The City.

NOT in the solitude

Alone may man commune with Heaven, or see,

Only in savage wood

And sunny vale, the present Deity:

Or only hear his voice.

Where the winds whisper, and the waves rejoice.

Even here do I behold

Thy steps, Almighty! here, amidst the crowd
Through the great city rolled

With everlasting murmur, deep and loud,
Choking the ways that wind

'Mongst the proud piles, the work of human kind.

Thy golden sunshine comes

From the round heaven, and on their dwellings lies And lights their inner homes:

For them thou fillest with air the unbounded skies

And givest them the stores

Of ocean, and the harvests of its shores.

Thy spirit is around,

Quick'ning the restless mass that sweeps along;
And this eternal sound,

Voices and footfalls of the numberless throng,
Like the resounding sea,

Or like the rainy tempest, speaks of Thee!

And when the hours of rest,

Come, like a calm upon the mid-sea brine,
Flushing its billowy breast,

The quiet of that moment too is thine :

It breathes of Him who keeps

The vast and helpless city while it sleeps.

BRYANT.

On Drawing.

Br many, the art of drawing is considered a useless accomplishment, having no practical value or importance. No opinion could be more erroneous. On the contrary, its utility makes it worthy of a prominent place among the pursuits of every class of people. To the mechanic and the man of science, the art of drawing is indispensable. The artisan must first draw his model if he would ensure success to his labour, and it is only the practised eye that can define the "little more or less" that is necessary to perfect the line of beauty, and none but a practised hand, can, by the slightest variation of a curve, add grace and effect to the whole contour. By the same means the scientific student demonstrates the result of his researches. Without the aid of the pencil how limited would be our knowledge of natural history, and the position and productions of the various countries with which we are now made familiar! But regarding it merely as a pursuit of pleasure, it is a source of the most refined enjoyment. And is there nothing gained by the influence of such a pursuit on the mind? Is not every pursuit valuable that is in itself elevating, whether its influence is limited to individuals or extended to communities?

Another advantage not to be overlooked in this pursuit, is, the increase it gives to our sources of pleasure and in enumerating those that are most desirable, we would rank as the highest, that derived from the beauties of Nature. No one can take delight in them and be indifferent to their source. The lover of nature is not always a lover of art-but the true lover of art is always a lover of nature; and as a lover of nature, his pleasure is much increased by the habit of close observation that is necessary to the practice of art. The form of every leaf, the colour of every flower, and the hue of every cloud, then catch his attention, and by the admiration they

excite, the pleasure of the general view is much enhanced. It is truly said that, a habit of watchfulness of the outward world, is a pretty certain assurance of a well-informed man and I would recommend a practice of the art if it were only for the nice discrimination it requires: for the application of this habit is invaluable in every other pursuit.

M. A. DWIGHT.

Elizabeth Fry.

THE felon's bewailing,
The Magdalen's sigh,
The tears of the widow,

The fatherless cry,-
These are her epitaph,
Written above :-
Lasting memorials-

Records of love.
Spirit of Howard,

Look down from on high,—
On the grave of thy sister,

Elizabeth Fry!

Wrapped in thy mantle,

She entered the cell,

A priestess of Heaven,

On the threshold of Hell,

An angel of mercy,

Wherever she went,

Calling, like Peter,

On men to repent.

Wearisome nights,

And wearisome days,
Mindful of duty,—

Unmindful of praise-
In the gloom of the dungeon,
Upon the cold ground,
By the sick and the dying,

There was she found.
Oh many a sight

She looked upon there,
Of sickness and death,

Of sorrow and care:

Like Aaron she stood,
"Twixt the living and dead,

A stranger to doubting
A stranger to dread;-
A Handmaid of Heaven,
By charity sent,—
Scattering blessings,
Wherever she went.
The feelings of woman,
The courage of man,
Gave love and decision
To every plan.
Nations of Europe

Are shrouded in gloom;
All creeds and all classes,

Weep over her tomb!

WM. NICOMB.

Ir wisdom's ways you wisely seek, five things observe with care, To whom you speak, of whom you speak, and how, and when, and where.

Bridges.

I.

I HAVE a bridge within my heart,
Known as the "Bridge of Sighs :"
It stretches from life's sunny part,
To where life's darkness lies.

And when upon this bridge I stand,
To watch life's tide below,

Sad thoughts come through the shadowy land,
And darken all its flow.

Then as it winds its way along

To sorrow's bitter sea,

O mournful is the spirit-song,
That upward floats to me.

A song, which breathes of blessings dead,
Of friends and friendships flown:
Of pleasures gone--their distant tread
Now to an echo grown.

And hearing thus, beleaguering fears
Soon shut the present out,
While bliss but in the past appears,
And in the future, doubt.

Oh often then will deeper grow
The night which round me lies:
I wish that life had run its flow,

Or never found its rise!