The smouldering coals that underneath Some cumbrous pile have calmly lain, Might fire the world if fanned by breath Of passing hurricane.

And brother, now perhaps thou hast,

Deep buried 'neath plebeian name, A fire, which, touched by sorrow's blast, May kindle into flame.

The rust that creeps o'er warrior's blade, When peace can sleep without alarms,

Is seen no more when shout is made,

To arms! the foe! to arms!'

And thus a readiness for strife,

For action in this world of fight,

May both protect the spirit's life,
And keep its weapons bright.

Fear not the man of wealth and birth,
Securely resting in his seat,

But sooner him, who, dashed to earth,
Is rising to his feet.

From straightened bow the arrow'd spear

By warrior's arm is never sent, The danger which you have to fear

Comes when that bow is bent.

William Cutter.

THE ONE TALENT.

'TO EVERY MAN ACCORDING TO HIS SEVERAL ABILITY.'

WILLIAM CUTTER.

AGE, 52 YEARS.

WILLIAM CUTTER is a son of the Hon. Levi Cutter, of Portland, and a native of the town of North Yarmouth, although his early years were spent in the city of Portland, where his parents removed while he was quite young. He was born some time during the year of 1802. He graduated from Bowdoin College, and for a short time studied Theology at the Andover Theological Seminary, but owing to ill health relinquished it, and, returning to Portland, engaged in mercantile pursuits. While here he contributed largely to many of the leading magazines in Boston, New York, and Philadelphia, also to the Portland Tribune,' a literary weekly, and at that time became very widely known as a periodical writer. Several of his articles appeared in the "Token,' a Boston Annual, The Legendary,' the Bowdoin Poets,' and Portland Sketch Book.' In 1846, he published a life of Putnam, and three years after, a life of Lafayette, both of which have recently been issued in splendid style by a New York publishing house. For the past ten years Mr. Cutter has been engaged in mercantile pursuits in New York, and devotes himself less frequently than in former years to literary matters. He is the author of those lines so often quoted, and so full of truth and wisdom.

What if the little rain should say,

So small a drop as I

Can ne'er refresh the thirsty earth,
I'll tarry in the sky.'

What if a shining beam of noon
Should in its fountain stay,

Because its feeble light alone

Is not enough for day!

Doth not each rain-drop help to form

The cool refreshing shower?

And every ray of light to warm

And beautify the flower?

THE VALLEY OF SILENCE.

Ir was a perfect Eden for beauty. The scent of flowers came up on the gale, the swift stream sparkled like a flow of diamonds in the sun, and a smile of soft light glistened on every leaf and blade, as they drank in the life-giving ray. Its significant loveliness was eloquent to the eye, and the heart; but a strange deep silence reigned over it all. So perfect was the unearthly hush, you could almost hear yourself think.

HAS thy foot ever trod that silent dell?

KATAHDIN.

'Tis a place for the voiceless thought to swell,
And the eloquent song to go up unspoken,
Like the incense of flowers whose urns are broken;
And the unveiled heart may look in and see,
In that deep, strange silence, its motions free,
And learn how the pure in spirit feel
That unseen Presence to which they kneel.

No sound goes up from the quivering trees,

When they spread their arms to the welcome breeze.
They wave in the zephyr, they bow to the blast,
But they breathed not a word of the power that pass'd ;
And their leaves come down on the turf and the stream,
With as noiseless a fall as the step of a dream;
And the breath that is bending the grass and the flowers,
Moves o'er them as lightly as evening hours.