moors";--then to reorganize
the navy of England, exchanging characters with his fellow-commander,
Monk, whom the ocean makes rash, as it makes Rupert prudent;--leave him
to use nobly his declining years, in studious toils in Windsor Castle,
the fulfilment of Milton's dream, outwatching the Bear with thrice-great
Hermes, surrounded by strange old arms and instruments, and maps of
voyages, and plans of battles, and the abstruse library which the
"Harleian Miscellany" still records;--leave him to hunt and play at
tennis, serve in the Hudson's Bay Company and the Board of Trade;--leave
him to experiment in alchemy and astrology, in hydraulics, metallurgy,
gunpowder, perspective, quadrants, mezzotint, fish-hooks, and
revolvers;--leave him to look from his solitary turret over hills and
fields, now peaceful, but each the scene of some wild and warlike memory
for him;--leave him to die a calm and honored death at sixty-three,
outliving every companion of his early days. The busy world, which has
no time to remember many, forgets him and remembers only the slain and
defeated Hampden. The brilliant renown of the Prince was like the glass
toys which record his ingenuity and preserve his name; the hammer and
the anvil can scarcely mar them, yet a slight pressure of the finger,
in the fatal spot, will burst them into glittering showers of dust. The
full force of those iron times beat ineffectual upon Rupert;--Death
touched him, and that shining fame sparkled and was shattered forever.

* * * * *

SPRING.

Ah! my beautiful violets,
Stirring under the sod,
Feeling, in all your being,
The breath of the spirit of God
Thrilling your delicate pulses,
Warming your life-blood anew,--
Struggle up into the Spring-light;
I'm watching and waiting for you.

Stretch up your white arms towards me,
Climb and never despair;
Come! the blue sky is above you,
Sunlight and soft warm air.
Shake off the sleep from your eyelids,
Work in the darkness awhile,
Trust in the light that's above you,
Win your way up to its smile.

Ah! do you know how the May-flowers,
Down on the shore of the lake.
Are whispering, one to another,
All in the silence, "Awake!"
Blushing from under the pine-leaves,
Soon they will greet me anew,--
But still, oh, my beautiful violets,
I'll be watching and longing for you.

THE STEREOSCOPE AND THE