Is Learning a treasure? How charming the pair When Talent and Culture are lovingly met; But Labor unceasing is grievous to bear,

And that's what you pay for the learning you get!

Is Genius worth having? There is n't a doubt;
And yet what a price on the blessing is set,
To suffer more with it than dunces without,
For that's what you pay for the genius you get!

Is Beauty a blessing? To have it for naught
The gods never grant to their veriest pet ;
Pale Envy reminds you the jewel is bought,
And that's what you pay for the beauty you get!

Gay Pleasure is followed by gloomy Regret ;

And often Repentance is one of her train,

And that's what you pay for the pleasure you get!

But surely in Friendship we all may secure

An excellent gift; never doubt it, — and yet With much to enjoy there is much to endure, And that's what we pay for the friendship we get!

But then there is Love? - Nay, speak not too soon;
The fondest of hearts may have reason to fret ;
For Fear and Bereavement attend on the boon,
And that's what we pay for the love that we get !

And thus it appears — though it sounds like a jest —
The gods don't allow us to be in their debt;
And though we may think we are specially blest,
We are certain to pay for whatever we get!

THE OLD CHAPEL-BELL.

WITHIN

A BALLAD.

7ITHIN a churchyard's sacred ground, Whose fading tablets tell

Where they who built the village church

In solemn silence dwell,

Half hidden in the earth, there lies
An ancient Chapel-Bell.

Broken, decayed, and covered o'er
With mouldering leaves and rust;
Its very name and date concealed
Beneath a cankering crust;
Forgotten, like its early.friends,

Who sleep in neighboring dust.

Yet it was once a trusty Bell,
Of most sonorous lung,
And many a joyous wedding-peal,

And many a knell had rung,

Ere Time had cracked its brazen sides,
And broke its iron tongue.

And many a youthful heart had danced,

In merry Christmas-time,

To hear its pleasant roundelay,

Sung out in ringing rhyme;

And many a worldly thought been checked

To list its Sabbath chime.

A youth, - a bright and happy boy,
One sultry summer's day,
Aweary of his bat and ball,
Chanced hitherward to stray,
To read a little book he had,
And rest him from his play.

"A soft and shady spot is this!"
The rosy youngster cried,
And sat him down, beneath a tree,
That ancient Bell beside;
(But, hidden in the tangled grass,
The Bell he ne'er espied.)

Anon, a mist fell on his book,
The letters seemed to stir,
And though, full oft, his flagging sight
The boy essayed to spur,

The mazy page was quickly lost
Beneath a cloudy blur.

And while he marvelled much at this,
And wondered how it came,

He felt a languor creeping o'er
His young and weary frame,
And heard a voice, a gentle voice,
That plainly spoke his name.

That gentle voice that named his name Entranced him like a spell,

Upon his ear so very near

And suddenly it fell,

Yet soft and musical, as 't were

The whisper of a bell.

"Since last I spoke,” the voice began,
"Seems many a dreary year!
(Albeit, 't is only since thy birth

I've lain neglected here !)
Pray list, while I rehearse a tale
Behooves thee much to hear.

"Once, from yon ivied tower, I watched The villagers, around,

And gave to all their joys and griefs

A sympathetic sound, —

But most are sleeping, now, within
This consecrated ground.

"I used to ring my merriest peal
To hail the blushing bride ;

I sadly tolled for men cut down
In strength and manly pride;
And solemnly, not mournfully, —
When little children died.

"But, chief, my duty was to bid
The villagers repair,

On each returning Sabbath morn
Unto the House of Prayer,
And in his own appointed place
The Saviour's mercy share.

"Ah! well I mind me of a child, A gleesome, happy maid,

Who came, with constant step, to church,

In comely garb arrayed,

And knelt her down full solemnly,

And penitently prayed.

"And oft, when church was done, I marked

That little maiden near

This pleasant spot, with book in hand,
As you are sitting here,
She read the Story of the Cross,
And wept with grief sincere.

"Years rolled away, — and I beheld
The child to woman grown;
Her cheek was fairer, and her eye
With brighter lustre shone;

But childhood's truth and innocence
Were still the maiden's own.

"I never rang a merrier peal
Than when, a joyous bride,
She stood beneath the sacred porch,
A noble youth beside,

And plighted him her maiden troth,
In maiden love and pride.

"I never tolled a deeper knell, Than when, in after years,

They laid her in the churchyard here,
Where this low mound appears,
(The very grave, my boy, that you

Are watering now with tears!)

"It is thy mother! gentle boy,

That claims this tale of mine,
Thou art a flower whose fatal birth

Destroyed the parent vine !
A precious flower art thou, my child, -

TWO LIVES WERE GIVEN FOR THINE!