succeeding lines are metaphorical. Again, to take an instance of the other kind:

They melted from the field, as snow,

When streams are swoln, and south winds blow,
Dissolves in silent dew."*

Of the words here put in italics, the former is a metaphor, the latter introduces a comparison. Though the instances here adduced are taken from a poet, the judicious management of comparison which they exemplify, is even more essential to a prose writer, to whom less license is allowed in the employment of it. It is a remark of Aristotle that the simile is more suitable in poetry, and that metaphor is the only ornament of language in which the orator may freely indulge. He should therefore be the more careful to bring a simile as near as possible to the metaphorical form.

Of metaphors, those generally conduce most to energy or vivacity of style, which illustrate an intellectual, by a sensible object; the latter being always the most familiar to the mind, and generally giving the most distinct impression to it. But the highest degree of energy (and that to which Aristotle chiefly restricts the term) is produced by such metaphors as attribute life and action to things inanimate; and that, even when by this means the last-mentioned rule is violated, i. e. when sensible objects are illustrated by intellectual.

* Marmion.

THE HASTY WORD.

WE are too swift to judge the hasty word
Called forth, may be, by jarring some fine chord
We have too roughly handled. Swifter we speak
Our scornful, bitter thoughts; the bloodless cheek
May fail to tell how keen the shaft hath been:
No quivering of the tutored lip is seen

To tell how sure the vengeance. But the heart,-
Could we but raise its veil, then should we start
As if a charnel-vault revealed its store

Of lifeless forms, in trappings that they wore,

Ere Death's cold care had claimed them. We should hear

Wailings of smothered anguish, though no tear

May tell it to the world, sounding amid

The forms of mournful memories that lie hid

In Time's dark treasure-house. The world,-it hath
Too little joy upon its thorny path,

That we should scorn to heed another's pain.
Like sunshine breaking through the summer-rain
Is the sweet bond of kindness, brightly thrown
On life's dark clouds, forming a heavenly zone;
And fairest in the stormiest sky appears,
Weaving a web of beauty, e'en from tears.

TEMPERANCE HYMN.

RULER of earth, and God of heaven,
By the blesssings thou hast given,
Richly to these favored lands,
Turned to curses in our hands;
By the desolating arts,

Ruined souls and broken hearts,
Pleasures turned to pains, and smiles
To tears, in these our native isles,
With thy strength, and by thy aid
To support the effort made-
We renounce the bowl-and never
Taste the drunkard's draught-for ever.

Ruler of earth, and God of heaven,
By the blessings thou hast given-
Smiling skies and blooming earth,
To all who taste their taintless worth;
By the days of peace and health,
By the intellectual wealth,
And the deep domestic bliss
Which the temperate still possess―
With thy strength, and by thy aid
To support the effort made-

We renounce the bowl-and never

Taste the drunkard's draught-for ever.

Ruler of earth, and God of heaven,
By the blessings thou hast given-
Turned to poison on the lips!
By the reason's dread eclipse!
By the drunkard's dying groans!
By his wretched widow's moans!
By his helpless orphan's cry,
Ascending to thy throne on high-
With thy strength, and by thy aid
To support the effort made-

We renounce the bowl-and never
Taste the drunkard's draught-for ever!

Ruler of earth, and God of heaven!
By the blessings thou hast given
To support the weak, and cheer
The humblest of thy creatures here;
By the hearts with purer fire
Filled, who yet may dare aspire
To thy glorious throne above,
There to sing of joy and love-
With thy strength, and by thy aid
To support the effort made-

We renounce the bowl-and never
Taste the drunkard's draught-for ever!

17*

HURRAH FOR THE MIND-MARCH!

HURRAH for the Mind-March! the music
That stirs among nations of brave;
That wakes them to war by the spirit,
And sets up the soul o'er the glaive!
That sheaths the old sword of the tyrant,
To revel in peace with the free;
And calls upon truth as its syren
To warble in liberty's tree!

Oh, Mind leapeth forth from her scabbard,
More bright than her weapon of blood!
And weddeth her strength unto justice,
And getteth her glory from good!
Hers, hers is the battle of heaven,
That staineth not corn-field or wave-
The people's true music loud given,
To stir up their nations of brave.

THERE is nothing more universally commended than a fine day; the reason is, that people can commend it without envy.