THANATOPSIS.

To him who in the love of Nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And healing sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over the spirit, and sad images

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Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;
Go forth, under the open sky, and list
To Nature's teachings, while from all around
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air
Comes a still voice Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more

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In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist

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Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up

Thine individual being, shalt thou go

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To mix for ever with the elements,

To be a brother to the insensible rock

And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.

Yet not to thine eternal resting-place
Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world - with kings,
The powerful of the earth - the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,

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All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, - the vales

Stretching in pensive quietness between;
The venerable woods – rivers that move

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In majesty, and the complaining brooks
That make the meadows green; and, poured round

all,

Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste, -
Are but the solemn decorations all

Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,

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The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,

Take the wings

Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom.
Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound,
Save his own dashings - yet the dead are there :
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep - the dead reign there alone.
So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw
In silence from the living, and no friend

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Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one as before will chase
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come 65
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glide away, the sons of men,

The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,

By those, who in their turn shall follow them.

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So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan, which moves To that mysterious realm, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch

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About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

TO A WATERFOWL.

WHITHER, midst falling dew,

While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue
Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler's eye

Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,

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As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,
Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink

Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
On the chafed ocean-side?

There is a Power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast-
The desert and illimitable air -

Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fanned,

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At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere,
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end;

Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend,
Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.

Thou 'rt gone, the abyss of heaven
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,

And shall not soon depart.

He who, from zone to zone,

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Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, 30 In the long way that I must tread alone,

Will lead my steps aright.

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.

In reading the life of Franklin we are constantly surprised at the versatility of his powers. He achieved an undying reputation as a man of business, as a scientist, as a writer, as a statesman, and as a diplomatist. It is impossible to give here an adequate idea of his greatness or of the debt of gratitude which we all owe him for the help he rendered our nation in times of sore need. For the events of his life the reader is referred to his Autobiography 1 classic masterpiece with which every American should be familiar. What follows is a review of Franklin's character by John T. Morse, Jr., at the end of his admirable biography of Franklin, in the American Statesmen Series :

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"Among illustrious Americans Franklin stands preëminent in the interest which is aroused by a study of his character, his mind and his career. One becomes attached to him, bids him farewell with regret, and feels that for such as he the longest span of life is all too short. Even though dead, he attracts a personal regard which renders easily intelligible the profound affection which so many men felt for him while living. It may be doubted whether any one man ever had so many, such constant, and such firm friends as in three different nations formed about him a veritable host. In the States and in France he was loved, and as he grew into old age he was revered, not by those who heard