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Nay, sink not; though from every limb
Are starting drops of toil and pain;
Thou dost but share the lot of Him
With whom his followers are to reign.
Thy friends are gone, and thou, alone,
Must bear the sorrows that assail;
Look upward to the eternal throne,
And know a Friend who cannot fail.

Bear firmly; yet a few more days,
And thy hard trial will be past;
Then, wrapt in glory's opening blaze,

Thy feet will rest on heaven at last. Christian thy Friend, thy Master pray'd, When dread and anguish shook his frame; Then met his sufferings undismay'd;

Wilt thou not strive to do the same?

O! think'st thou that his Father's love
Shone round him then with fainter rays
Than now, when, throned all height above,
Unceasing voices hymn his praise?

Go, sufferer! calmly meet the woes

Which God's own mercy bids thee bear;

Then, rising as thy SAVIOUR rose,

Go! his eternal victory share.

THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR.

Another year! another year!

The unceasing rush of time sweeps on; Whelm'd in its surges, disappear

Man's hopes and fears, forever gone!

O, no! forbear that idle tale!

The hour demands another strain,
Demands high thoughts that cannot quail !
And strength to conquer and retain.
'Tis midnight-from the dark-blue sky,
The stars, which now look down on earth,
Have seen ten thousand centuries fly,
And given to countless changes birth.

And when the pyramids shall fall,
And, mouldering, mix as dust in air,
The dwellers on this alter'd ball

May still behold them glorious there.
Shine on shine on! with you I tread
The march of ages, orbs of light!
A last eclipse o'er you may spread,
To me, to me, there comes no night.

O! what concerns it him, whose way
Lies upward to the immortal dead!
That a few hairs are turning gray,

Or one more year of life has fled?

Swift years! but teach me how to bear,
To feel and act with strength and skill,
To reason wisely, nobly dare,

And speed your courses as ye will.

When life's meridian toils are done,

How calm, how rich the twilight glow!
The morning twilight of a sun

Which shines not here on things below.
But sorrow, sickness, death, the pain

To leave, or lose wife, children, friends !
What then-shall we not meet again
Where parting comes not, sorrow ends?
The fondness of a parent's care,

The changeless trust which woman gives,
The smile of childhood-it is there

That all we love in them still lives.

Press onward through each varying hour;
Let no weak fears thy course delay;
Immortal being! feel thy power,

Pursue thy bright and endless way.

HENRY REED, 1808-1854.

PROFESSOR HENRY REED was born in Philadelphia, on the 11th of July, 1808. After the usual preparatory studies, under that accomplished school-master, Mr. James Ross, he entered the sophomore class in the University of Pennsylvania, in September, 1822, and graduated in 1825. He began the study of law under that distinguished jurist, John Sergeant, and was admitted to practice in the courts of the city and county of Philadelphia in 1829. In September, 1831, he relinquished the practice of his profession, on being elected assistant professor of English Literature in the University of Pennsylvania. In November of the same year, he was chosen Assistant Professor of Moral Philosophy, and in 1835 he was elected Professor of Rhetoric and English Literature. He continued in the service of the college

for twenty-three years, discharging his duties with untiring industry, and with such ability and zeal, united to great urbanity of manners, as to secure the warm attachment and profound respect of all who came under his instruction.

It had long been Professor Reed's earnest wish to visit Europe, but his professional duties and other claims had always prevented it. Early in 1854, however, he asked leave of absence, which was granted by the trustees; and early in May, accompanied by his sister-in-law, Miss Bronson, he sailed for Europe. His reputation as a scholar had preceded him, and he was received with the kindest welcome by many of England's most distinguished poets and scholars. He visited the continent, and went by the ordinary route through France and Switzerland, as far south as Milan and Venice, and returned to England the latter part of the summer.

On the 20th of September, 1854, Mr. Reed, with his sister, embarked at Liverpool for New York in the steamship Arctic. Seven days afterwards, at noon, a fatal collision occurred, and before sundown every human being left upon the ship-about three hundred in all—had sunk under the waves. When the news of his loss reached Philadelphia, feelings of intense grief pervaded all hearts who had had even but a slight knowledge of him. It was felt that Philadelphia had lost one of her choicest, most gifted spirits, one who was an honor and an ornament to the elevated position which he held in the University, and one who, had his life been spared, would have resumed his responsible duties with increased zeal, efficiency, and usefulness.

Professor Reed was married, in 1834, to Elizabeth White Bronson, a granddaughter of Bishop White.

Shortly after Professor Reed's death, his brother, William B. Reed, Esq., prepared for publication, with his well-known taste and judgment, his manuscript notes and lectures on English Literature and Poetry, which are among the choicest contributions to American Literature. These are "Lectures on English Literature from Chaucer to Tennyson," 1 vol. 12mo.; "Lectures on the British Poets," 2 vols. 12mo.; and "Lectures on English History and Tragic Poetry, as illustrated by Shakspeare," 1 vol. 12mo.'

'During his life, Professor Reed prepared editions of the following works:Alexander Reid's Dictionary of the English Language; Graham's English Synonyms, enriched by poetical citations from Shakspeare, Milton, and Wordsworth; Wordsworth's Poems, with a beautifully appreciative Introduction; Gray's Poems, with a new Memoir; Arnold's Lectures on Modern History; and Lord Mahon's History of England.

BEST METHOD OF READING.

It is not unfrequently thought that the true guidance for habits of reading is to be looked for in prescribed courses of reading, pointing out the books to be read, and the order of proceeding with them. Now, while this external guidance may to a certain extent be useful, I do believe that an elaborately prescribed course of reading would be found neither desirable nor practicable. It does not leave freedom enough to the movements of the reader's own mind; it does not give free enough scope to choice. Our communion with books, to be intelligent, must be more or less spontaneous. It is not possible to anticipate how or when an interest may be awakened in some particular subject or author, and it would be far better to break away from the prescribed list of books, in order to follow out that interest while it is a thoughtful impulse. It would be a sorry tameness of intellect that would not, sooner or later, work its way out of the track of the best of any such prescribed courses. This is the reason, no doubt, why they are so seldom attempted, and why, when attempted, they are apt to fail.

It may be asked, however, whether everything is to be left to chance or caprice, whether one is to read what accident puts in the way-what happens to be reviewed or talked about. No! far from it; there would in this be no more exercise of rational will than in the other process; in truth, the slavery to chance is a worse evil than slavery to authority. So far as the origin of a taste for reading can be traced in the growth of the mind, it will be found, I think, mostly in the mind's own prompting; and the power thus engendered is, like all other powers in our being, to be looked to as something to be cultivated and chastened, and then its disciplined freedom will prove more and more its own safest guide. It will provide itself with more of philosophy than it is aware of in its choice of books, and will the better understand its relative virtues. On the other hand, I apprehend that often a taste for reading is quenched by rigid and injudicious prescription of books in which the mind takes no interest, can assimilate nothing to itself, and recognizes no progress but what the eye takes count of in the reckoning of pages it has travelled over. It lies on the mind, unpalatable, heavy, undigested food. But reverse the process; observe or engender the interest as best you may, in the young

mind, and then work with that-expanding, cultivating, chastening it.

POETICAL AND PROSE READING.

The disproportion usually lies in the other direction-prose reading to the exclusion of poetry. This is owing chiefly to the want of proper culture, for although there is certainly a great disparity of imaginative endowment, still the imagination is part of the universal mind of man, and it is a work of education to bring it into action in minds even the least imaginative. It is chiefly to the wilfully unimaginative mind that poetry, with all its wisdom and all its glory, is a sealed book. It sometimes happens, however, that a mind, well gifted with imaginative power, loses the capacity to relish poetry simply by the neglect of reading metrical literature. This is a sad mistake, inasmuch as the mere reader of prose cuts himself off from the very highest literary enjoyments; for if the giving of power to the mind be a characteristic, the most essential literature is to be found in poetry, especially if it be such as English poetry is, the embodiment of the very highest wisdom and the deepest feeling of our English race. I hope to show in my next lecture, in treating the subject of our language, how rich a source of enjoyment the study of English verse, considered simply as an organ of expression and harmony, may be made; but to readers who confine themselves to prose, the metrical form becomes repulsive instead of attractive. It has been well observed by a living writer, who has exercised his powers alike in prose and verse, that there are readers "to whom the poetical form merely and of itself acts as a sort of veil to every meaning, which is not habitually met with under that form, and who are puzzled by a passage occurring in a poem, which would be at once plain to them if divested of its cadence and rhythm; not because it is thereby put into language in any degree more perspicuous, but because prose is the vehicle they are accustomed to for this particular kind of matter; and they will apply their minds to it in prose, and they will refuse their minds to it in verse."

The neglect of poetical reading is increased by the very mis-. taken notion that poetry is a mere luxury of the mind, alien from the demands of practical life-a light and effortless amusement. This is the prejudice and error of ignorance. For look

'Taylor's Notes from Books, p. 215.

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