THE PHILOSOPHER'S SCALES.

IN days of yore, as Gothic fable tells,
When learning dimly gleamed from grated cells,
When wild Astrology's distorted eye
Shunned the fair field of true philosophy,

And, wandering through the depths of mental night,
Sought dark predictions 'mid the worlds of light:-
When curious Alchymy, with puzzled brow,
Attempted things that Science laughs at now,
Losing the useful purpose she consults,

In vain chimeras and unknown results:-
In those gray times there lived a reverend sage,
Whose wisdom shed its lustre on the age.
A monk he was, immured in cloistered walls,
Where now the ivy'd ruin crumbling falls.
'T was a profound seclusion that he chose;
The noisy world disturbed not that repose:
The flow of murmuring waters, day by day,
And whistling winds that forced their tardy way
Through reverend trees, of ages growth, that made,
Around the holy pile a deep monastic shade;
The chanted psalm, or solitary prayer ·

Such were the sounds that broke the silence there.

'T was here, when his rites sacerdotal were o'er,
In the depth of his cell with its stone-covered floor,
Resigning to thought his chimerical brain,
He formed the contrivance we now shall explain:
But whether by magic, or alchymy's powers,
We know not-indeed 't is no business of ours:

Perhaps it was only by patience and care,

At last that he brought his invention to bear.
In youth 't was projected; but years stole away,
And ere 'twas complete he was wrinkled and gray :
But success is secure unless energy fails;

And at length he produced The Philosopher's Scales.

What were they?—you ask: you shall presently see, These scales were not made to weigh sugar and tea; O no;-for such properties wondrous had they, That qualities, feelings, and thoughts they could weigh; Together with articles small or immense,

From mountains or planets, to atoms of sense:

Nought was there so bulky, but there it could lay;
And nought so etherial, but there it would stay;
And nought so reluctant, but in it must go ;
All which some examples more clearly will show.

The first thing he tried was the head of Voltaire,
Which retained all the wit that had ever been there;
As a weight, he threw in a torn scrap of a leaf,
Containing the prayer of the penitent thief;
When the skull rose aloft with so sudden a spell,
As to bound like a ball on the roof of the cell.

Next time he put in Alexander the Great, With a garment that Dorcas had made — for a weight; And though clad in armor from sandals to crown, The hero rose up, and the garment went down.

A long row of alms-houses, amply endowed, By a well-esteemed pharisee, busy and proud, Now loaded one scale, while the other was prest

-

By those mites the poor widow dropped into the chest ;-
Up flew the endowment, not weighing an ounce,
And down, down, the farthing's worth came with a bounce,

Again, he performed an experiment rare ; A monk, with austerities bleeding and bare, Climbed into his scale; in the other was laid The heart of our Howard, now partly decayed; Whenhe found, with surprise, that the whole of his brother Weighed less, by some pounds, than this bit of the other.

By further experiments (no matter how)

He found that ten chariots weighed less than one plough.
A sword, with gilt trappings, rose up in the scale,
Though balanced by only a ten-penny nail;

A shield and a helmet, a buckler and spear,
Weighed less than a widow's uncrystallized tear.
A lord and a lady went up at full sail,

When a bee chanced to light on the opposite scale.
Ten doctors, ten lawyers, two courtiers, one earl,
Ten counsellors' wigs full of powder and curl,
All heaped in one balance, and swinging from thence,
Weighed less than some atoms of candor and sense;
A first-water diamond, with brilliants begirt,
Than one good potatoe, just washed from the dirt;
Yet, not mountains of silver and gold would suffice,
One pearl to outweigh—'t was the "pearl of great price."

At last the whole world was bowled in at the grate; With the soul of a beggar to serve for a weight; When the former sprang up with so strong a rebuff, That it made a vast rent, and escaped at the roof; Whence, balanced in air, it ascended on high, And sailed up aloft, a balloon in the sky; While the scale with the soul in, so mightily fell, That it jerked the philosopher out of his cell.

MORAL

Dear reader, if e'er self-deception prevails, We pray you to try The Philosopher's Scales..

But if they are lost in the ruins around,
Perhaps a good substitute thus may be found:-
Let judgment and conscience in circles be cut,
To which strings of thought may be carefully put:
Let these be made even with caution extreme,

And impartiality use for a beam:

Then bring those good actions which pride overates, And tear up your motives to serve for the weights.

THE VIOLET.

Down in the green and shady bed,
A modest violet grew;

Its stalk was bent, it hung its head,
As if to hide from view.

And yet it was a lovely flower,
Its color bright and fair;

It might have graced a rosy bower,
Instead of hiding there.

Yet there it was content to bloom,
In modest tints arrayed;

And there it sheds its sweet perfume,
Within the silent shade.

LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON.*

ENGLAND boasts no living poetess superior to Miss Landon. Hers is the true inspiration, ascribed by the ancients to Phoebus, by us to Nature, which can

"Give to airy nothing

A local habitation, and a name."

She possesses in an eminent degree that loftiest attribute of genius, creative power - her imagination is vivid, varied, and fertile, and in depicting scenes of passionate love or sorrowful despair she is unrivalled by any modern poet, of either sex. We do not, however, think these love-strains worthy of all praise. It is true that she has painted her pictures to the mind's eye, with great delicacy of touch, and many of them possess exquisite grace and beauty; still we wish she had not so frequently made choice of "love as the

* There are several volumes of Miss Landon's poetical works, besides a countless number of fugitive pieces in the Annuals and Periodicals constantly appearing. The volumes have all been republished in America, and with the exception of Mrs. Hemans, no English writer of poetry is now more popularly known among us than L. E. L. Her lyrical effusions find a place in our papers, from Maine to Florida, and her admirable "Poem on the Death of Mrs. Hemans" has given her a warm place in the heart of many a devoted admirer of that sweet songstress.