Crowds out the native virtues,

And soon usurps the breast.

Better the endless endeavor,

The strong deed rushing on, And Happiness that, ere we know her

And name her, smiles and is gone!

"and how well it read, too!" But the prize he had won was withheld. Three times he visited the editor's office, and on each occasion he was put off. Waxing wroth under such treatment, he insisted on having satisfaction, and as a last resort he accepted a dollar and a half, which the impecunious editor offered him in lieu of the book. Then he went back to farming, and then became a schoolmaster. But his heart was set on literature, and when he was only nineteen he started for New York with the intention of supporting himself by his pen. It was bread and cheese and an attic for a long time, and even the cheese was scarce now and then. But the haughty and capricious dame, Fame, discovered him at last, and alighting from her carriage one day, she dragged him down stairs from his sky parlor into the sunshine of the street. Trowbridge's work has been divided between verse and pure fiction. As a writer of prose he will be remembered by two or three novels, a group of extremely clever short stories and for more admirable books for boys. There is little danger of contradiction in describing him as the most popular boys' author in America. The natural critic finds him at his best in his poems, in which are blended loftiness of thought, catholicity of sympathy and lyrical simplicity.

W. H. R.

THE SEEKING.

I.
By ways of dreaming and doing,

Man seeks the bourn of the blest; Youth yearns for the Fortunate Islands,

Age pines for the haven of rest.

IV. Ebb-tide chased by the flood-tide,

Night by the dawn pursued, And ever contentment hounded

By fresh inquietude!

Not what we have done avails us,

But what we do and are; We turn from the deed that is setting,

And steer for the rising star.

Each seeks some favored pathway,

Secure to him alone;
But every pathway thither
With broken hearts is strown.

II.
The Giver of Sleep breathed also,

Into our clay, the breath And fire of unrest, to save us

From indolent life in death.

We may wreck our hearts in the voyage;

But never shall sail or oar,
Nor wind of enchantment, waft us

Nearer the longed-for shore.

In vain each past attainment;

No sooner the port appears Than the spirit, ever aspiring,

Spreads sail for untried spheres.

Fair is the opening rose-bud,

And fair the full-blown rose; And sweet, after rest, is action,

And, after action, repose,

Whatever region entices,

Whatever siren sings, Still onward beckons the phantom

Of unaccomplished things.

But indolence, like the cow-bird,

That's hatched in an alien nest,

EVENING AT THE FARM. OVER the hill the farm-boy goes. His shadow lengthens along the land, A giant staff in a giant hand; In the poplar-tree, above the spring, The katydid begins to sing;

The early dews are falling;---
Into the stone-heap darts the mink;
The swallows skim the river's brink;
And home to the woodland fly the crows,
When over the hill the farm-boy goes,

Cheerily calling,
"Co', boss! co', boss! coʻ! co'! co'!”
Farther, farther, over the hill,
Faintly calling, calling still,

"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!"

Into the yard the farmer goes,
With grateful heart, at the close of day;
Harness and chain are hung away;
In the wagon-shed stand yoke and plow;
The straw's in the stack, the hay in the mow

The cooling dews are falling;-
The friendly sheep his welcome bleat,
The pigs come grunting to his feet,
The whinnying mare her master knows,
When into the yard the farmer goes,

His cattle calling -
"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!"
While still the cow-boy, far away,
Goes seeking those that have gone astray,

“Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!”

We've learned what comfort is, I tell you!

A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin,
A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow!

The paw he holds up there's been frozen),
Plenty of catgut for my fiddle

(This out-door business is bad for strings), Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle,

And Roger and I set up for kings!

No, thank ye, Sir,- I never drink;

Roger and I are exceedingly moral,Are n't we Roger ? — See him wink!

Well, something hot, then,-- we won't quarrel. He's thirsty, too,- see him nod his head ?

What a pity, Sir, that dogs can't talk! He understands every word that 's said,

And he knows good milk from water-and-chalk.

Now to her task the milkmaid goes,
The cattle come crowding through the gate,
Lowing, pushing, little and great;
About the trough, by the farm-yard pump,
The frolicsome yearlings frisk and jump,

While the pleasant dews are falling;-
The new milch heifer is quick and shy,
But the old cow waits with tranquil eye,
And the white stream into the bright pail flows,
When to her task the milkmaid goes,

Soothingly calling,
“So, boss! so, boss! so! so! so!”
The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool,
And sits and milks in the twilight cool,

Saying “ So! so, boss! so! so!”
To supper at last the farmer goes.
The apples are pared, the paper read,
The stories are told, then all to bed.
Without, the crickets' ceaseless song
Makes shrill the silence all night long;

The heavy dews are falling.

The truth is, Sir, now I reflect,

I've been so sadly given to grog, I wonder I've not lost the respect

(Here's to you, Sir!) even of my dog. But he sticks by, through thick and thin;

And this old coat, with its empty pockets, And rags that smell of tobacco and gin,

He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets.

There isn't another creature living

Would do it, and prove, through every disaster, So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving,

To such a miserable, thankless master!

Is there a way to forget to think?

At your age, Sir, home, fortune, friends, A dear girl's love, - but I took to drink;

The same old story; you know how it ends. If you could have seen these classic features,

You need n't laugh, Sir; they were not then Such a burning libel on God's creatures:

I was one of your handsome men!

If you had seen HER, so fair and young,

Whose head was happy on this breast! If you could have heard the songs I sung When the wine went round, you wouldn't have

guessed That ever I, Sir, should be straying

From door to door, with fiddle and dog, Ragged and penniless, and playing

To you to-night for a glass of grog!

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.
She loosed the rivets of the slave;

She likewise lifted woman,
And proved her right to share with man

All labors pure and human.
Women, they say, must yield, obey,

Rear children, dance cotillons:
While this one wrote, she cast the vote
Of unenfranchised millions!

- The Cabin.

SIN. Turn back, turn back; it is not yet too late: Turn back, O youth' nor seek to expiate Bad deeds by worse, and save the hand from

shame By plunging all thy soul into the flame.

- The Book of Gold.

TRUTH. When all is lost, one refuge yet remains, One sacred solace, after all our pains: Go lay thy head and weep thy tears, O youth! Upon the dear maternal breast of Truth.

- Ibid.

She's married since, - a parson's wife:

'T was better for her that we should part, Better the soberest, prosiest life

Than a blasted home and a broken heart.