Thou from primeval nothingness didst call
First Chaos, then Existence; - Lord, on Thee
Eternity had its foundation; all

Sprang forth from Thee—of light, joy, harmony, Sole origin; all life, all beauty Thine,

Thy word created all, and doth create;

Thy splendor fills all space with rays divine.
Thou art and wert, and shalt be! glorious, great,
Life-giving, life-sustaining Potentate!

Thy chains the unmeasured universe surround,
Upheld by Thee, by Thee inspired with breath!
Thou the beginning and the end hast bound,
And beautifully mingled life and death.
As sparks mount upward from the fiery blaze,

So suns are born, so worlds spring forth from thee; And as the spangles in the sunny rays

Shine round the silver snow, the pageantry
Of heaven's bright army glitters in thy praise.

A million torches, lighted by Thy hand,
Wander unwearied through the blue abyss;
They own Thy power, accomplish Thy command,
All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss.
What shall we call them ?- Piles of crystal light,
A glorious company of golden streams,

Lamps of celestial ether, burning bright,

Suns of lighting systems, with their joyous beams? But Thou to those are as the noon to night.

Yes! as a drop of water to the sea,

All this magnificence to Thee is lost:

What are ten thousand worlds compared to Thee?
And what am I, then? Heaven's unnumbered host,
Though multiplied by myriads, and arrayed

In all the glory of sublimest thought,

Is but an atom in the balance, weighed

Against Thy greatness; is a cipher brought
Against infinity! What am I, then ?- Naught!

Naught! But the effluence of Thy light divine,
Pervading worlds, hath reached my bosom too:
Yes, in my spirit doth Thy spirit shine,

As shines the sunbeam in a drop of dew.
Naught! But I live, and on Hope's pinions fly

Eager toward Thy presence; for in Thee
I live and breathe, and dwell, aspiring high,
Even to the eternal throne of Thy divinity;
I am, O God! and surely Thou must be!

Thou art directing, guiding all, Thou art!
Direct my understanding, then, to Thee;
Control my spirit, guide my wandering heart.
Though but an atom 'mid immensity,
Still I am something fashioned by Thy hand;
I hold a middle rank 'twixt heaven and earth,
On the last verge of mortal being stand,

Close to the realm where angels have their birth,
Just on the boundary of the spirit land!

The chain of being is complete in me;

In me is matter's last gradation lost;

And the next step is Spirit - Deity!

I can command the lightning, and am dust!

A monarch and a slave; a worm, a god!

Whence came I here, and how? so marvellously Constructed and conceived? Unknown? This clod Lives surely through some higher energy;

From out itself alone it could not be.

Creator! yes! Thy wisdom and thy word
Created me. Thou source of life and good!
Thou, spirit of my spirit, and my Lord!

Thy light, Thy love, in their bright plenitude,
Filled me with an immortal soul to spring
O'er the abyss of death, and bade it wear
The garments of eternal day, and wing

Its heavenly flight, beyond this little sphere,
E'en to its source - to Thee - its Author - there!

O thought ineffable! O vision blest!

Though worthless our conception all of Thee, Yet shall thy shadowed image fill our breast, And waft its homage to Thy Deity.

God! thus alone my lowly thoughts can soar;

Thus seek Thy presence, Being wise and good

Mid Thy vast works, admire, obey, adore;

And when the tongue is eloquent no more,

The soul shall speak in tears its gratitude.

MONODY ON PRINCE MESTCHASKY.

(Translation of Charles Edward Turner.)

O IRON tongue of Time, with thy sharp metallic tone, The terrible voice affrights me:

Each beat of the clock summons me,

Calls me, and hurries me to the grave.

Scarcely have I opened my eyes upon the world,
Ere Death grinds its teeth,

And with his scythe that gleams like lightning,
Cuts off my days, which are but grass.

Not one of the horned beasts of the field,

Not a single blade of grass escapes,

Monarch and beggar alike are food for the worm.
The noxious elements feed the grave,

And Time effaces all human glory;

As the swift waters rush toward the sea,

So our days and years flow into Eternity,

And Empires are swallowed up by greedy Death.

We crawl along the edge of the treacherous abyss,
Into which we quickly fall headlong:

With our first breath of life we inhale death,
And are only born that we may die.

Stars are shivered by him,

And suns are momentarily quenched,
Each world trembles at his menace,

And Death unpityingly levels all.

The mortal scarcely thinks that he can die.
And idly dreams himself immortal,
When Death comes to him as a thief,
And in an instant robs him of his life.
Alas! where fondly we fear the least,
There will Death the sooner come;

Nor does the lightning-bolt with swifter blast
Topple down the towering pinnacle.

Child of luxury, child of freshness and delight,
Mestchasky, where hast thou hidden thyself?
Thou hast left the realms of light,

And withdrawn to the shores of the dead;

Thy dust is here, but thy soul is no more with us.

Where is it? It is there. Where is there?

We know not.

We can only weep and sob forth,

Woe to us that we were ever born into the world!

They who are radiant with health,

Love, joy, and peace,

Feel their blood run cold

And their souls to be fretted with woe.

Where but now was spread a banquet, there stands a coffin; Where but now rose mad cries of revelry,

There resounds the bitter wailing of mourners;

And over all keeps Death his watch:

Watches us one and all—the mighty Czar

Within whose hands are lodged the destinies of a world;

Watches the sumptuous Dives,

Who makes of gold and silver his idol-gods;

Watches the fair beauty rejoicing in her charms;

Watches the sage, proud of his intellect;

Watches the strong man, confident in his strength;

And, even as he watches, sharpens the blade of his scythe.

O Death, thou essence of fear and trembling!

O Man, thou strange mixture of grandeur and of nothingness! To-day a god, and to-morrow a patch of earth:

To-day buoyed up with cheating hope,

And to-morrow, where art thou, man?

Scarce an hour of triumph allowed thee,

Ere thou hast taken thy flight to the realms of Chaos,
And thy whole course of life, a dream, is run.

Like a dream, like some sweet vision,
Already my youth has vanished quite.
Beauty no longer enjoys her potent sway,
Gladness no more, as once, entrances me,
My mind is no longer free and fanciful,
And all my happiness is changed.
I am troubled for a longing for fame;

I listen; the voice of fame now calls me.

But even so will manhood pass away,

And together with fame all my aspirations.

The love of wealth will tarnish all,

And each passion in its turn

Will sway the soul and pass.

Avaunt happiness, that boasts to be within our grasp-
All happiness is but evanescent and a lie:

I stand at the gate of eternity.

RENÉ DESCARTES.

DESCARTES (or DESCARTES, Latinized into CARTESIUS), RENÉ, a French philosopher; born at La Haye, in Touraine, March 31, 1596; died at Stockholm, in February, 1650. He was of a noble family in Touraine; was trained in the Jesuit College of La Flèche. He entered the army in 1616, and saw considerable military service during the ensuing five years. Leaving the army, he travelled for several years in various parts of Europe, devoting himself to a close observation of natural phenomena, and to the formulation of his theory of the principles of human knowledge. He acquired a high reputation among all learned men, and is justly placed by the side of Bacon, Newton, and Kant among the founders of modern philosophical research, which he pushed into every department of physical and metaphysical investigation. In 1644 he put forth his "Principia Philosophiæ," and soon after received a pension of 3000 livres from the King of France. In 1648 Queen Christina of Sweden invited him to come to Stockholm as director of an academy which she proposed to found, with a salary of 3000 crowns. died two years after, and was buried at Stockholm; but sixteen years afterward Louis XIV. caused his remains to be brought to Paris, where they were reinterred in the church of Ste. Geneviève du Mont. The writings of Descartes, some in Latin, some in French, are very numerous.

DO ANIMALS THINK?

He

As to the understanding conceded by Montaigne and others to brutes I differ, not for the reason usually alleged that man possesses an absolute dominion over the brutes, which may not always be true, either as regards strength or cunning; but I consider that they imitate or surpass us only in those actions which are not directed by thought-such as walking, eating, and putting our hands out when we are falling. And people who walk in their sleep are said to have swum across rivers, in which they would have been drowned had they awaked. As regards the movements of the passions, although they are