THE GOOD IS ALL.

We must labor, labor hard, to understand, respect, and tenderly love in others whatever contains one single grain of simple, intrinsic Goodness. Believe me, this is everywhere, and it is everywhere to be found, if you will only look for it.

The supremacy of the truly Good !-here lies the root of the whole teaching-the whole new way of looking at things and judging men.

The fame of Voltaire will be cruelly diminished by all this, I know it well. But do you really hold by Voltaire so much as that? Voltaire had no soul; mind that (though I think Ste. Beuve forgot it); and remember that, in place of the mere cleverness of those vanished days, some great thing of which we know nothing yet,, but only guess, may, and surely will, be born.-From Un Critique.

DE VERE, SIR AUBREY, an Irish poet, was born at Curragh Chase, County Limerick, August 28, 1788; died there, July 5, 1846. He was the eldest son of Vere Hunt, who was created a baronet of Ireland in 1784. He succeeded to the title upon the death of his father in 1818; and by royal license he assumed the surname and arms of De Vere in 1832. He was educated partly by a private tutor at Ambleside, and was afterward a student with Byron and Peel at Harrow. "He led the life of a quiet country gentleman, and his modesty prevented him from publishing much in his lifetime." His Julian the Apostate, a dramatic poem which he published in 1822, is mentioned in Burke's Peerage and Baronetage for 1897; as are also The Duke of Mercia, a historical drama which appeared in 1823, and The Song of Faith, which he issued four years before his death. His later works, published posthumously, include Mary Tudor (1847), a historical drama which Sir Aubrey had written in 1844; and the Sonnets, which had been included in the issue of 1842, but which were published separately in 1875, with a memoir by his son, Aubrey Thomas De Vere. Wordsworth pronounced these sonnets to be "the most perfect of our age;" and Leslie Stephen says that they show his chivalrous sentiment," that "he was a man of high patriotic feeling, attached to

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no party, and though inclining to Toryism, averse to the old-fashioned prejudices of the party."

The Quarterly Review for April, 1896, after quoting with admiration the estimate of Sir Aubrey by his gifted son: "In that brow I see three things-Imagination, Reverence, and Honor," proceeds as follows:-"We should be content to rest Sir Aubrey De Vere's reputation upon his sonnets, pronounced by Wordsworth 'amongst the most perfect of our age,' or upon that magnificent creation, Mary Tudor, which two such different minds as those of Mr. Gladstone and the late Cardinal Manning agreed in placing next to Shakespeare. The high level sustained by his poetry is one of its most striking characteristics. He is never paltry; and the verse moves with a conscious unflagging dignity that corresponds to the grave and luminous current of thought beneath."

LADY JANE GREY IN PRISON.

A prison in the Tower. LADY JANE GREY, alone, sewing a shroud. She turns an hour-glass.

:

Jane. I nevermore shall turn that glass. For me
Time is fulfilled and ere those sands run down,
My trembling fingers must complete their task-
Their final task--or not in work of mine

Shall his dear limbs, composed in death, be wrapped.
With what a speed they haste! by mine own heart
I count the flying seconds of his life.

Oh what a task for wedded hands!-'Tis done,
And now I fold and lay thee to my bosom,
Which his espoused head so loved to press.

What noise is that?—not
Oh my dear mother.

[Enter the Duchess of Suffolk. time-it is not time?

[Falls on her neck.

Duchess.-Wretched-wretched mother!

Jane. It is not much to die. Whoever faints Has tasted death, waking in pain or sorrow. Have comfort.-Desolate I leave you not:

My father near and other duteous daughters. Duchess.-Thy father hath gone forth and raised his banner

To dare the Queen. This act hath sealed thy doom. The father slays his child!

Jane.

God's will be done!

How dark soe'er his ways or blind our eyes! My precious mother! weep not-leave strength!

Duchess.-Would I were dead !

Jane.

me some

Live for my sister's sake. She needs thy counsel, and my sad example: For there is that in Herbert's father's heart May move him to attempt the crown for her.

Duchess.-Oh, let her rather labor in the fields,
And spring for bread beside a cottage hearth,
Than step unto a throne! Thou fatal blood!
Predestinated race! all who partake

Thy veins must pour them forth on battle-fields,
Or the foul scaffold! Doomed Plantagenet !
The Tudor follows in your steps.

Jane.-
Our sands
Have almost run. I must be quick. Will he
See me once more? one last, last kiss bestow?
Duchess.-The malice of the Queen forbids.
Jane.-
Say mercy-
Else were our hearts left beggared of all firmness.
'Tis best thus. We shall meet-yes, ere yon sun,
Now high in heaven, shall from the zenith stoop,
Together will they lay us in one coffin,
Together our poor heads. Weep not, my mother!
But hear me. Promise you will see this done.
Duchess.-I promise.

Jane.

So our bones shall intermingle; And rise together, when the angelic trump Shall lift us to the footstool of our Judge!

What shall I give thee?—they have left me littleWhat slight memorial through soft tears to gaze on?

This bridal ring-the symbol of past joy?
I cannot part with it upon this finger
It must go down into the grave. Perchance
After long years some curious hand may find it,
Bright like our better hopes, amid the dust,
And piously, with a low sigh, replace it.
Here-take this veil, and wear it for my sake.
And take this winding-sheet to him; and this
Small handkerchief so wetted with my tears,
To wipe the death-damp from his brow. This kiss-
And this-my last-print on his lips and bid him
Think of me to the last and wait my spirit.
Farewell, my mother! farewell, dear, dear, mother,
These terrible moments I must pass in prayer-
For the dying-for the dead! Farewell! farewell!
-Mary Tudor.

COLUMBUS.

He was a man whom danger could not daunt,
Nor sophistry perplex, nor pain subdue;.
A stoic, reckless of the world's vain taunt,
And steeled the path of honor to pursue;
So, when by all deserted, still he knew
How best to soothe the heart-sick, or confront
Sedition; schooled with equal eye to view
The frowns of grief, and the base pangs of want.
But when he saw that promised land arise
In all its rare and bright varieties,
Lovelier than fondest fancy ever trod,

Then softening nature melted in his eyes:

He knew his fame was full, and blessed his God;
And fell upon his face, and kissed the virgin sod!

DIOCLETIAN AT SALONA.

Take back these vain insignia of command,
Crown, truncheon, golden eagle-baubles all—
And robe of Tyrian dye, to me a pall;

And be forever alien to my hand,

Though laurel-wreathed, War's desolating brand,

I would have friends, not courtiers, in my hall;
Wise books, learned converse, beauty free from thrall,