Then sailors quartered heaven, and found a name
For every fixed and every wandering star--
The Pleiades, Hyades, and the Northern Car."
This cluster of stars is more familiarly known as the _Seven Stars_,
and are sometimes also called "_The Virgins of Spring_," because the
sun enters it in the "season of flowers," or about the 18th of May. He
who placed them in the firmament alludes to it when he demands "Canst
thou bind the sweet influences of the Pleiades?"--_i. e._ can you make
the flowers bloom, or prevent them unfolding their buds in their
season? The Pleiades are situated in the shoulder of the Bull, and come
to the meridian ten minutes before nine o'clock on the evening of the
first of this month.
The Hyades are situated 11° S. E. of the Pleiades, in the face of the
Bull, and are so arranged as to form the letter V. The most brilliant
star in the constellation is on the left, in the top of the letter,
and called Aldebaran, from which the moon's distance is computed. This
star comes to the meridian at nine o'clock on the tenth of this month.
Fifteen and a half degrees E. N. E. of Aldebaran is a bright star,
which marks the tip of the southern horn, while eight degrees north a
still brighter star indicates the tip of the northern horn. This star
also marks the foot of the Wagoner, and is called Auriga, and, with
Zeta in the southern horn and Aldebaran, forms a triangle.
According to Grecian mythology, Europa, a princess of Phœnicia,
and daughter of Agenor, with her female attendants, was gathering
flowers in the meadows. The princess was so beautiful that Jupiter
became enamored of her, and, assuming the shape of a milk white bull,
mingled with the herds of Agenor; and, under this guise, attracted
the attention of the princess, who caressed the beautiful animal, and
finally ventured to sit upon his back. Jupiter took advantage of her
situation, and retired with her precipitately to the sea, crossed it,
and arrived safely with her in Crete. Europe is said to have derived
its name from her. The Egyptians and Persians worship a deity under
this figure, and Belzoni found an embalmed bull among the ruins of
Thebes.
Poetry.
TO THE NEW YEAR.
Thou, like the Phœnix born,
On this auspicious morn,
Dost take thy station in the circling years;
While stars sing o'er thy birth,
And waking sons of earth
Thy advent greet with hopeful smiles and tears.
We hail thee from afar,
Upon thy mystic car
Riding adown the whirlwind and the storm;
Thou com'st in regal state,
With power and strength elate,
And robed in mystery is thy youthful form.
The Old Year sleepeth sound,
With bay and ivy crowned,
The slain and slayer sleep in sweet accord;
Earth's treasured jewels bright
He gathered in his flight,
And garnered for the glory of his Lord.
How many beaming eyes
That joy to see thee rise,
Will lose their brightness and have passed away!
How many a beating heart,
Whose throbbings life impart,
Will throb its last before thy closing day!
Yet earth, so fair and bright,
Was made to glad the sight,
Else why Spring's blossoms that successive rise;
With all the rich perfume
Of Summer's leafy bloom;
The Autumn's gorgeous tints and glowing skies;
With Winter robed in white;
Each bringing new delight--
The season's changing scenes that never pall;
While yon o'erbending blue,
With bright eyes beaming through,
The Architect Divine stretched over all?
Then let us not complain;
But, while we here remain,
Extract the honey and avoid the sting.
Why not, when thus we may
Make life a summer's day,
And let time steal away with noiseless wing?
Yea, let us do our best,
And leave to Heaven the rest,
Nor die a thousand deaths in fearing one;
If we but cheerful be,
Sorrow and care will flee,
And, rose-like, Time will fragrance leave when gone.
Then hail to thee, New Year,
In thine allotted sphere!
With song and welcome we our voices raise;
And may thy deeds so shine
That, through all coming time,
Millions shall, rising, join to hymn thy praise
And thou, our own loved land,
Maintain thy glorious stand,
A beacon light to penetrate earth's gloom!
And, when the year is spent,
May health and sweet content
In every home and heart serenely bloom!
ON THE PORCH OF THE CATARACT HOUSE.
BY HELEN HAMILTON.
'Tis night upon the waters; but the hour
That bringeth silence unto all beside,
With the deep majesty of its repose,
Calms not the tumult of thy rushing tide,
Thou monarch cataract! thy mighty voice
Goes up to God from out the silent night,
And the wild waters, hurrying to thy grasp,
Rush madly onward 'neath the moon's pale light.
He who would visit Europe's ruined fanes
Must look upon them 'neath the stars of night;
The crowded city's haunts of noise and wealth
Are fittest to behold in noon's broad light;
The calm untroubled river best is seen
'Neath the soft glories of the day's decline;
And ocean's grandeur with the storm-wind dwells:
All seasons, _all_, Niagara, are thine.
Spring drops her crown of blossoms at thy feet;
And summer veils thy trees in deepest green;
And gorgeous autumn flings his richest robe
Of gold and crimson o'er the forest scene;
And winter comes in panoply of ice,
And loads with diamonds rock, and bush, and tree--
But all these seasons, bringing change to all,
Bring never change, Niagara, to thee!
Above thy mist-veiled brow the lightnings play,
Thy thunder answers back the heaven's roar,
But the wild storm adds no sublimity
Unto thy grandeur, changeless evermore.
The angry winds of winter can but raise
The misty veil that shrouds thine awful brow;
Vain is the Ice-king's might to chain thy waves,
Down rushing to the em'rald depths below.
Yet even to thee, Oh mighty cataract!
The time will come when thou shalt be no more;
When the deep anthem of thy thunder voice
Shall silent be beside the rocky shore;
When the bright rainbow, bending from the skies,
Shall seek in vain the brow she used to crown,
And thine own waves will sing thy requiem,
From lake to lake in fury rushing down.
A SKETCH.
BY "LEONORA."
It was evening, and midwinter;
Piped the wind on pinions fleet,
While with sharp, incessant rattle,
As of insect hordes at battle,
'Gainst the windows drove the sleet.
Cosily, in ample kitchen
Seated, were a busy group
Round a hearthstone swept most trimly,
While the flames rolled up the chimney,
Chimney broad and deep.
On the rug the sleepy house-dog
Lay, with muzzle on his paws;
In the corner purred grimalkin,
Who full oft had made the welkin
Ring with hideous noise.
Poring o'er the latest paper,
Quite absorbed, the father sat;
While a merry little urchin,
With some twigs and splinters birchen,
Built a tower upon his foot.
On a stand of gayest fabric
Hexagons and squares were piled,
And a bright-haired little maiden,
Scarce less fair than Eve in Aidenn,
At her patchwork toiled.
With her earnest eyes and loving
Bent upon the little band,
Sat a matron briskly knitting,
Shaping hose most trimly fitting,
With a patient hand.
Curled the smoke wreaths up the chimney,
While below the simmering pile,
Like a summer insect's droning,
Or the night winds stifled moaning,
Sounded all the while.
Mingling with the antique pattern
Of the paper on the walls,
Danced the curious shadows lightly,
While the flames burned dim or brightly,
Mounting up in wavy coils.
Sounded out the measured ticking
Of the clock against the wall;
Sat the boy, with blue eyes dancing,
At his father slyly glancing;
What would be his wonder fancying
When his tower should fall!
Thus went by the fleeting moments
At the farmer's happy home;
Kindly words of love were spoken,
Beaming glances gave sweet token
Of affections deep and warm.
Still without the storm kept raging,
Wailingly the blast swept by,
'Gainst the panes the sleet still driving,
Seemed for entrance vainly striving,
Emblem of the tempter's arrows,
Warded with their wedded sorrows,
From that lowly family.
"MY EXPERIENCE IN BABIES, SIR!"
_Disrespectfully Dedicated to the Renowned Bachelor who wrote an
Essay of several pages on an Hour's Experience with a Baby._
BY MARY NEAL.
'Twas night, and all day long I'd strove
To soothe my little suffering dove.
Oh, whose beside a mother's love
Could rightly nurse a baby?
I laid me down to steal some rest,
Its head was pillowed on my breast;
In dreams, my husband's love still blessed
Me and my darling baby.
But soon its piteous moanings broke
My rest, and from my dreams I woke
To feel its pulse's feverish stroke,
My little suffering baby!
"And oh, how hot its little head!
Rise quick and get a light, dear Fred!
Something unusual, I'm afraid,
Is ailing our poor baby."
Slowly he rose, with sullen grace,
The light gleamed on his cloudy face--
"I never knew 'twas a (man's!) place
Before, to tend a baby!"
My pulses throbbed; a terror crept
Throughout my heart; and, while I wept,
This _noble man_ lay down and _slept_,
And left me with my baby.
Oh, you, light-hearted, beauteous maid,
Whose greatest care's to curl and braid,
Far from life's lessons have you strayed.
If you ne'er think of babies!
Then learn from me, a matron staid,
_For this alone was woman made_,
After her sovereign lord's obeyed,
To nurse and tend the babies.
And Man, thou noblest work of God!
Thou, who canst never see the load
Thy wife sustains through life's rough road,
With thee and with her babies,
Go kneel upon thy mother's grave
And think--that every life she gave
Made her Death's victim or Life's slave;
_Then_ love your wife--and babies!
And you, you musty bachelor,
Who could not watch a little flower,
And keep it tearless one short hour--
Poor victimized "wee" baby!--
Go hide your _gray, diminished head_
Within your mother's feather bed,
And ne'er through life may it be said
You have a wife or baby!
BE OF GOOD CHEER: IT IS I.
BY R. T. CONRAD.
"But when they saw him walking upon the sea, they supposed it
had been a spirit, and cried out. For they all saw him and were
troubled. And immediately he talked with them, and saith unto
them, Be of good cheer: it is I; be not afraid."--MARK VI. 49, 50.
They toiled--for night was round their bark;
The fierce winds tossed the white sea spray:
And, like the heavens, their hearts were dark,
For Jesus was away.
When, lo, a spirit! See it tread
The waves that wrestle with the sky!
They shrieked, appalled: but Jesus said--
"_Be of good cheer: 'tis I!_"
As o'er the little day of life
The gathering cloud advances slow;
And all above is storm and strife,
And darkness all below;
What heart but echoes back the shriek
Of nature from the tortured sky?
But hark! o'er all a whisper meek--
"_Be of good cheer: 'tis I!_"
Who here makes misery our mate?
Links love with death, and life with doom?
Sends fears e'en darker than our fate--
The shadows of the tomb?
The hand that smites is raised in love;
He seeks to save who bids us sigh:
Who! murmurer? Hark--'tis from above!
"_Be of good cheer: 'tis I!_"
When change on change, and ill on ill,
Have taught the trusting heart to doubt;
When earth grows dark as, faint and chill,
Hope after hope goes out;
E'en then, amid the gloom, a ray
Breaks brightly on the heavenward eye;
And Faith hears, o'er the desolate way,
"_Be of good cheer: 'tis I!_"
And when our weary race is run,
The toil, the task, the trial o'er;
And twilight gathers, dim and dun,
Upon life's wave-worn shore;
When struggling trust and lingering fear
Cast shadows o'er the filmy eye;
What rapture then, that voice to hear:
"_Be of good cheer: 'tis I!_"
A PORTRAIT.
BY PAUL H. HAYNE.
The laughing Hours before her feet
Are strewing vernal roses,
And the voices in her soul are sweet
As music's mellowed closes;
All Hopes and Passions, heavenly-born,
In her have met together;
And Joy hath spread around her morn
A mist of golden weather.
As o'er her cheek of delicate dyes
The blooms of childhood hover,
So do the tranced and sinless eyes
All childhood's heart discover;
Full of a dreamy happiness,
With rainbow fancies laden,
Whose arch of promise leans to bless
Her spirit's beauteous Aidenn.
She is a being born to raise
Those undefiled emotions
That link us with our sunniest days,
And most sincere devotions:
In her we see, renewed and bright,
That phase of earthly story
Which glimmers in the morning light
Of God's exceeding glory.
Why, in a life of mortal cares,
Appear these heavenly faces?
Why, on the verge of darkened years,
These amaranthine graces?
'Tis but to cheer the soul that faints
With pure and blest evangels,
To prove if heaven is rich with saints,
That earth may have her angels.
Enough! 'tis not for me to pray
That on her life's sweet river,
The calmness of a virgin day
May rest, and rest forever;
I know a guardian genius stands
Beside those waters lowly,
And labors with immortal hands
To keep them pure and holy.
AN INCIDENT.
BY J. M. C.
Passing a bower, I looked within,
And lo! a little girl was there,
With rosy cheeks and dimpled chin,
Soft hazel eyes and golden hair.
The darling child was on her knees,
Her tiny hands were clasped in prayer,
Her ringlets fluttered in the breeze
And glistened round her forehead fair.
She seemed a being pure and bright,
Just come to earth from "realms of light;"
I treasured every word she said,
And this the orison she made:
"They tell me life is fraught with care,
That joy will fade when youth is flown,
And ills arise so hard to bear
I cannot tread life's maze _alone_.
Then, Heavenly Father, be my guide!
By thee be all my wants supplied!
To thee I turn, in thee confide!
"Watch o'er this little wayward heart,
Whose pulses beat so blithely now;
Ah, keep it pure and free from art,
And teach it to thy will to bow!
Father, Saviour, be its guide
When pleasures tempt or woes betide!
Beneath thy wing let me abide.
"As a young bird, untaught to fly,
Essays in vain aloft to soar
Without its parents' aid, so _I_
Thy help require, thy help _implore_,
To lead me in the heavenward way!
Oh, then, be thou my guide, my stay!
From the right path ne'er let me stray!"
TO CAROLINE IN HEAVEN.
BY ANNIE B. CLARE.
Thy feet have passed through the vale of the shadow,
Young, gifted, and beautiful, loving and loved;
With spirit immortal thou walkest the meadows,
By rivers that gladden the city of God!
Thou castest thy crown at the feet of the Saviour;
A fair smiling cherub is holding thy hand;
Together thou joinest the song of the ransomed,
Whose robes are washed white in the blood of the Lamb!
Dost see in that cherub thy guardian angel
Who was with thee below, and preceded thee there,
Who, lovely on earth, is more lovely in Heaven,
Who called thee impatient his glory to share?
Oh! fair gleams the marble in yonder sweet forest
Which the hand of affection hath placed o'er thy grave;
And constant the tribute of fresh blooming flowers
By friendship entwined, and over thee laid.
Oh! sweet is the song that the wild bird is singing,
And fair are the trees that wave over thy head,
And soft are the shadows that sunset is flinging
O'er thee and thy babe in thy low quiet bed.
Ever fresh in our hearts and remembrance are wrought
The scenes of thy life in beautiful story;
From the day that thou camest a joyous young bride,
Till called by thy Saviour, partaker of glory.
That life seems a dream we delight to recall,
So pure and so gentle thy sweet virtues shone;
The graces of earth and graces of heaven,
Like a mantle of beauty over thee thrown.
Thy fairy-like form is ever before us;
Thy cheek where the rose and the lily combined;
Thine eye of the dew-begemmed violet's color,
Beaming with purity, goodness, and mind!
How gloomy seemed earth of thy presence bereft!
How dark was the home by thy sunshine made gay!
How crushed was the heart of the mourner thou'st left,
The light of his life thus taken away!
But bright gleams the path that thy dear feet have trod,
And light shone around thee through the dark river,
And joy was 'mongst angels in presence of God,
As they welcomed thee home forever and ever.
MY GRANDMOTHER'S STAND.
BY H. B. WILDMAN.
It may be, indeed, I am childless and vain,
But I love the old relic of antiquate form;
Like the surf-beaten vessel that furrows the main,
It hath struggled and weathered through many a storm!
Full well I remember it, when but a boy,
The spot where 'twas placed by that matronly hand;
And now I'm grown old, like a child with its toy,
I love the old relic--my Grandmother's stand.
'Tis a "long time ago," though briefly it seems,
Since I heard her dear lessons of virtue and truth;
Oh, oh! that the Past would return with its dreams,
And let me live over one day of my youth!
Then I should sit down in that old-fashioned room,
So simple, so artless, so rustically planned;
Then I should bring roses, and drink their perfume,
As they blushed in that vase on my Grandmother's stand.
Ah, well I remember the treasures it bore--
The book that our dear village parson laid there;
In fancy, I see the good man at the door,
In fancy, behold him, still bending in prayer.
That "old-fashioned Bible," I ne'er can forget,
That blessed old Book, with its holy command;
That "old-fashioned Bible," I see it there yet--
That dear blessed Book, on my Grandmother's stand.
Oh, the world it may boast of its beauty and art,
And Grandeur explore the dark depths of the tide;
But the _Past_, with its treasures, can gladden the heart
Far more than the perishing gildings of pride!
Then, away with your grandeur and arts that impose,
I'll praise the old relic with life's wasting sand;
I'll guard the dear treasure till life's latest close,
And bless when I'm dying my Grandmother's stand.
TO LAURA.--THE FRIEND.
BY BEATA.
Your letter, dearest Laura, a welcome found indeed;
Never fear to write whate'er you think, 'tis that I wish to read;
I agree with you, sweet cousin, that openness and truth
Can alone preserve to latest years the friendship of our youth.
Yes--let me bear it as I may, I would not hide from you
I have been sadly slighted by the fickle Harry Drew!
Since the ball, I saw him seldom before we left the town,
And though six months have here elapsed, he has not once been down.
But much we've seen of Argentrie, and I trust that I have gained
A friend, with whom I can forget the faithless one disdained;
And as he does not think me yet an "angel of the sky,"
To win his honest word of praise I own I sometimes try.
His knowledge is so very great, his statements are so clear;
Of life, its hopes and trials, with deepfelt awe I hear;
New views are spread before me, and I feel not all in vain--
Oh! never, never can I be a thoughtless child again.
My duties now present themselves, I scarce can tell you how;
I am sure I was unconscious they were left undone till now;
That though papa is fond of music, 'twas not for him I played,
Nor for his pleasure that I read, or the least exertion made.
But all that is changed at last, and when at close of day
He returns fatigued from business, I am never far away;
I will a better daughter henceforward to him prove,
And, where I have received so much, return at least my love.
And my gentle, tender mother, making each of us her care,
If I cannot quite remove her charge, I can lighten and can share;
I have assumed some trifling tasks she willingly resigned,
And looks upon me with such pride--ah, mother! ever kind.
Yet not alone a mentor is Mr. Argentrie,
In all our merry frolics he joins with heartfelt glee;
He is staying at the farm adjoining to Belleaire,
Though indeed I must confess he is very seldom there.
And when I wish to mount upon my pretty milk-white steed,
He is waiting to assist and escort me in my need;
And thus we two explore each lane, and every prospect round;
I never such enjoyment in the balls with _Harry_ found.
Come see us, dearest Laura, while "the bloom is on the rye,"
For summer with its glories will soon be hastening by.
My mother looks so beautiful, and Fan and Charles so gay,
I would that we at bright Belleaire the year entire might stay.
Come quickly, and enjoy with us our rural life serene,
And add another pleasure to your happy coz, Pauline.
To Charles Gavan Duffy, Esq., the gifted editor of the "Dublin Nation"
newspaper, my first literary patron and esteemed friend, I beg leave to
dedicate these lines.
SONG TO C. G. D.
BY WILLIAM P. MULCHINOCK.
Beside the dark blue ocean
I wander free, I wander free,
And sweep with fond devotion
My lyre for thee, my lyre for thee;
And if the strain I waken
Have words of flame, have words of flame,
Whence bright hope may be taken--
From _thee_ they came, from _thee_ they came.
Mine eye was ever laden
With slavish tears, with slavish tears;
My heart, like timid maiden,
Was full of fears, was full of fears;
To tyrant mandates spoken
I meekly bowed, I meekly bowed;
Nor dreamed spells could be woken
To curb the proud, to curb the proud.
I knew not Ireland's glory,
Her woes or wrongs, her woes or wrongs;
I only heard the story
From Saxon tongues, from Saxon tongues;
And if, at times, in sorrow,
My heart would ope, my heart would ope,
I knew not where to borrow
One ray of hope, one ray of hope.
But soon _thy fire_ fraught pages[1]
Allured my sight, allured my sight,
With lore from youthful sages
And poets bright, and poets bright;
The sweetest hope shone o'er me
With blessed ray, with blessed ray,
And visions bright before me
Passed night and day, passed night and day.
I mused by moor and mountain,
Upon the past, upon the past,
Until at Wisdom's fountain
I drank at last, I drank at last;
I learned to laugh at danger
Like hero brave, like hero brave--
I longed to meet the stranger
With naked glave, with naked glave.
By thee Truth's light was given
Unto the blind, to me the blind;
By thee the clouds were riven,
That dimmed the mind, that dimmed the mind;
And if the strain I waken
Have words of flame, have words of flame,
Whence bright hope may be taken,
From _thee_ they came, from _thee_ they came.[2]
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: The "Nation" newspaper, a short time after its
establishment, was styled by that first of critics and most literal of
translators--John Gibson Lockhart--"a startling phenomenon"!]
[Footnote 2: Complete sets of the "Nation" sell to this day for no less
a sum than $30, or £6 sterling.]
SONNET.--LIGHT.
BY WM. ALEXANDER.
Where is thy dwelling place, all-pleasing Light?
Around Jehovah's everlasting throne,
Where, inaccessible, He sits alone,
'Mid joy supreme, ineffable delight.
Thy radiant face makes all wide Nature glad;
Hill, valley, rock, and river thou dost cheer,
And little birds make melody, if thou appear--
Deprived of thy fond presence, they are sad.
Thou art another synonym for life;
Thy smile is but the smile of Deity,
Whose glance fills ever overflowingly
The lamps of heaven, with golden beauty rife
Thy magic pencil paints the landscapes all;
Thy absence covers earth with pall funereal.
ODE FROM HORACE.
BY EDW. NEWTON VAN SANT.
Not the clamor of the ignoble crowd,
Not the threat'ning look of the tyrant proud,
Nor the fury with which Auster raves,
Wild king of the Adriatic waves;
Nor e'en the mighty arm of Jove,
Hurling his bolts through the vault above,
Can swerve the man of just intent
From that on which his mind is bent.
Nay, should the shattered heavens fall,
In crashing ruin blending all,
Still 'mid the gath'ring gloom of chaos drear,
He'd stand a stranger unto fear.
WORK-TABLE FOR JUVENILES.
"Well, my little daughter, I suppose you have been half afraid that I
should not return in time for your holiday. However, you see I am here,
ready for our lesson, and I have seen so many new and pretty things,
that I hardly know which to choose for you to do."
"Pray let it be something very easy, as well as pretty, dear mamma. I
should like to make a work-basket, or something of that sort, which
would be useful."
"Then, indeed, my child, you will almost think me a conjurer; for
I have brought you all the necessary materials for making the
prettiest thing of the sort that, I think, was ever seen. Here they
are! First, there is a frame of wire, then a little wadding, black
filet--which is, you know, the imitation netting of which you made your
watch-pockets--netting-silks, gimps, and satin ribbon. Besides these,
there is a piece of black satin, and some black sarsnet ribbon. You
will require a little _toile ciré_, which I dare say your work-box will
furnish."
"But can you not give me any idea of the appearance of this basket,
mamma? I never feel as if I could do anything unless I had some notion
of what it would be like when completed."
[Illustration: MODEL WORK-BASKET.]