grasp her wreath;
The same blue sky is o'er thy head,
The same green earth beneath,
The same bright angel-eyes look down,
Each night upon the humblest clown,
That sees the king with jeweled crown;
Of these, stern fate can rob thee never--
Hope on--hope ever!

What though the proud should pass thee by,
And curl their haughty lips with scorn;
Like thee, they soon must droop and die,
For all of woman born,
Are journeying to a sha