As a loved presence back; oh! shine to me
As to the voyagers on the faithless sea!

Joy's beacon-light! I know that trembling Care,
Warn'd by thy coming, hies him to repose,
And on his pillow laid, serenely there

Forgets his calling, that at day's dull close
Meek Age and rosy Childhood sink to rest,
And Passion lays her fever-dreams aside,
And the unquiet thought in every breast

Loses its selfish fervor and its pride

With thoughts of thee,-the while their vigil keeping,
The quiet stars hold watch o'er beauty sleeping!

But unto me, thou still and solemn light,

What may'st thou bring? high hope, unwavering trust
In Him, who for the watches of the night

Ordain'd thy coming, and on things of dust
Hath pour'd a gift of power,-on wings to rise
From the low earth and its surrounding gloom
To higher spheres, till as the shaded skies

Are lighted by thy glories, gentle Moon,
So are Life's lonely hours and dark despair
Cheer'd by the star of faith, the torch of prayer.

JOHN GODFREY SAXE.

JOHN GODFREY SAXE, so widely known as "the witty poet," is the son of Hon. Peter Saxe, and was born in Highgate, Franklin County, Vermont, June 2, 1816. He was graduated at Middleburg College in 1839, studied law, was admitted to the bar in September, 1843, and entered upon the practice of his profession at St. Alban's, having in the mean time entered into "the holy bonds of matrimony" with one of the fair daughters of the Mountain State. All his leisure time he devoted to belles-lettres, which finally fairly won him from the law. In 1846, he delivered a poem before the Alumni of Middleburg College, called Progress, a Satire, which was a most successful performance and won for him a high repu tation. In 1847 appeared his Rape of the Lock, and in 1848 his Proud Miss McBride, both of which excited great laughter for their rollicking humor, happy puns, and pungent philosophy combined.

In 1850, Ticknor & Fields, of Boston, published his first volume of Poems, which soon ran through twelve editions. The same year he removed to Burlington, Vermont, and purchased the Sentinel, which he conducted for five years with marked success. Soon after he was elected State's Attorney, and, upon retiring from that office, was appointed Deputy-Collector of Customs. Of late years he has devoted his attention almost exclusively to literature, and now makes "lecturing" his sole vocation. So greatly does he excel in humorous and satirical poetry that he is constantly invited to address literary societies and "Institutes," and his readings and recitations are always enthusiastically

received. The poems New England, The Press, and The Money King have been delivered on such occasions, and are, of course, not in print. He is now preparing another volume of poems, which will include all his productions not embraced in the first. We hope it may be as successful.

RHYME OF THE RAIL.

I'M GROWING OLD.

My days pass pleasantly away,

My nights are bless'd with sweetest sleep;

I feel no symptoms of decay,

I have no cause to moan and weep;

My foes are impotent and shy,

My friends are neither false nor cold,
And yet, of late, I often sigh,—
I'm growing old!

My growing talk of olden times,
My growing thirst for early news,
My growing apathy for rhymes,

My growing love for easy shoes,
My growing hate of crowds and noise,
My growing fear of taking cold,
All tell me, in the plainest voice,
I'm growing old!

I'm growing fonder of my staff,
I'm growing dimmer in the eyes,
I'm growing fainter in my laugh,
I'm growing deeper in my sighs,
I'm growing careless of my dress,
I'm growing frugal of my gold,
I'm growing wise, I'm growing-yes-
I'm growing old!

I see it in my changing taste,
I see it in my changing hair,
I see it in my growing waist,

I see it in my growing heir;

A thousand hints proclaim the truth,
As plain as truth was ever told,
That even in my vaunted youth
I'm growing old!

Ah me! my very laurels breathe

The tale in my reluctant ears;
And every boon the hours bequeath
But makes me debtor to the years;
E'en flattery's honey'd words declare

The secret she would fain withhold,
And tells me, in "How young you are!"
I'm growing old!

Thanks for the years whose rapid flight
My sombre muse too sadly sings;
Thanks for the gleams of golden light

That tint the darkness of her wings,-
The light that beams from out the sky,
Those heavenly mansions to unfold,
Where all are blest, and none may sigh,
"I'm growing old!"

ELIZABETH HOWELL.

THE following poem, together with several others of great beauty of sentiment and purity of feeling, was written by a young lady of Philadelphia, a member of the "Society of Friends,"-Elizabeth Lloyd, Jr.,-the daughter of Isaac Lloyd. She afterwards was married to our late lamented fellow-townsman, Robert Howell, Esq. It is sufficient, in commendation of these lines, to say that they were at first attributed by many journals to Milton himself.

MILTON'S PRAYER OF PATIENCE.

I am old and blind!

Men point at me as smitten by God's frown;
Afflicted and deserted of my kind,

Yet am I not cast down.

I am weak, yet strong:

I murmur not that I no longer see;-
Poor, old, and helpless, I the more belong,
Father Supreme! to Thee.

All-merciful One!

When men are farthest, then art thou most near;
When friends pass by, my weaknesses to shun,
Thy chariot I hear.

Thy glorious face

Is leaning towards me, and its holy light
Shines in upon my lonely dwelling-place,-
And there is no more night.

On my bended knee,

I recognise Thy purpose, clearly shown;
My vision Thou hast dimm'd, that I may see
Thyself Thyself alone.

I have naught to fear;

This darkness is the shadow of thy wing;
Beneath it I am almost sacred,—here

Can come no evil thing.

Oh! I seem to stand

Trembling, where foot of mortal ne'er hath been,
Wrapp'd in that radiance from the sinless land
Which eye hath never seen.

Visions come and go,

Shapes of resplendent beauty round me throng;
From angel-lips I seem to hear the flow

Of soft and holy song.

In a purer clime,

My being fills with rapture,- -waves of thought
Roll in upon my spirit,-strains sublime

Break over me unsought.

Give me now my lyre!

I feel the stirrings of a gift divine;
Within my bosom glows unearthly fire,
Lit by no skill of mine.

HORACE BINNEY WALLACE, 1817-1852.

HORACE BINNEY WALLACE, the youngest son of John Bradford and Susan Wallace, was born in Philadelphia, on the 26th of February, 1817. Parents more competent to develop and discipline the mind no child could have. He appears early to have evinced a love of study and traits of strongly-marked individuality. His preparation for college was chiefly under the teachings of his father, and in his fifteenth year he entered the University of Pennsylvania, where he became at once distinguished in every branch of study, and particularly in the higher mathematics. After passing two years here, he was transferred to Princeton College, and had not been there a year before one of its most eminent professors declared that "he was the most extraordinary young man he had ever seen; excelled in all branches of study,-seemed to know every thing, to read every thing, and to find and measure the wisdom of all he read."

After graduating in 1835, he devoted some years to the study of medicine, then to chemistry, and then to law. Of the latter he was master. Having no necessity, he had no taste, for the "practice" of the profession, and declined it; but he ever continued to read, to think, and to write upon it on a large scale. His contributions to his profession are, Comments upon Smith's Selection of Leading Cases in Various Branches of Law; upon White and Tudor's Selection of Cases in Equity, and other similar works, which are spoken of by one to whom all may justly defer, as "the fruits of as accomplished a legal mind as any man in any country at his early age has shown. It is almost marvellous that a man of thirty, who had no time or chance to file his opinions and thoughts by the thoughts of other men in bar-discussions, should have attained to so true and uniform and firm an edge, and to so sharp and penetrating a point, in all of them. There is not a note or remark in the whole body that does not show the mind of a lawyer, imbued with the spirit of the science, instinctively perceiving and observing all its limitations, its harmonies, its modulations, its discords, as a cultivated ear perceives, without an effort, what is congruous or incongruous with the harmonies of sound."

Mr. Wallace died at Paris on the 16th of December, 1852. Since then, two volumes have been collected and arranged from his writings, by his surviving brother, John William Wallace, Esq. The duty was done with great care and faithfulness that the author should speak in his own exact words, though all was left by him in an unprepared state and without any thought of publication. They will remain a lasting monument of the author's genius, leaving the world to mourn his early loss, and, in that, the loss of what he might have done. These works are entitled Art and Scenery in Europe, and Literary Criticisms and other Papers.2

1 Horace Binney, Esq., of Philadelphia.

2 Good editions of these have been published by Parry & McMillan, Phila.