A. Perhaps, then, there is, after all not so much absurdity as has been supposed in the oriental traditions of pre-Adamite kings.
B. It need not surprise us that there should, among primitive nations, exist some traditionary vestiges of the first race: and such traditions were probably derived from some very reliable source. But be that as it may, I am not afraid to trust the settlement of the entire question to the arbitration of time.
WHO KNOWS?
Who knows but the hope that we bury to-day
May be the seed of success to-morrow?
We could not weep o'er the coffined clay
If a lovelier life it should never borrow.
Did we know that the worm had conquered all,
That Death had forever secured his plunder,
Not a sigh would escape, not a tear would fall,
For the human heart must burst asunder.
Death mimics life, and life feigns death:
What parts them but a fleeting breath?
Who knows but the love that in silence broods,
Slinking away to some lonely corner,
May yet, in the change of times and moods,
Sit proudly throned in the heart of the scorner?
I have seen a haughty soul destroy
The glittering prize that once it bled for;
I have seen the sad heart leap for joy,
And smiling grant what it vainly plead for:
True tears the flashing eye may wet,
The lip that curled may quiver yet.
Who knows but the dream that mocks our sleep
With visions that end in a sorrowful waking,
Leaving just enough of brightness to keep
Our souls from despair and our hearts from breaking,
May come in the heat of the midday glare,
Or the afternoon with its gorgeous splendor,
Palpable, real, but not less fair,
With airs as soft and touch as tender?
Morn breaks on the longest night of sorrow,
And there is more than one to-morrow.
LITERARY NOTICES.
Linnet's Trial. A Tale. By S. M., Author of 'Twice Lost.' Second Edition. Loring, publisher, 319 Washington street, Boston. 1864.