SELECTIONS FROM THE POETS.

XXI.
I want the genius to conceive,
The talents to unfold,
Designs, the vicious to retrieve,
The virtuous to uphold.
Inventive power, combining skill;
A persevering soul,
Of human hearts to mold the will,
And reach from pole to pole.
XXII.
I want the seals of power and place,
The ensigns of command;
Charged by the People's unbought grace,
To rule my native land -
Nor crown, nor scepter would I ask,
But from my country's will,
By day, by night, to ply the task,
Her cup of bliss to fill.
XXIII.
I want the voice of honest praise,
To follow me behind;
And to be thought, in future days,
The friend of human-kind,
That after ages, as they rise,
Exulting may proclaim,
In choral union, to the skies,
Their blessings on my name.
XXIV.
These are the wants of mortal man,
I cannot want them long -
For life itself is but a span,
And earthly bliss a song.
My last great want, absorbing all,
Is, when beneath the sod,
And summon'd to my final call,
Tht merry of my God.

THE EVENING BELLS
BY THOMAS MOORE-
SHOSE evening bells, those evening bells !
How many a tale their music tells
Of youth, and home, and native clime,
When I last heard their soothing chime.
Those pleasant hours have passed away,
And many a heart that then was gay,
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those evening bells.
And so it will be when I am gone;
That tuneful peal will still ring on,
When other bards shall walk these dells
And sing your praise, sweet eening bells.

WORDS FOR PARTING.
BY MARY CLEMMER AMES.
WHAT shall I do, my dear.
In the coming years, I wonder,
When our paths, which lie so sweetly near,
Shall lie so far asunder !
O, what shall I do, my dear,
Through all the sad to-morrows,
When the sunny smile has ceased to cheer,
That smiles away all sorrows!
What shall I do, my friend,
When you are gone forever?
My heart its eager need will send,
Through the years to find you, never.
And how will it be with you,
In the weary world, I wonder?
Will you love me with a love as,true,
When our paths lie far asunder?
A sweeter, sadder thing,
My life for having'-nown you;
Forever, with my sacred kin,
My soul's soul, I must own you;
Forever mine, my friend,
From June till life's December;
Not mine to have and hold,
Mine to pray for, and remember.
The way is short, my friend,
That reaches out before us;
God's tender heavens above us bend,
His love'is smiling o'er us.
A little while is ours,
For sorrow or for laughter;
I'll lay the hand you love in yours,
On the shore of the hereafter.

THE SCULPTOR BOY.
SHISEL in hand stood a sculptor boy,
With his marble block before him:-
And his face lit up with a smile of joy
As an angel dream passed o'er him.
He carved that dream on the yielding stone
With many, a sharp incision;
In Ileaven's own light the sculptor shone,
He had caught that angel vision.
Sculptors of life are we, as we stand,
With our lives uncarved before us;
Waiting the hour when, at God's command,
, Our life dream passes o'er us.
Let us carve it then on the yielding stone,
With many a sharp incision: -
Its heavenly beauty shall be our own -
Our lives, that angel vision.

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