Its gate repels lest it too soon be tried,
But turns in balm on the immortal side.
Mothers have passed it; fathers, children, men
Whose like we look not to behold again;
Women that smiled away their loving breath;
Soft is the traveling on the road of Death!
But guilt has passed it!-men not fit to die!
Oh, hush-for He that made us all is by!
Human were all-all men, all born of mothers;
All our own selves in the worn-out shape of others.
Our used, and oh, be sure, not to be ill-used brothers.

ABOU BEN ADHEM.

ABOU BEN ADHEM (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace;
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel, writing in a book of gold:
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,

"What writest thou?" The vision raised its head, And with a look made of all sweet accord,

Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord!" "And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"

Replied the angel. Abou spake more low,
But cheerily still; and said, "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men."

The angel wrote and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blest,
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

RONDEAU.

JENNY kissed me when we met,

Jumping from the chair she sat in;

Time, you thief, who love to get

Sweets into your list, put that in:

Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,

Say that health and wealth have missed me, Say I'm growing old, but add,

Jenny kissed me.

THOMAS MOORE.

As the friend and friendly biographer of Byron, Moore was not averse to having their names coupled on these terms. He was apparently content with his flattering popularity as the associate with and the lively entertainer of eminent people and aristocratic persons. But he was a genuine song-writer and a poet, though not of the highest class. He was born in Dublin in 1779, distinguished himself in its University and published his Anacreontics in 1800, dedicated to the Prince of Wales. This social success in translations led to the publication of a book of original erotic verse entitled, "Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Little," of which, when found out and convicted, he frankly said he was ashamed. His popularity gained him appointment to an office in the Bermudas, which enabled him to visit America, the result being volume of "Odes and Epistles" in 1806. His "Irish M lodies" were and always will be extraordinarily popular in the best sense. To the ancient melodies, arranged by Sir John Stevenson, Moore wrote his charming verses. He afterwards did the same with the airs of other nations, but with less success.

In 1817 appeared "Lalla Rookh" (Tulip-cheeked), his principal poem. Though Moore had no personal knowledge of the East he managed by careful study to infuse the true oriental spirit into this romantic tale of the love pilgrimage of Emperor Aurungzebe's beautiful daughter. The entire poem is oppressively rich in gorgeous scenes and dazzling imagery, but has many passages of true poetical beauty, simple and striking. After this Moore visited Paris, and in his "Fudge Family in Paris" he satirized in pungent style the boorish manners of the English abroad. He did constant ser

vice in various departments of journalism, and published a number of clever books in prose and verse, which were collected into a uniform edition in 1842. His vivacious and well-stored mind gave way some years before his death in 1852.

LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM.

OH! the days are gone, when Beauty bright
My heart's chain wove;

When my dream of life from morn till night
Was love, still love.

New hope may bloom,
And days may come
Of milder, calmer beam,

But there's nothing half so sweet in life
As love's young dream:

No, there's nothing half so sweet in life
As love's young dream.

Though the bard to purer fame may soar,
When wild youth's past;

Though he win the wise, who frown'd before,
To smile at last;

He'll never meet

A joy so sweet,

In all his noon of fame,

As when first he sung to woman's ear
His soul-felt flame,

And, at every close, she blushed to hear
The one loved name.

No-that hallow'd form is ne'er forgot
Which first love traced;

Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot

On memory's waste.

'Twas odor filed

As soon as shed;

'Twas morning's wingéd dream;

"Twas a light that ne'er can shine again
On life's dull stream:

Oh! 'twas light that ne'er can shine again
On life's dull stream.

THE VALE OF CASHMERE.

(From "Lalla Rookh.")

WHO has not heard of the Vale of Cashmere,
With its roses the brightest that earth ever gave,
Its temples, and grottos, and fountains as clear
As the love-lighted eyes that hang over their wave?
Oh! to see it at sunset-when warm o'er the Lake

Its splendor at parting a summer eve throws,
Like a bride, full of blushes, when ling'ring to take
A last look of her mirror at night ere she goes!

When the shrines through the foliage are gleaming half shown,
And each hallows the hour by some rites of its own.

Here the music of prayer from a minaret swells,

Here the Magian his urn, full of perfume, is swinging,
And here, at the altar, a zone of sweet bells

Round the waist of some fair Indian dancer is ringing.
Or to see it by moonlight-when mellowly shines
The light o'er its palaces, gardens, and shrines;
When the water-falls gleam; like a quick fall of stars,
And the nightingale's hymn from the Isle of Chenars
Is broken by laughs and light echoes of feet

From the cool, shining walks where the young people

meet

Or at morn, when the magic of daylight awakes
A new wonder each minute, as slowly it breaks,
Hills, cupolas, fountains, called forth every one
Out of darkness, as if but just born of the Sun.
When the Spirit of Fragrance is up with the day,
From his Haram of night-flowers stealing away;
And the wind, full of wantonness, woos like a lover
The young aspen-trees, till they tremble all over.
When the East is as warm as the light of first hopes,
And Day, with his banner of radiance unfurled,
Shines in through the mountainous portal that opes,
Sublime, from that Valley of Bliss to the world!

THE TEMPLE OF ISIS.

(From "The Epicurean.")

ALCIPHRON, a young Athenian, being chosen chief of the Epicureans, in 257 A.D., went to Egypt to learn wisdom from the priests. By some strange adventures he became acquainted with Alethe, who though brought up as a priestess of Isis, was really a Christian, imper. fectly taught.

The rising of the Moon, slow and majestic, as if conscious of the honors that awaited her upon earth, was welcomed with a loud acclaim from every eminence, where multitudes stood watching for her first light. And seldom had she risen upon a scene more beautiful. Memphis—still grand, though no longer the unrivaled Memphis, that had borne away from Thebes the crown of supremacy, and worn it undisputed through so many centuries,-now softened by the moonlight that harmonized with her decline, shone forth among her lakes, her pyramids, and her shrines, like a dream of glory that was soon to pass away. Ruin, even now, was but too visible around her. The sands of the Libyan desert gained upon her like a sea; and, among solitary columns and sphinxes, she was already half sunk from sight. Time seemed to stand waiting, till all, that now flourished around, should fall beneath his desolating hand, like the rest.

On the waters all was life and gaiety. As far as eye could reach, the lights of innumerable boats were seen, studding, like rubies, the surface of the stream. Vessels of all kinds, -from the light coracle, built for shooting down the cataracts to the large yacht that glides to the sound of flutes,—all were afloat for this sacred festival, filled with crowds of the young and gay, not only from Memphis and Babylon, but from cities still farther removed from the scene.

As I approached the island, I could see, glittering through the trees on the bank, the lamps of the pilgrims hastening to the ceremony. Landing in the direction which those lights pointed out, I soon joined the crowd; and, passing through a long alley of sphinxes, whose spangling marble shone out from the dark sycamores around them, in a short