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Of golden morns and eves, whose glory makes
The heart with wonder ask, what Heaven is
If this be earth? and throws them in her lap.
The trees disrobe themselves for her dear sake,
And spread their precious jewels at her feet.
Her bright-faced children gather round her knees,
Conferring and receiving love. To me
The fulness of the Autumn nothing brings.

"And Winter too with his soft mantle wraps
Her round, and keeps her warm. He brings for her
Bright starry nights. With richer splendour fills
The presence of the moon. His hoary head
Lies on her breast, as with his loving eyes
He looks into her face, and calls her 'fair,'
And tells her how her children gather round
The glowing hearth, and bless their mother's love,
Till her old heart beats with a prouder joy,
Than when the Spring told her his love was hers.-
Bright-starry nights, and splendour-dowered moons,
And glowing hearths share no delight with me.
They find me and they leave me still alone.

"I would be loved! O God I would be loved!
The desert grass ne'er thirsted so for rain
As this poor heart is thirsting now for love.
When will the often-dreamed of come?

"Is there

A curse between me and the race, and so
I am shut out from all the joys of life?
I have not seen the brand upon my brow,
Nor heard the tone of horror in my voice,
Which might repel all human hearts from me.
And yet I feel, I know I am accursed,
And none will ever love me in the world.

"It cannot be that I repulse the sight. They tell me I am very beautiful.

I know my cheeks are fair, my eyes are bright
My form is well proportioned, and my hair
In those rich raven tresses thickly hang,
Which poets in their love-songs celebrate,
And which are oft the envy of my sex.
Yet all in vain am I thus beautiful.

"Is it my beauty is my curse? 'Twas said Of that fair, fated land, Italia,

By him who knew her best, and loved her most,
Her beauty was her curse. Is such my fate?

O God! if this be so, let sickness come,

And rob me of the charms which make my woe.
Take all my beauty, only bring me love.

"Come death and gently fold me in thy arms,
Upon thy bosom let me rest in peace;
I would repose me in the quiet grave,
And bid to earth a sweet, but long farewell:
For life is nothing worth unblest by love."

*

Again the silence reigned around; a star
Peeped here and there from out the silent sky,
As if her voice of woe had reached them in
Their journey round the sun, and made them pause
To gaze on one so sadly desolate;

And with their presence soothe her wounded heart.
She heeded not; but sat reclining still
Her head upon her hand. Her raven locks
Still hung luxuriantly around her face,
And hid its pallid beauty from the stars.
And thus she sat, and looked into the night,
The lonely heart thirsting in vain for love.

JOHN ALFRED LANGFORD.

COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE.

A LITTLE TALK ABOUT A GOOD BOOK.

It is with books, as with human beings-some are no sooner seen than they become favourites, and ever after hold an abiding place in our affections. Others acquire this power by slow degrees, growing, as it were, upon your love with every fresh interview, until they silently, but surely, take possession of the whole heart. These become our firm friends. We consult them in our troubles, seek for their advice before we attempt great undertakings, confess our errors, and thankfully receive their monitorial council thereon; in our sacred hours of affliction we rest upon their love, and find balm for the wounded heart in their sympathy and consolement. In some respects books have an advantage over their living companions in this friendly relationship. They are passive to all our varying thoughts and feelings. We take them up and lay them down just as humour prompts us, or the fulness of the heart compels. We may communicate as much or as little of our joys and sorrows as we please, and not a question will be asked, or a sign of disappointment appear. When one sentence applies more intimately to our peculiar state of mind than another, we may re-read it over and over again; or, laying down the book, may lovingly dwell upon the words until they become a part of us; and our souls drink in the wisdom and the consolation, as the desert drinks the rain-drops of a falling shower. Books may want the warmth, the heaving, heart-moving power of a living loving friend; there is no grasp of the hand that tells so much, which the tongue can never say; no sweet voice singing from the depths of affection "Peace, peace, thou perturbed spirit;" no mild glance of an eye lit up with sympathy and hope; but there is a spirit which asks not, nor needs these adjuncts, that steals into the heart's inner sanctuary, and blesses the sufferer with a calm,

though perhaps, melancholy quietness of thought which is soothing and beautiful. Especially is this the case to those who in sorrow love solitude; who in grief see a spiritual teacher, which alone can raise the soul to the highest conception of the divine, and inspire the deepest trust in the Unseen. Goethe has beautifully said

Who never ate his bread with tears,

Who never through night's gloomy hours,
Weeping sat upon his bed,

He knows ye not, ye heavenly powers.*

And our young English poet, Henry Sutton, in two verses, which, for true poetry, outweigh many a volume of rhyme, has sung in sweet wailing tones that falls on the ear like the beloved voice of a departed friend

The flowers live by the tears that fall

From the sad face of the skies;

And life would have no joys at all,
Were there no watery eyes.

Love thou thy sorrow, grief shall bring
Its own relief in after years;

The Rainbow-see how sweet a thing,
God hath built up from tears.

I was led into the above train of thought by reading the book
whose name stands at the head of the present paper.
I was suf-
fering under a deep domestic affliction when I received from my
Book Club " Companions of my Solitude." It came like manna
to the perishing Israelites. My heart was feeding on its own sor-
row. Thought brought but increase of pain. Company was an
intrusion, and solitude but opened the sluices of grief more widely.
I tried to think upon many things, but one thought and feeling
coloured all. However bright the sun, which for a moment illu-
mined my soul, the deep shadow of sorrow was thrown over its
presence, and all grew instantly dark and dreamy. I took up
many books, but they relieved me not. There was no coherence
in them. The following sentence seemed to have no relation for
the preceding. The one dominent thought of my mind came in
between sentence and sentence, and the link of connection was
broken. I laid them aside and tried to write. The result was the
The spirit would not be exorcised, and no charm I pos-
sessed was potent enough to lay him. "Companions of my Soli-

same.

*Wer nie sein Brod mit Thränen ass,

Wer nicht die kummervollen Nǎchte

Auf seinem Bette weinend sass,

Der kennt euch nicht, ihr hümmlischen Măchte.

GOETHE.

tude" was then brought, and, almost hopeless and with indifference, I turned over its pages and glanced at its contents. By degrees its calm spirit, its large-heartedness, its genial sympathy with suffering and sorrow, its gentle judgment on the erring and sinful, its love of children, and flowers, and fields, and woods, its quiet, home-like wisdom, its charity so manly and free from cant; and, more than all, its religious tone and deep veneration for the divine in life; though they did not, and could not remove my grief, yet they elevated, soothed, and refined it. I have never seen its author, and most likely never may; but I feel for him more than men generally feel for even their most favourite writers, and may not rest till I have told others what a deep store of fruitful wisdom lies in his little volume. It is a sweet pleasure to speak of a book in which broods the spirit of love. For with a magic influence will the spirit steal into the aching heart, and for a time, like a bright sunset after a dull, cloudy day, all will be serene and cheerful.

The Companions of my Solitude are the thoughts, reveries, and meditations which occupy the author's mind when sitting alone in his study, pacing his garden walks, rambling the neighbouring green and shady lanes, sauntering through the pine wood, walking over the downs, or going to and from his friend Dunsford's. With these he communes as with living friends, and their talk is upon the questions and things that at present most interest the world. The loss of time in unprofitable labour, the amusements and education of the people, the “great sin of great cities,” the Church, and other topics of a kindred nature, occupy his solitude with pleasant thought and healthy speculation. It would be well for the world if our legislators and public teachers were carefully to read the book, and endeavour to make practical many of our author's suggestions. They are full of the "milk of human kindness," tempered by a deep wisdom and a rich fund of common sense; not "what we mean by common sense that is apt to be hard, overwise, and disagreeable," but "the common sense of a romantic person, and of one who had a great perception of the harmonious." But I will now let the author speak for himself. He is meditating on the loss of time. "Law, for example, what a loss of time, of heart, of love, and of leisure! There are good men whose minds are set upon improving the law; but I doubt whether any of them are prepared to go far enough. Here again we must hope most from the general improvement of the people. Perhaps, though, some one great genius will do something for us, have often fancied that a man might play the part of Brutus in

I

the law. He might simnlate madness in order to ensure freedom. He might make himself a 'great lawyer, rise to eminence in his profession, and then turn round and say 'I am not going to enjoy this high seat and dignity; but intend henceforward to be an advocate for the people of this country against the myriad oppressions and vexations of the law. No Chancellorships or ChiefJusticeships for me. I have only pretended to be this slave in order that you should not say that I am an untried and unpractical man-that I do not understand your mysteries.' How many shattered hearts, and ruined families, and blasted hopes groan in England now for such a Brutus of the law ?"

Our quotations must necessarily be disjointed, and our analysis of the book imperfect. To extract all the passages we should like, would be to leave but little unappropriated. In reading it passages on passages called for the pencil mark; and what is still more to the purpose, took hold of the mind and gave it matter for after thought and future elaboration. Here is an extract on the small annoyances which fill so large a space in every man's life :"Those very unfortunate concurrences of circumstances, which most men's lives will tell them of, where a man, from some small error or omission, from some slight carelessness, or overtrust in thoughtless innocence or inexperience, gets entangled in a web of adverse circumstances, which will be company for him on sleepless nights and anxious days throughout a large part of his life. Were success in life (morally or physically) the main object here, it certainly would seem as if a little more faculty in man were sadly needed. A similar thing occurs often to the body, when a man, from some small mischance or oversight, lays the beginning of a disease which shall depress and enfeeble him while he sojourns upon earth. And it seems, when he looks back, as if such a little thing would have saved him: if he had not crossed over the road, if he had not gone to see his friend on that particular day, if the dust had not been so unpleasant on that occasion, the whole course of his life had been different. Living, as we do, in the midst of stern, gigantic Laws, which crush everything down that comes in their way, which know no excuses, admit of no small errors, never send a man back to learn his lesson and try him again, but are as inexorable as Fate-living, I say, with such creatures about us (unseen, too, for the most part,) it does seem as if the faculties of man were hardly as yet adequate to his situation here.

"Such considerations as the above tend to charity and humility; and they point also to the existence of a future state.

"As regards charity, for example, a man might extend to others

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