MOORE'S RU&AL HEW-YOHEU&. 



LINES TO ONE AFAR. 



Gentle zephjra, pure 



Beam log, 



opoful, clad 



Smiling 



brougl. iby 





preading hi 





giMtby coo 



Mar lie in 



Id DO airy i 



Dree thee 



inward, era 



For thy 



oulhfal fed 



May thy b 



arl know n. 



THE GARDEN ON THE ROCK. 



Beautifi-l was that cluster of rosea I held in 

 my band,— 1 be centre one fully unfolded in all its 

 delicate loveliness, the shining dewdrops clinging 

 to its leaves, as if loth to quit such sweet company. 

 Surrounding the perfect blossom clustered a coro- 

 nal of buds, the soft blush of their closed petals 

 smiling through the mossy coveting which the 

 grateful angel once bestowed upon the hospitable 

 rose. I seated myself on the old Hut rock beneath 

 the bircbes, which was the favorite termination 

 of my morning walks. How peaceful was the 

 scene around me— ever new, ever charming to my 

 partial eye. To my right Jay a fertile meadow, 

 in which the mowers were laying low (he balmy 

 clover, its fragrance mingling with that of the 

 roses I held in my hands. The little stream 

 wound with u graceful curve oround the rock 

 forming my seat, and wandered on with pleasant, 

 murmuring sound, towards the old mill, the walls 

 of which I could just distinguish between the 

 maple-crowned hills which lose in the east, — the 

 robins and orioles darted lightly through the air, 

 giving out, ever and anon, sweet snatches of song, — 

 3nch songs as always lead me to think of " harps 

 of gold," and tho "better land." 



Thus I sat, drinking io the inspiration of the 

 scene, when the faint perfume stealing up from 

 my neglecled rosea recalled my attention to them. 

 Tbey had been given me by a poor woman, whose 

 cut luge I had passed in my morning walk. Glanc- 

 ing across the stream to her garden, from which 

 sbo had culled this floral gem for tne, I thought 

 that the little story connected with it might prove 

 a salutary lesson to many, who, surrounded by 

 difficulties, are ready to faint by the wayside, 

 leaving the cherished purposes of their hearts 



Mrs. (.'. WD.J poor, and she had not only the ills 

 of extreme poverty to contend with, but that, also, 

 which is far more bitter to the sensitive heart,— 

 the disgrace of an idle, dissolute husband, who, 

 though never absolutely abusive, was such an 

 intolerable idler, that nothing hut the fierce call 

 <it his depraved appetite induced him to perform 

 a day's labor,— for strong drink would he work 

 and for nothing else. Ilis poor wife,— whom he 

 hud solemnly promised io " cherish and protect," — 

 "ond a sorry time of it ; procuring food for the 

 family, and coarse but whole attire for herself and 

 three little ones, occupied nearly nil her hours. 

 The house in whieb she lived had been deeded to 

 beraelf and children by her father before bis 

 death, so that she was certain of an humble shelter 

 through her life, — this one comfort alone was 

 secure from the insatiate clutch of the dram-seller. 

 It was situated on a small, low point of land, 

 round which flowed the little stream, and in spring 

 aud fall was always inundated. Her longing eyes 

 often rested upon it, with the unspoken wish that 

 it lay above high-water-mark, and thought what a 

 nice garden she then might have. With her the 

 wish was destined to be fulfilled,— she was pa- 

 tient, courageous, and, with all her hard lot, 



All through the long days she toiled at the 

 wash-board or the ironing table, and when her 

 little ones had lisped the evening prayer her 

 Christian heart had taught them, and her idle hus- 

 band was sleeping the heavy sleep of the drunkard, 

 aho stole out to the hard task which abe had 

 assigned to herself for the coming year. First 

 she gathered stones which the thrifty farmer had 

 drawn from his meadow and thrown down by the 

 stream, nod built the foundation, placing the 

 large ones at the bottom, wedging with smaller 

 ones, and closely packing with gravol which she 

 scooped from the bed of the stream. Very hard 

 work it was for her poor, tired hands ; very slow 

 and toilsome to gather the soil which was placed 

 in sufficient depth to nmke her garden productive, 

 but after months of patient toil the bad the satis- 

 faction of finding herself u possession of "a 

 garden spot" above the washing of the spring and 

 autumn Hoods. Many n comfortable meal did she 

 gather for herself and little onea f rom that 



garden on the rock ;" but precious as every inch 



to her, the sweet love of the beautiful.. -u LK . h 



thcr poverty nor disgrace uortoi! could blight 



,— prompted her to devote a little 



Those roses are still m my possession,— withered 

 and brown they are, yet, as I open the time-stained 

 envelope which holds tbem, a faint perfume, like 

 the sweet voice of tho olden time, steals up from 

 them, and whispers a lesson of courage and hope. 

 When weary with the battle of life, — when my 

 hands would fain fold themselves from the seem- 

 ingly fruitless toil, and the sad soul faints for the 

 "hope deferred," I look on those withered remains 

 of beauty, end my heart feels encouraged and my 

 bauds nerved anew for the conflict. Ob, thou 

 who art sitting sadly down by the rocky wayside, 

 bitterly weeping that there is naught of joy for 

 thee here,— who art lookiog into thine own heart 

 and finding it turned, by the coldness of the t 

 and worldly friends, to an almost pulseless s 

 think of that poor mother's " garden on the I 

 and take courage. Patiently gather the rich soil 

 of daily duties cheerfully performed, — plant 

 therein the needs of heavenly love and trust, 

 water them with penitential tears, and thou shnlt 

 yet gather the reward of thy labor in plants which 

 shall bad in promise, bloom in beauty, and crown 

 the riper years ol life with the rich fruits of honor 

 and usefulness. Thus mayestthou obtain for thine 

 own self a "Garden on the Rock," which shall 

 raise its fruitful front high above the dashing 

 waves of adversity, — thus mayest thou hi 

 alight foretaste of the precious fruits, hanging 

 forever rich, forever fair, ou the tree of Everlast- 

 ing Life, which grow in the Garden of our Loan. 



THE HEEOISM OF COMMON LIFE. 



Grace Greenwood is a " hero worshiper" of i 

 rather uncommon type, aud in her search afte; 

 heroic men and women, has sought for esamplei 

 where, perhaps, few would expect to find them 

 That she has a just and Catholic idea of what rea 

 heroism is, we think it will be proven by the fol 

 lowing extract from the Boston lecture : 



"Tbe heroism of private life, the slow, uncbron 

 teled martyrdoms of the heart, who shall renaem 

 bar! Greater than any knightly dragon-slayer of 

 old is the man who overcomes au unholy passion, 

 sets bis foot upon it, and stands serene and strong 

 in virtue. Giander than Zenobia is the woman 

 who struggles with a love that would wrong 

 another or degrade her own soul, and conquers. 

 The young man, ardent and tender, who turns 

 from the dear love of woman, and buries deep in 

 his heart the sweet instinct of paternity, to devote 

 himself to the care and support of aged parents or 

 au unfortunate sister, and whose life is a long sac- 

 rifice, in manly cheerfulness and majestic com- 

 plaint, is a hero of the rarest type — the type 

 Charles Lamb. I have known but two such. The 

 young woman who resolutely stays with father and 

 mother in the old home, while brothers and sisters 

 go forth to happy homes of their own, who cheer- 

 fully lays upon tho altar of filial duty that cost- 

 liest of human sacrifices, the joy of loving and 

 being loved— she is a heroine. I have known 

 many such. The husband who goes home from 

 weary routine and the perplexing cares of busi- 

 ness with a cheerful smile and a loving word to 

 his invalid wife; who brings not against her the 

 grevious sin of a long sickness, and reproaches 

 her net for the cost ond discomfort thereof; who 

 sees in her languid eye something dearer than 

 girlish lungbter, in the sad face and faded checks 

 that blossom into smiles and even blushes at his 

 coming, something lovelier than the old time- 

 spring roses— he is a hero. I think I know one 



e wife who bears her part in the burden of 



life— even though it he the larger part— bravely, 



cheerily, never dreaming that she is a heroiue, 



much less a martyr -, who bears with the faults of 



a busband not altogether congenial with loving 



patience aud a large charity, and with a noble 



decision hiding them from the world — who makes 



nfidants and asksno confidence, who refrains 



from brooding over short-comings in sympathy 



id sentiment, aod from seeking for perilous 



UioiUes,' ; who dues not build high tragedy sor- 



ws on tho inevitable, nor feel an earthquake in 



ery family jar; who sees her husband uuited 



with herself indissolubly and eternally in their 



children— she, the wife in every tmtb, in the 



nward as in the outward, is a heroine, though of 



rather an unfashionable type." 



CHILDISH DAYS. 



Days of illimitable faith! were tbey indeed 

 ine! How glad am I to have known them! 

 at all that we resign, do we regret to have pos- 

 ssed. Very singular aud very pleasing to me is 

 e remembrance of that simple piety of eliiMlioml, 

 that prayer which was said so punctually, night 

 id morning, kneeling by the bedside. What did 

 think of, guiltless then of metaphysics,— what 

 lagc did I bring before my mind as I repeated 

 y learnt petition with scrupulous fidelity t Did 

 see some venerable form bending down to 

 dea i Did He cease to look and listen when 1 

 id said it all t Half prayer, half lesson, how 

 difficult it is now to summon it back again ! But 

 this I know, that tho bedside where I knelt to this 

 noroing and eveniug devotion, became sacred to 

 no as an altar. I smile as I recall the innocent 

 uperstition that grow up in me, that the prayer 



aid kit, 



■ II,., 



winter's night, I bad crept intt 

 to repeat the petition from the \ 

 would not do ! — it was felt 

 > be "an insullici 



If, B 





• performance ;" 



bed-gowned as I was, knelt at tl 

 place, and said it all over again from the begir 

 ning to the end. To this day I never see tl 

 little clean white bed iu which a child is to sleej 

 but I see also the figure of a child kneeling i 

 prayer at its aide. And I, for the moment oi 

 thot child. No high altar, in the most sumptuoi; 

 church in Christendom, could prompt my knee t 

 bend like that snow white coverlet, tucked in for 

 Child'* slumber.— Thomd.tU. 



Pa it. 





dwells. — Jan 



bells an 



glo*. 



Wlutor, 



arlb Is bright, 



Ing out I 



a of young and old 

 o pleasure sleigh, 



COWLEY AND MILTON. 



character as a man. While v 

 the production of this poem, t 

 surprised at the c 

 it. It, is in fact, a dun. 



a His 



lajesty 



Charles 1 1., who.it seems, had neglected 

 ward the poet according to the expectations he had 

 raised. The King was under obligations to him, 

 and CowLar had reason to expect a share in bis 

 favors. Not only was he the most popular poet in 

 England at the time of which we write, but he was 

 a zealous advocate of loyalty, and while yet at 

 college connected himself with the old cavalier 

 party. He accompanied the queen to France, 



s oblie 



B Eog 



of the civil war, and it was chiefly through his in- 

 strumentality that a correspondence was kept up 

 batween the King and his wife. His nights as 

 well as days wore sometimes occupied with their 

 letters. So we are told in a brief account of bis 

 life in a collection of the "British Poets." No 

 doubt he thought he should rcsp some reward for 

 bis exertions, hut it seems Charles forgot all 

 about the poet in tho crowd of applicants for 

 Kingly favor. Cowlkv, however, determined to 

 refresh his memory. Hence the "Complaint." 

 He represents himself as encountering the muse, 



neglecting the lyre, aud wandering " unto courts 



.11 thy r.ii 



li.-liohl ' 



ji »bllst thy fellow voyagers I see 

 II niarch'd up to possess tho prouils'd land, 

 uou xllll alone, alas ! dost gaping stand 

 pon tbo naked beach, upon the barren .-.md." 

 After she concludes her reproaches, he under- 

 takes to escuse himself, and defend his royal mas- 

 er. In tho closing verso he turns her taunts 

 gainst tbe Muse, herself, thns: 

 "Teach mo not, then, O, thou fallacious muse, 



The-h 

 The fatUIl 

 Tblnc, (hi 

 Ukkeai m 





ain. We are told, however, that through the i 

 luence of some of his nobleman Cowlkv obtain 

 , leaee of a farm at Chertrey, by which his incot 

 used to about three hundred pounds per a 



It* 



U the lime of bis death, be was preferred to M 

 ox,— now a comparison between the two is hardly 

 o be thought of. The fame of the author of 

 'Paradise Lnst" has beeu of slow growth, but 

 iromisca to endure. Even a short glimpse, either 

 it their productions or their memories, shows thi 

 be two men were very unlike. Milton was a fir 

 upportcr of the rights of the people. He was 

 of principle. Whichever way the popul 



tide n 



r.uld ., 



a Mn 



his adherence to right. 



royalist, and a flatterer of the King. Whethei 



principle or policy governed him in his ical for 



his party, the reader must judge for himself. 



one time he wrote a comedy which 



by the cavaliers into a satire on them, Th 



would seem to indicate that his principles wei 



vable, 





also a great differenco in the spirit 

 of their writings. In rending Milton we feel that 

 tbe author was raised above the beliltleinj 

 cerns of self, aod inspired with the greatness of 

 his theme, We cannot say this of Cowley. Tfc 

 opening lines in his poem entitled "Tbe Motto, 

 explain the tone of his poetical writings, better 

 than a page of analysing and describing would 

 do it. 



1 I do to be f. 





This poem, taken together, is pleasing, especially 

 the closing lines, 



" Tell mo ye mighty Three !* what shall I do 



What a different spirit breathes in these lint 

 from that of Milton's Invocation at the beginnin 

 of "Paradise Lost." 



"What In me is dark 



Dignity and humility mingle in these lines.— 

 They manifest^ forget fulness of self, and a mind 

 raised above the mere thought of securing fame. 

 Men should not be too anxious to erect monuments 

 to self. They live to the most purpose who seek 

 to make their wotks worthy to endure, rega 

 of tbe smiles or frowns of the world. Enduring 

 fame is rarely bestowed on those who are the n 

 intent on gaining it. The goddess of fame i 

 smile upon them for a time, but she soon wea 

 of their want of manliness and spurns them fi 



JACK FROST. 



Tiierte is a mellow ring in this "elegant 

 tract," which bents tbe mellow days of Autum 



"Mr. Jack Frost does but kiss the chaste face 

 of Nature, and behold! how she blushes in the 

 maple, the woodbine, and oak, and turns all n 

 ner of colors in tho beech, the linden, the chest 

 and tbe elm. How beautiful she looks in her 

 heightened color! But her brilliant complexioi 

 is, alas! but a hectic — an evidence of frailty— i 

 precursor of speedy decay. Consumption imparts 

 this glorious and exquisite loveli 

 tcnance, but the expression is i 

 it is celestial, the ushering in of tbe indescribable 



"Tbe beauty of the world is most ravishing 

 when first touched by tbe magical finger of tbi 

 frost, which is at once tho death-stroke of the 

 foliage, and a cause of itsdying-dolphinsplendi 

 Thus tbe suu sheds a lustre over creation, filling 

 tbe universe with a flood of light and beuuty, 

 if to indemnify mankind for the privations of both 

 during the approaching night. .So Nature d 

 herself in her wonderful beauty, as a p; 

 pledge of her love, and as a memorial fur 

 take and to cherish during the sombre days of the 

 coming winter, when no tlo 

 verdure quicken." — Selected 



Paiitiks.— The system of giving parties 

 pensive, and when the thing is pushed beyond 

 2 power of tbe purse, it becomes a social evil 

 a greatest magnitude. No man or woman sect 

 be legalized in society unless a cool thousand 

 o is spent every season in giving thebcau mon 

 e of those eternal and never-to-be-forgott 

 squeezes. The law must be remedied— it mi 

 be blown up— it must be reformed. It has ruin 



thousands and ten thousands. How many 

 husbands have to race about, day after day, week 

 after week, to meet the polite invitations which 



banks issue, and much of this hurry ui 

 trouble is in consequenco of the very eipenal 

 ave referred to, of giving dinn 

 es, Ac , Ac. It bos swelled tbe list 

 of bankrupts— ruined tbe hopes of wives— driven 

 i merciless world— and filled 

 families with misery. 





A\n its PnooExv.— If every man was 

 t, we ueed not lock our doors. If everybody 

 I just mind his own business, there would be 

 more business done. If we would only talk 

 less of other people, other people would see fewer 

 numb-skulls. If you charge your servants with 

 lying, they will soon become liars, if they are not 

 so already. Hstudeuts would read less and think 

 more, there would be a lurger number of groat 

 men in every comrounitv. If girls now-a-doys, 

 did not become women at thirteen, men would 

 have better wives. 



He paused a mom 



Kindled with new delight 

 Tho golden picture at bis 

 As quick as thought, bis d 



Amid the mellow tint w 

 lie did not full; underslai 



The wealth and beauty I 

 But thought, beneath his j 



The conscious pride he ah 

 Once, thrice, he grasped, t 



This Is Ambition's 



rpalh i* Jtrajio;, 



m, still ahead, 



id shadows playing, 



PKEACH BY THE LIFE. 



Let your daily life be an unuttered yet perpetual 

 pleadiDg with man for God. Let men feel, in 

 contact with you, the grandeur of that religion to 

 whose claims they will not listen, and tbo glory 

 of that Savior whose name you may not name. 

 Let the sacredness of God's slighted law be pro- 

 claimed by your uniform sacrifice of inclination 

 to duty, by your repression of ereryunkind word, 

 your scorn of every undue or base advantage, 

 your stern and uncompromising resistance to 

 the temptation of appetite and sense. Preach the 



its rapid hours, and your crowding of its days 

 with duties. Though eternity, with its fast 

 approaching realities, bo a forbidden topic to the 

 ear, constrain the unwilling mind to thiuk of it 

 by a spectacle of a life well ordered with perpet- 

 ual reference to hopes and destinies beyond the 

 grave. Though no warning against an unspirilual, 

 uo exhortation to a holy life, mi^ht be tolerated, 

 let your own pure, earnest, unworldly character 

 and bearing he to the careless soul a perpetual 

 atmosphere of spirituality haunting and hovering 

 round it. And be assured, the moral influence 

 of such a life cannot be lost. Like the seed which 

 winds waft into hidden glades aod forest depths, 

 were no sower's hand could reach to scatter it, 

 the subtle germ of Christ's truth will be borne 

 on the secret atmosphere of a holy life, into hearts 

 which no preacher's voice could penetrate. Were 

 the tongue of men and of angels to fail, there is 

 an eloquence in living goodness which will often 

 prove persuasive. For it is an luoflensive, uopre- 

 tending, unobtrusive eloquence; it is tbe elo- 

 quence of the soft sunshine when it expands tbe 

 close shut-leaves and blossoms — a rude band 

 would but tear and crush them ; it is the eloquence 

 of the summer heat when it basks upon the thick- 

 ribbed ice— blows would break it; but beneath 

 that softest, gentlest, yet most potent influence, 

 tbe hard impenetrable masses melt away.— fin- 

 John Caird. 



Eternity.— When I attempt to think of the 

 ocean, its moments of calm and of stonn, of sun- 

 shine and or darkness, of peace and of veogeful 

 fury, I feel that I have an idea of it, though it 

 must of necessity be a very faint one, yet 'tis such 

 a one that I can lay my finger on. But when I 

 attempt to define eternity, "the lift-time of the 

 Almighty," to limit it by the meagre view.-- -f my 

 comprehension, 1 da>h to sea in a frail bark und 

 am tossed about, my chart is struck from my 

 hand, my compass from its box, my rudder from 

 tho stern, and 1 feel that all effort to resume com- 

 mand over tbe vessel is vain— why then do I boldly 

 dare danger and invite distrust? nay it is idle; 

 let me then how in contentment to the present, 

 and leave tbe future in tbe Hand that ordereth all 

 thiu-s well .— -!/■''■- 



Wit 



nbl we l.ve 





Fbelixo for ma Pillars.- When Luther was 



Coburg, be wrote to a fneud, "I was lately 



oking out of my window at night, and I saw the 



&rs in the heavens, and God's great beautiful 



ch over my bead, but I could not see any pillars 



which tho great builder bad fixed his arch; 



.d yet the heavens fell not, and tbe great arch 



stood firmly. There are some who are always 



feeling for the pillars, and longing to touch tbem, 



tbey stand trembling and fearing lest the heal 



should fall, If they could only pwptbe piH*M, 



then the heavens would stand fast." Thus Luther 



ilustruted tho faith of bis own soul, and wished 



with the same strong conGdeuce. 



Mbbcies— Were there 

 portioned to each tr 

 would rise very high 

 confounded fl 



