fascinating repercussions. Sound a French or bugle horn-echoes, equal to a hundred instruments, answer to the call! Report a single cannon-the loudest thunders reverberate from the rock, and die, in endless peals, along the distant mountains!

The ethereal music of the echo naturally recalls to our recollection 'Plato's elegant idea, with respect to the harmonic movements of the planets, and which he terms the music of the spheres. This idea is not only elegant, but in all probability equally just. For, in observing the operative effects of movable bodies, we find that the flight of birds and of insects, the rushing of waters, indeed every object that moves, produces some vibrative sound. Observing these effects, Archytas, Pythagoras, and Plato, conceived it to be impossible that bodies so large, and revolving in an orbit so extensive as the planets, should move their giant courses without some sensible repercussions: so that the heavens might be said to modulate, and to send forth that true harmony at which the deities themselves might be delighted to listen-a harmony, as Maximus Tyrius observes, too transcendent for the imbecility of man, and the excellence of which ethereal beings are alone capable of appreciating.

How beautifully does Shakspeare allude to this poetical idea in the scene where Lorenzo, in the "Merchant of Venice," leads Jessica into the grove, and, after desiring Stephano to order music to be brought into the garden, accosts her after the following manner:

"How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!
Ilere will we sit, and let the sound of music
Creep in our ears: soft stillness. and the night,
Become the touches of sweet harmony.

Sit, Jessien: Look, how the floor of heaven

Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold;

There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st,

But in his motion like an angel sings,

Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubim:

Such harmony is in immortal souls."

ANONYMOUS.

XXXVIII.-BYRON.

He touched his harp, and nations heard, entranced.
As some vast river of unfailing source,

Rapid, exhaustless, deep, his numbers flowed,
And oped new fountains in the human heart.
Where fancy halted, weary in her flight,

In other men, his, fresh as morning rose,

And soared untrodden heights, and seemed at home,
Where angels bashful looked. Others, though great,
Beneath their argument seemed struggling, whiles;
He, from above descending, stooped to touch

The loftiest thought; and proudly stooped, as though
It scârce deserved his verse. With nature's self
He seemed an old acquaintance, free to jest
At will with all her glorious majesty.

He laid his hand upon "the ocean's mane,"
And played familiar with his hōary locks.
Stood on the Alps, stood on the Apennines;
And with the thunder talked, as friend to friend;
And wove his garland of the lightning's wing,
In sportive twist-the lightning's fiery wing,
Which, as the footsteps of the dreadful God,
Marching upon the storm in vengeance seemed-
Then turned, and with the grasshopper, who sung
His evening song beneath his feet, conversed.

Suns, moons, and stars, and clouds his sisters were;
Rocks, mountains, meteors, seas, and winds and storms
His brothers—younger brothers, whom he scarce

As equals deemed.

As some fierce comet of tremendous size,

To which the stars did reverence as it passed,

So he through learning and through fancy took

His flight sublime; and on the loftiest top

Of fame's dread mountain sat; not soiled, and worn,
As if he from the earth had labored up;

But as some bird of heavenly plumage fair,

He looked, which down from higher regions came,

And perched it there, to see what lay beneath.
Great man the nations gazed and wondered much,
And praised; and many cailed his evil good.

Wits wrote in favor of his wickedness:

And kings to do him honor took delight.
Thus full of titles, flattery, honor, fame,
Beyond desire, beyond ambition full,-
He died-he died of what? Of wretchedness.
Drank every cup of joy, heard every trump

Of fame; drank early, deeply drank; drank draughts
That common millions might have quenched-then died
Of thirst, because there was no more to drink.

ROBERT POLLOK.

XXXIX.-GOD INSCRUTABLE.

THERE are fields enough for the wildest and most extravagant theorizings, without overleaping the barriers which separate things human and divine. Indeed, I have often thought that modern science had afforded a most opportune and providential safety-valve for the intellectual curiosity and ambition of man, at a moment when the progress of education, invention, and liberty, had roused and stimulated them to a pitch of such unprecedented eagerness and ardor.

Astronomy, chemistry, and more than all, geology, with their incidental branches of study, have opened an inexhaustible field for investigation and speculation. Here, by the aid of modern instruments and modern modes of analysis, the most ardent and earnest spirits may find ample room and verge enough for their insatiate activity and audacious enterprise, and may pursue their course not only without the slightest danger of doing mischief to others, but with the certainty of promoting the great end of scientific truth.

Let them lift their vast reflectors or refractors to the skies, and detect new planets in their hiding-places. Let them waylay the fugitive comets in their flight, and compel them to disclose the precise period of their orbits, and to give bonds for their punctual return. Let them drag out reluctant satellites from "their habitual concealments." Let them resolve the unresolvable nebulæ of "Orion or Andromeda. They need not fear. The sky will not fall, nor a single star be shaken from its sphere.

Let them perfect and elaborate their marvelous processes for making the light and the lightning their ministers, for putting “a pencil of rays" into the hand of art, and providing tongues of fire for the communication of intelligence. Let them foretell the path of the whirlwind and calculate the orbit of the storm. Let them hang out their gigantic pendulums, and make the earth to do the work of describing and measuring his own motions. Let them annihilate human pain, and literally "charm ache with air, and agony with ether." The blessing of God will attend all their toils, and the gratitude of man will await all their triumphs.

Let them dig down into the bowels of the earth. Let them rive asunder the massive rocks, and unfold the history of creation, as it lies written on the pages of their piled up ostrata. Let them gather up the fossil fragments of a lost Fauna, reproducing the ancient forms which inhabited the land or the seas, bringing them together, bone to his bone, till Leviathan and Behemoth stand before us in bodily presence and in their full proportions, and we almost tremble lest these dry bones should live again! Let them put nature to the

rack, and torture her, in all her forms, to the betrayal of her inmost secrets, and confidences. They need not forbear. The foundations of the round world have been laid so strong that they cannot be moved.

But let them not think by searching to find out God. Let them not dream of understanding the Almighty to perfection. Let them not dare to apply their tests and solvents, their modes of analysis or their terms of definition, to the secrets of the spiritual kingdom. Let them spare the foundations of faith. Let them be satisfied with what is revealed of the mysteries of the Divine Nature. Let them not break through the bonds to gaze after the invisible--lest the day come when they shall be ready to cry to the mountains, Fall on us, and to the hills, Cover us!

R. C. WINTHROP.

XL-THE CHILD OF EARTH.

FAINTER her slow step falls from day to day;
Death's hand is heavy on her darkening brow;
Yet doth she fondly cling to earth, and say,
"I am content to die-but, oh! not now!-
Not while the blossoms of the joyous spring
Make the warm air such luxury to breathe-
Not while the birds such lays of gladness sing-

Not while bright flowers around my footsteps wreathe.
Spâre me, great God! lift up my drooping brow—

I am content to die-but, oh! not now!"

The spring hath ripened into summer time;
The season's viewless boundary is past;

The glorious sun hath reached its burning prime:
Oh! must this glimpse of beauty be the last?
"Let me not perish, while o'er land and lea,
With silent steps, the Lord of light moves on;
Not while the murmur of the mountain bee
Greets my dull ear with music in its tone!
Pale sickness dims my eye, and clouds my brow—
I am content to die--but, oh! not now!"

Summer is gone; and autumn's soberer hues
Tint the ripe fruits, and gild the waving corn;—
The huntsman swift the flying game pursues,
Shouts the halloo! and winds his eager horn.

"Spare me awhile, to wander forth and gaze
On the broad meadows, and the quiet stream,
To watch in silence while the evening rays

Slant through the fading trees with ruddy gleam!
Cooler the breezes play around my brow-
I am content to die-but, oh! not now!"

The bleak wind whistles; snow-showers far and near
Drift without echo to the whitening ground;
Autumn hath passed away; and, cold and drear,
Winter stalks on with frozen mantle bound:
Yet still that prayer ascends, "Oh! laughingly

My little brothers round the warm heärth crowd,
Our home-fire blazes broad, and bright, and high,

And the roof rings with voices light and loud:
Spare me awhile! raise up my drooping brow!
I am content to die-but, oh! not now!"

The spring is come again-the joyful spring!
Again the banks with clustering flowers are spread;
The wild bird dips upon its wanton wing;-
The child of earth is numbered with the dead!
Thee never more the sunshine shall awake,
Beaming all redly through the lattice-pane ;
The steps of friends thy slumbers may not break,
Nor fond familiar voice arouse again!
Death's silent shadow veils thy darkened brow-
Why didst thou linger?-thou art happier now!

MRS. S. E. NORTON.

XLI.-CHARACTER OF WASHINGTON.

IN analyzing the character of Washington there is nothing that strikes me as more admirable than its beautiful symmetry. In this respect it is consummate. His different qualities were so nicely balanced, so rarely associated, of such harmonious affinities, that no one seemed to interfere with another, or °predominate over the whole. The natural ardor of his disposition was steadily restrained by a power of self-command, which it dared not disobey. His caution never degenerated into timidity, nor his courage into imprudence or temerity. His memory was accompanied by a sound, unerring judgment, which turned its acquisitions to the best advantage; his industry and economy of time neither rendered him dull nor unsocial;