Return? Alas, my Arab steed, what shall thy master do, When thou, who wert his all of joy, hast vanish'd from his view? Where with fleet step and joyous bound thou oft hast borne me on: When last I saw him drink! Away! the fever'd dream is o'er; A MOTHER. Ah! bless'd are they for whom, 'mid all their pains, Who, Life wreck'd round them-hunted from their rest- Claim, in one heart, their sanctuary and shrine- In thy black weeds, and coif of widow's woe; By that deep wretchedness the lonely know: Conn'd by unwilling lips, with listless air; Enduring sorrow, not by fits and starts, Alone amidst thy brood of careless hearts! Striving to guide, to teach, or to restrain, The young rebellious spirits crowding round, Who saw not, knew not, felt not for thy pain, And could not comfort-yet had power to wound! With riper judgment looking to the past, Stamps with remorse each wasted hour of time, SONNET-TO MY BOOKS. Silent companions of the lonely hour, My native language spoke in friendly tone, SONNET THE WEAVER. Little they think, the giddy and the vain, Where droops complainingly his cheerless head: Nor by what nerveless, thin, and trembling hands, The devious mingling of those various dyes Were wrought to answer Luxury's commands: But the day cometh when the tired shall rest Where weary Lazarus leans his head on Abraham's breast! COMMON BLESSINGS. Those "common blessings!" In this checker'd scene Is it, in truth, a privilege so mean To wander with free footsteps o'er the sod, They who have rarest joy, know Joy's true measure; Heavy the curtains feasting Luxury draws, To hide the sunset and the silver night; While humbler hearts, when care no longer gnaws, And some rare holiday permits delight, Lingering, with love would watch that earth-enchanting sight. THE PRISON CHAPLAIN. I saw one man, arm'd simply with God's Word, And pierce them sharply as a two-edged sword, So their hearts open'd to the wholesome pain, One good man's earnest prayer the link 'twixt them and God. Is still before me: there the Mother bows, Of holy import. There, the kindly man, Whose one weak vice went near to bid him lose Abjures the evil course which first he blindly ran. Round a young sister who deserves no blame; The father who refused to speak her name : Will he not, too, forgive, and bless her e'er she rise? THOMAS CARLYLE. 1796. THOMAS CARLYLE, the renowned essayist, reviewer, and historian, was born at Middlebie, in Dumfriesshire, Scotland, in 1796. His father, an elder in the Secession church, was a small farmer, and Thomas received the rudiments of a classical education at a school in Annan.' At the age of seventeen, he went to the University of Edinburgh, where he was distinguished for his attainments in mathematics, of which he was particularly fond. After leaving the university, he remained a little time in Edinburgh, supporting himself by teaching, and writing for the booksellers. He then went to Aberdeen, where he continued for some time as a schoolmaster, determining to devote himself to general literature. About the year 1824 he contributed to Brewster's "Edinburgh Encyclopædia" the articles "Montesquieu," "Montaigne," "Nelson," "Norfolk," and those on the two "Pitts," and completed a translation of "Legendre's Geometry," to 'Annan is in Dumfriesshire, on the Solway Frith, about sixty miles south of Edinburgh. 662 CARLYLE. which he prefixed an "Essay on Proportions," and also published his translation to the world his "Past and Present," "Life of Oliver Cromwell," Latter-Day It will readily be seen, by the above list of works, that Mr. Carlyle has been a But this industry is accompanied by a genius of a very very industrious man. high order, and no man of the present century has made a more decided mark upon the age than he. While, however, his writings show great depth as well as originality of thought, and are remarkable for their "suggestiveness," his style is so quaint and eccentric as to be any thing but a model for imitation. And yet a large number of young writers have affected his "tone of quaint irony and indulgent superiority," hoping thereby that they may be thought to have some of the genius of their great prototype, while, in fact, "they have shown nothing of Cicero but his wart, nor of Demosthenes but his stammer." The trait of Mr. Carlyle's character, which has gained him so many admirers, is the perfectly fearless and unreserved manner in which he utters his thoughts; for mankind love to see earnestness of purpose and independence of spirit, even if they do not coincide with the views thus manly uttered. We could wish, indeed, that our author were less Germanized in his philosophy, and less quaint in his style; but still we are glad to take him as he is, and to profit by his valuable teachings. If he be not a popular writer, and is not read by the masses, it may truly be said that the influence he has exerted upon the thinking men of the age is hardly exceeded by that of any other man now living. MARIE-ANTOINETTE. On Monday, the 14th of October, 1793, a cause is pending in the Palais de Justice, in the new revolutionary court, such as these old stone-walls never witnessed: the trial of Marie-Antoinette. The once brightest of queens, now tarnished, defaced, forsaken, stands here at Fouquier Tinville's Judgment-bar; answering for her life! The indictment was delivered her last night. To such changes of human fortune what words are adequate? Silence alone is adequate. Marie-Antoinette, in this her utter abandonment and hour of "North British Her extreme need, is not wanting to herself, the imperial woman. look, they say, as that hideous indictment was reading, continued calm; "she was sometimes observed moving her fingers, as when one plays on the piano." You discern, not without interest, across that dim revolutionary bulletin itself, how she bears herself queenlike. Her answers are prompt, clear, often of laconic brevity; resolution, which has grown contemptuous without ceasing to be dignified, vails itself in calm words. "You persist then in denial ?" "My plan is not denial: it is the truth I have said, and I persist in that." Scandalous Hébert has borne his testimony as to many things as to one thing, concerning Marie-Antoinette and her little son,-wherewith human speech had better not further be soiled. She has answered Hébert; a juryman begs to observe that she has not answered as to this. "I have not answered," she exclaims, with noble emotion, "because Nature refuses to answer such a charge brought against a mother. I appeal to all the mothers that are here." Robespierre, when he heard of it, broke out into something almost like swearing at the brutish blockheadism of this Hébert, on whose foul head his foul lie has recoiled. At four o'clock on Wednesday morning, after two days and two nights of interrogating, jury-charging, and other darkening of counsel, the result comes out: sentence of death. "Have you any thing to say?" The Accused shook her head without speech. Night's candles are burning out; and with her, too, Time is finishing, and it will be Eternity and Day. This hall of Tinville's is dark, illlighted, except where she stands. Silently she withdraws from it, to die. Two processions, or royal progresses, three-and-twenty years apart, have often struck us with a strange feeling of contrast. The first is of a beautiful Archduchess and Dauphiness, quitting her mother's city, at the age of fifteen; towards hopes such as no other daughter of Eve then had: "On the morrow," says Weber, an eye-witness, "the dauphiness left Vienna. The whole city crowded out; at first with a sorrow which was silent. She appeared: you saw her sunk back into her carriage; her face bathed in tears; hiding her eyes now with her handkerchief, now with her hands; several times putting out her head to see yet again this palace of her fathers, whither she was to return no more. She motioned her regret, her gratitude to the good nation, which was crowding here. to bid her farewell. Then arose not only tears; but piercing cries, on all sides. Men and women alike abandoned themselves to such expression of their sorrow. It was an audible sound of wail in the streets and avenues of Vienna. The last courier that followed her disappeared, and the crowd melted away. The young imperial maiden of fifteen has now become a worn discrowned widow of thirty-eight; gray before her time; this is the |