He admits no visiters—yet is his bounty never the less; for, like some forest rill, which has its source hidden among the rocks, yet whose presence revivifies and fertilizes all around it, so do the streams of his bounty, flowing silently and unobtrusively, gladden and refresh the hearts of the weary and destitute. He never goes out, except on the Sabbath, upon whose sacred services he is a constant attendant, and may always be seen in his suit of homespun gray, standing erect near the choir, and beating time with his long, bony hand, to the music of the psalms. Upon the calm summer evenings, the notes of his violin are borne on the gentle breeze to the ears of the villagers, and as the plough-boy hies him to his task, with the early up-rising of the lark, he hears the morning hymn of the forest choristers, accompanied in their notes of praise by the music of _Apollos’ violin_. * * * * * [Illustration: Painted by Compte Calix THE SISTERS. Engraved by T. B. Welch expressly for Graham’s Magazine] * * * * * IMPULSE AND PRINCIPLE. BY ALFRED B. STREET. Two youths approached a torrent in their path; One soft and fair, one eagle-eyed and strong; Thoughtful the last, the first all mirth and song. They saw two bridges o’er the torrent’s wrath; One a rough tree-trunk from a rugged ledge, Rugged to reach, uneven to the tread; The other at their feet, all broadly spread With flowers and mosses plumped from edge to edge. On the green platform sprang the first like light, Still loud in song, but in his midway flight The green bridge broke, and down to death he fell. The other, meanwhile, clambered painfully The steep, and, nerving strong, crossed safe the tree. Thus in Temptation’s hour, Impulse and Principle. * * * * * WORDSWORTH. The death of this eminent poet, after an honorable and useful life, prolonged to eighty years, will doubtless provoke a new conflict of opinions regarding the nature and influence of his great and peculiar mind. The universal feeling among all lovers of what is deep, and delicate, and genuine in poetry, must be— “That there has passed away a glory from the earth;” and not until literature receives an original impulse from a nature equally profound and powerful, will it be called upon to mourn such a departure “from the sunshine into the Silent Land.” His death was worthy of an earthly career consecrated by devout and beautiful meditations to a life beyond life—his soul, so long the serene guest of his mortal frame, meekly withdrawing itself at the end to a world not unfamiliar to his raised vision here.