All this did art with curious hand compile
In the rich metal of that princely gate.
The knights these stories view'd first and last,
Which seen, they forward press'd and in they pass'd

As through the channel crook'd Meander glides

With turns and twines, and rolls now to and fro,
Whose streams run forth there to the salt sea sides,
Here back return, and to their spring-ward go:
Such crooked paths, such ways this palace hides ;
Yet all the maze their map described So,
That through the labyrinth they go in fine,
As Theseus did by Ariadne's line.

When they had pass'd all those troubled ways,

The garden sweet spread forth her green to shew,

The moving crystal from the fountains plays,

Fair trees, high plants, strange herbs, and flow'rets new, Sunshiny hills, dales hid from Phoebus' rays,

Groves, arbours, mossy caves, at once they view; And that which beauty most, most wonder brought, No where appear'd the art which all this wrought.

So with the rude the polish'd mingled was
That natural seem'd all and every part
Nature would craft in counterfeiting pass,
And imitate her imitator art.

Mild was the air, the skies were clear as glass,

The trees no whirlwind felt nor tempest's smart,

But ere their fruit drop off the blossom comes;
This springs, that falls, that rip'neth, and this blooms.

The leaves upon the selfsame bough did hide,
Beside the young, the old and ripen'd fig;

Here fruit was green, there ripe, with vermeil side,
The apples new and old grew on one twig;
The fruitful vine her arms spread high and wide,
That bended underneath their clusters big;
The grapes were tender here, hard, young, and sour,
There purple, ripe, and nectar sweet forth pour.

The joyous birds, hid under greenwood shade,
Sung merry notes on every branch and bough;
The wind, that in the leaves and waters play'd,

With murmur sweet now sang, and whistled now.

Ceased the birds, the wind loud answer made,
And while they sung it rumbled soft and low:
Thus, were it hap or cunning, chance or art,
The wind in this strange music bore his part.

With party-colour'd plumes and purple bill,

A wondrous bird among the rest there flew,
That in plain speech sung lovelays loud and shrill,
Her leden * was like human language true;
So much she talk'd-and with such wit and skill,
That strange it seem'd how much good she knew}
Her feather'd fellows all stood hush'd to hear,
Dumb was the wind, the waters silent were.

"The gently-budding rose (quoth she) behold,
That first scant peeping forth with virgin beams,
Half ope, half shut, her beauties doth up-fold

In their dear leaves, and less seen fairer seems,
And after spreads them forth more broad and bold,
Then languisheth, and dies in last extremes:
Nor seems the same that deck'd bed and bower
Of many a lady late and paramour:

"So in the passing of a day doth pass

The bud and blossom of the life of man,
Nor e'er doth flourish more, but like the grass
Cut down, becometh wither'd, pale and wan:
Oh, gather then the rose while time thou has,

Short is the day, done when it scant began,
Gather the rose of love while yet thou mayst,
Loving be loved, embracing be embraced."

She ceased; and, as approving all she spoke,

The choir of birds their heavenly tunes renew;
The turtles sigh'd, and sighs with kisses broke,
The fowls to shades unseen by pairs withdrew;
It seem'd the laurel chaste, and stubborn oak,
And all the gentle trees on earth that grew,
It seem'd the land, the sea, and heaven above,
All breathed out fancy sweet, and sigh'd out love.

Through all this music rare, and strong consent

Of strange allurements, sweet 'bove mean and measure, Severe, firm, constant, still the knights forth went, Hard'ning their hearts 'gainst false enticing pleasure, * Language.

"Twixt leaf and leaf their sight before they sent,

And after crept themselves at ease and leisure,
Till they beheld the queen sit with their knight
Beside the lake, shaded with bows from sight.

The Victories of Love.

HERMAN HOOKEK.

[HERMAN HOOKER, a native of Rutland County, in the State of Vermont, was ordained in the Episcopal Church of America; but has retired from the discharge of his pastoral duties through continued ill-health. He has written two works "The Philosophy of Unbelief" and "The Uses of Adversity," from the latter of which the following is an extract.]

Love is represented as the fulfilling of the law-a creature's perfection. All other graces, all divine dispensations, contribute to this, and are lost in it as in a heaven. It expels the dross of our nature; it overcomes sorrow; it is the full joy of our Lord.

Let us contemplate its capacities and resources as applied to the experience of life. Property and business may fail, and still the eye of hope may fix itself on other objects, and confidence may strengthen itself in other schemes; but when death enters into our family, and loved ones are missing from our sight, though God may have made their bed in sickness, and established their hope in death, nothing can then relieve us but trust and love. Philosophy and pleasure do but intrude upon and aggravate our grief. But love, the light of God, may chase away the gloom of this hour, and start up in the soul trusts, which give the victory over ourselves. The harp of the spirit, though its chords be torn, never yields such sweet notes, such swelling harmony, as when the world can draw no music from it. How often do we see strokes fall on the heart, which it would be but mockery for man to attempt to relieve, and which yet served to unlock the treasures of that heart, and reveal a sweetness to it which it had not known before. See that mother! She loves and mourns as none but a mother can. Behold the greatness and the sweetness of her grief! Her child is dead, and she says, "It is well with me, and

it is well with my child. It is well because God has taken him ; He has said, 'Of such is the kingdom of heaven,'-that He doth not willingly afflict; and I know it must be well." Can there be any greatness greater than this? Did ever any prince at the head of invincible armies win a victory like it? Her heart is in heaviness and her home is desolated; but she has been to her heavenly Father, and unbosomed her griefs before Him. There is peace on her saddened countenance, peace in her gentle words; the peace of God has come down, and is filling her trusting soul. How sweet and soft is her sorrow, and how it softens and awes without agitating others!

It is related that on a small, and rocky, and almost inaccessible island, is the residence of a poor widow. The passage of the place is exceedingly dangerous to vessels, and her cottage is called the "Lighthouse," from the fact that she uniformly keeps a lamp burning in her little window at night. Early and late she may be seen trimming her lamp with oil, lest some misguided bark may perish through her neglect. For this she asks no reward. But her kindness stops not here. When any vessel is wrecked, she rests not till the chilled mariners come ashore to share her little board, and be warmed by her glowing fire. This poor woman in her younger, perhaps not happier days-though happy they must have been, for sorrow cannot lodge in such a heart-witnessed her husband struggling with the waves and swallowed up by the remorseless billows

"In sight of home and friends who throng'd to save."

This directed her benevolence towards those who brave the dangers of the deep; this prompted her present devoted and solitary life, in which her only, her sufficient enjoyment, is in doing good.* Sweet and blessed fruit of bereavement! What beauty is here! a loveliness I would little speak of, but more revere! a flower crushed indeed, yet sending forth its fragrance to all around! Truly, as the sun seems greatest in his lowest

* This anecdote has supplied Miss Martineau with the most interesting character of her little tale, "The Billow and the Rock."-Ed.

estate, so did sorrow enlarge her heart, and make her appear the more noble the lower it brought her down. We cannot think she was unhappy, though there was a remembered grief in her heart. A grieved heart may be a richly stored one. Where charity abounds, misery cannot.

"Such are the tender woes of love,
Fost'ring the heart they bend."

A pious lady who had lost her husband was for a time inconsolable. She could not think, scarcely could she speak, of anything but him. Nothing seemed to take her attention but the three promising children he had left her, singing to her his presence, his look, his love. But soon these were all taken ill, and died within a few days of each other; and now the childless mother was calmed even by the greatness of the stroke. The hand of God was thus made visible to her. She could see nothing but His work in the dispensation. Thus was the passion of her grief allayed. Her disposition to speak of her loss, her solemn repose, was the admiration of all beholders. The Lord hath not slain her; He had slain what to some mothers is more than life-that in which the sweets of life were treasured up-that which she would give life to redeem; and yet could she say, "I will trust in Him." As the lead that goes quickly down to the ocean's depth, ruffles its surface less than lighter things, so the blow which was strongest did not so much disturb her calm of mind, but drove her to its proper trust.

We had a friend loved and lovely. He had genius and learning. He had all qualities, great and small, blending in a most attractive whole-a character as much to be loved as admired, as truly gentle as it was great, and so combining opposite excellences, that each was beautified by the other. Between him and her who survives him there was a reciprocity of taste and sympathy-a living in each other, so that her thoughts seemed but the pictures of his-her mind but a glass that showed the very beauty that looked into it, or rather became itself that beautydying in his dying she did not all die. Her love, the heart's