ighting gods, I may not share.
I turn from Beauty, Love, and Power,
In singing vale, on laughing sea;
From Youth and Hope, and wait the hour
When weary Knowledge turns to me.

XI.

"Beneath my hand the sacred springs
Of Man's mysterious being burst,
And Death within my shadow brings
The last of life, to greet the first.
There is no god, or grand or fair,
On Orcan or Olympian field,
But must to me his treasures bear,
His one peculiar secret yield.

XII.

"I wear no garment, drop no shade
Before the eyes that all things see;
My worshippers, howe'er arrayed,
Come in their nakedness to me.
The forms of life like gilded towers
May soar, in air and sunshine drest,--
The home of Passions and of Powers,--
Yet mine the crypts whereon they rest.

XIII.

"Embracing all, sustaining all,
Consoling with unuttered lore,
Who finds me in my voiceless hall
Shall need the oracles no more.
I am the knowledge that insures
Peace, after Thought's bewildering range;
I am the patience that endures;
I am the truth that cannot change!"

DELY'S COW.

I went down to the farm-yard one day last month, and as I opened the
gate I heard Pat Malony say, "Biddy! Biddy!" I thought at first he was
calling a hen, but then I remembered the hens were all shut into the
poultry-house that day, to be sorted, and numbered, and condemned: so I
looked again, thinking perhaps Pat's little lame sister had strayed up
from the village and gone into the barn after Sylvy's kittens, or a
pigeon-egg, or to see a new calf; but, to my surprise, I saw a red cow,
of no particular beauty or breed, coming out of the stable-door, looking
about her as if in search of somebody or something; and when Pat called
again, "Biddy! Biddy! Biddy!" the creature walked up to him across the
yard, stretched out her awkward neck, sniffed a little, and cropped from
his hand the wisp of rowen hay he held, as composedly as if she were a
tame kitten, and then followed him all round the yard for more, which I
am sorry to say she did not get. Pat had only displayed her
accomplishments to astonish me, and then shut her in her stall again. I
afterward hunted out Biddy's history, and here it is.

On the Derby turnpike, just before you enter Hanerford, everybody that
ever travelled that road will remember Joseph German's