It seem'd to answer to my thought;
It call'd the past to mind,

And with its welcome presence brought
All I had left behind.

The voyage it lights no longer, ends
Soon on a foreign shore;

How can I but recall the friends
That I may see no more?

Fresh from the pain it was to part—
How could I bear the pain?
Yet strong the omen in my heart
That says, We meet again;

Meet with a deeper, dearer love;
For absence shews the worth
Of all from whom we then remove,-
Friends, home, and native earth.
Thou lovely polar star, mine eyes
Still turn'd the first on thee,
Till I have felt a sad surprise
That none looked up with me.
But thou hast sunk upon the wave,
Thy radiant place unknown;
I seem to stand beside a grave,
And stand by it alone.

Farewell! ah, would to me were given
A power upon thy light!

What words upon our English heaven
Thy loving rays should write!

Kind messages of love and hope

Upon thy rays should be;

Thy shining orbit should have scope

Scarcely enough for me.

Oh, fancy, vain as it is fond,

And little needed too!

My friends-I need not look beyond

My heart to look for you.

LANDON.1

1 Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) (1802-1838), a poetess of considerable eminence, married Mr. Maclean, Governor of Cape Coast Castle, in Guinea. Shortly after her arrival in Africa, she died from poison swallowed in mistake for medicine.

THE DUEL.

In Brentfield town, of old

renown,

There lived a Mister Bray,

Who fell in love with Lucy Bell,—

And so did Mr. Clay.

Said Mr. Bray to Mr. Clay,

"You choose to rival me,

And court Miss Bell; but there your court
No thoroughfare shall be.

"Unless you now give up your suit,
You may repent your love;
I, who have shot a pigeon match,
Can shoot a turtle dove."

Said Mr. Clay to Mr. Bray,
"Your threats I quite explode;
One who has been a volunteer,
Knows how to prime and load.

"And so I say to you, unless
Your passion quiet keeps,
I, who have shot and hit bulls' eyes,
May chance to hit a sheep's."

Now gold is oft for silver changed,
And that for copper red;

But these two went away to give
Each other change for lead.

But first they sought a friend a-piece,
This pleasant thought to give―

When they were dead, they thus should have
Two seconds still to live.

To measure out the ground not long

The seconds then forbore,

And having taken one rash step,
They took a dozen more.

They next prepared each pistol-pan
Against the deadly strife,

By putting in the prime of death
Against the prime of life.

Now all was ready for the foes;
But when they took their stands,
Fear made them tremble, so they found
They both were shaking hands.

Said Mr. C. to Mr. B.,

"Here one of us may fall,
And like St. Paul's Cathedral, now
Be doom'd to have a ball.

"I do confess I did attach
Misconduct to your name;
If I withdraw the charge, will then
Your ramrod do the same?"

I, with two more to help me,
Will hold the foe in play.
In yon strait path a thousand
May well be stopped by three ;
Now, who will stand on either hand,
And keep the bridge with me?"

Then out spake Spurius Lartius,-
A Ramnian1 proud was he:
"Lo, I will stand at thy right hand,
And keep the bridge with thee."
And out spake strong Herminius,-
Of Titian blood was he:

"I will abide on thy left side,
And keep the bridge with thee."

"Horatius," quoth the Consul,
"As thou say'st, so let it be."
And straight against that great array
Forth went the dauntless three.
For Romans in Rome's quarrel
Spared neither land nor gold,
Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life,
In the brave days of old.

Life is real-Life is earnest !
And the grave is not its goal;
"Dust thou art-to dust returnest"-
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Finds us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle-
In the bivouac of Life,

Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no future howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act-act in the living present-
Heart within-and GOD o'erhead.

Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of Time ;-

Footprints-that perhaps another
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,-
A forlorn and shipwreck'd brother—
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us then be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labour and to wait.

LONGFELLOW.1

1 The most learned, and perhaps the most elegant, of the American poets