But on the hill the golden-rod,
And the aster in the wood,

And the yellow sun-flower by the brook,
In autumn beauty stood,

Till fel. the frost from the clear cold heaven,
As falls the plague on men,

And the brightness of their smile was gone
From upland, glade, and glen.

4. And now, when comes the calm, mild day,
As still such days will come,

To call the squirrel and the bee
From out their winter home,

When the sound of dropping nuts is heard,
Though all the trees are still,

And twinkle in the smoky light,

The waters of the rill,

The south wind searches for the flowers,

Whose fragrance late he bore,
And sighs to find them in the wood
And by the stream no more.

5. And then I think of one who in
Her youthful beauty died,

The fair, meek blossom that grew up
And faded by my side;

In the cold, moist earth we laid her,
When the forest cast the leaf,
And we wept that one so lovely
Should have a life so brief;
Yet not unmeet it was that one,
Like that young friend of ours,

So gentle and so beautiful,

Should perish with the flowers. W. C. BRYANT.

126. THE SENSE OF BEAUTY.

BEAUTY is an all-pervading presence. It unfolds in the num

berless flowers of the spring. It waves in the branches of

the trees and the green blades of grass. It haunts the depths of the earth and sea, and gleams out in the hues of the shell and the precious stone.

2. And not only these minute objects, but the ocean, the mountains, the clouds, the heavens, the stars, the rising and setting sun, all overflow with beauty. The universe is its temple; and those men who are alive to it, can not lift their eyes without feeling themselves encompassed with it on every side.

3. Now this beauty is so precious, the enjoyments it gives are so refined and pure, so congenial' with our tenderest and noblest feelings, and so akin to worship, that it is painful to think of the multitude of men as living in the midst of it, and living almost as blind to it, as if, instead of this fair earth and glōrious sky, they were tenants of a dungeon. An infinite joy is lost to the world by the want of culture of this spiritual endowment.

4. Suppose that I were to visit a cottage, and to see its walls lined with the choicest pictures of Raphael, and every spare nook filled with statues of the most ex'quisite workmanship, and that I were to learn that neither man, woman, nor child ever cast an eye at these miracles of art, how should I feel their privation; how should I want to open their eyes, and to help them to comprehend and feel the loveliness and grandeur which in vain courted their notice! But every husbandman is living in sight of the works of a divine Artist; and how much would his existence be elevated, could he see the glory which shines forth in their forms, hues, proportions, and moral expression!

5. I have spoken only of the beauty of nature, but how much of this mysterious charm is found in the elegant arts, and especially in literature? The best books have most beauty. The greatest truths are wronged if not linked with beauty, and they win their way most surely and deeply into the soul when arrayed in this their natural and fit attire. Now no man receives the true culture of a man, in whom the sensibility to the beautiful is not cherished; and I know of no condition in life from which it should be excluded.

6. Of all luxuries this is the cheapest and most at hand; and

'Con gè' ni al, partaking of the same nature or feeling.- Raphael, one of the most celebrated painters. Born 1483, died 1520.

it seems to me to be most important to those conditions, where coarse labor tends to give a grōssness to the mind. From the diffusion of the sense of beauty in ancient Greece, and of the taste for music in modern Germany, we learn that the people at large may partake of refined gratifications, which have hitherto been thought to be necessarily restricted to a few.

W. E. CHANNING.

127. THE ARAB'S FAREWELL TO HIS STEED.

1.

MY beautiful! my beautiful!

That standest meekly by,

With thy proudly arch'd and glossy neck,

Thy dark and fiery eye

Fret not to roam the desert now

With all thy winged speed,
I may not mount on thee again:
Thou'rt sold, my Ar'ab steed!

2. Fret not with that impatient hoof,
Snuff not the breezy wind,
The farther that thou fliest now,
So far am I behind.

The stranger hath thy bridle-rein,
Thy master hath his gold:
Fleet limb'd and beautiful, farewell!
Thou'rt sold, my steed, thou'rt sold!
3. Farewell! those free untired limbs
Full many a mile must roam,
To reach the chill and wintry sky

Which clouds the stränger's home;
Some other hand, less fond, must now
Thy corn and bread prepare;
Thy silky mane, I braided once,
Must be another's care.

4. The morning sun shall dawn again,
But never more with thee

Shall I gallop through the desert paths
Where we were wont to be.

Evening shall darken on the earth,

And o'er the sandy plain

Some other steed, with slower step,
Shall bear me home again.

5. Yes! thou must go! the wild, free breeze, The brilliant sun and sky,

Thy master's house, from all of these
My exiled one must fly.

Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud
Thy step become less fleet,

And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck,
Thy master's hand to meet.

6. Only in sleep shall I behold

That dark eye glancing bright;
Only in sleep shall hear again
That step so firm and light;
And when I raise my dreaming arm
To check or cheer thy speed,
Then must I, starting, wake to feel
Thou'rt sold, my Arab steed!

7. Ah, rudely then, unseen by me,
Some cruel hand may chide,

Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves,
Along thy panting side;

And the rich blood that's in thee swells

In thy indignant pain,

Till careless eyes which rest on thee
May count each starting vein.

8. Will they ill use thee? If I thought-
But no, it can not be-

Thou art so swift, yet easy curb'd,

So gentle, yet so free.

And yet, if haply when thou'rt gone

My lonely heart should yearn,

Can the same hand which casts thee off
Command thee to return?

9. Return? Alas, my Arʼab steed,
What shall thy master do,

When thou, who wert his all of joy,
Hast vanish'd from his view?
When the dim distance cheats mine eye,
And through the gathering tears,
Thy bright form for a moment like
The false mirage' appears.

10 Slow and unmounted will I roam
With weary foot alone,

Where with fleet step and joyous bound
Thou oft hast borne me on:

And sitting down by that green well,
Will pause and sadly think,
"Twas here he bow'd his glossy neck,
When last I saw him drink.

11. When last I saw him drink!-Away!
The fever'd dream is o'er;

I could not live a day, and know
That we should meet no more;
They tempted me, my beautiful!
For hunger's power is strong,
They tempted me, my beautiful!
But I have loved too long.

12. Who said that I had given thee up?
Who said that thou wert sold?

'Tis false, 'tis false! my Arab steed!
I fling them back their gold.
Thus, thus, I leap upon thy back,

And scour the distant plains:
Away!-Who overtakes us now
Shall claim thee for his pains!

MRS. NORTON.

'Mirage (mè råz'), a deceptive appearance, as an image of water in sandy deserts, or of a village in a desert, built on a lake, or of objects elevated in the air.