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5. And FRIENDSHIP,-rarèst gem of earth,

(Who e'er hath found the jewel his?) Frail, fickle, false, and little worth,

Who bids for Friendship-as it is! 'Tis going ! GOING !—Hear the call :

Once, twice, and THRICE !—'tis věry low! 'Twas once my hope, my stay, my all,

But now the broken staff must go!
6. FAME! hold the brilliant meteör high;

How dazzling every gilded name!
Ye millions, now's the time to buy!

How much for Fame?—How much for Fame?
Hear how it thunders !— Would


On high Olympus,' far renowned, -
Now purchase, and a world command !-

And be with a world's curses crowned!
7. Sweet star of Hope! with rāy to shine

In every sad foreboding breast,
Save this desponding one of mine,-

Who bids for man's last friend and best?
Ah! were not mine a bankrupt life,

This treasure should my soul sustain ;
But Hope and I are now at strife,

Nor ever may unite again.
8. And Song! For sale my tūnelèss lute;

Sweet sõlace, mine no more to hold;
The chords that charmed my soul are mute,

I can not wake the notes of old !
Or e'en were mine a wizard shell,

Could chain a world in rapture high ;
Yět now a sad farewell !—farewell!

Must on its last faint echoes die.
9. Ambition, fashion, show, and pride,-

I part from all forever now;
Grief, in an overwhelming tide,

Has taught my haughty heart to bow. O lým' pus, a mountain range mer and other pocts as the throne of Thessaly, on the border of Mac- of the gods, is estimated to be 9,745 edonia. Its summit, famed by Ho. fect high.

Poor heart! distracted, ah, so long,—

And still its aching throb to bear;
How broken, that was once so strong!

How heavy, once co free from care!
10. No more for me life's fitful dream ;-

Bright vision, vanishing away!
My bark requires a deeper stream ;

My sinking soul a surer stay.
By Death, stern sheriff! all bereft,

I weep, yět humbly kiss the rod;
The best of all I still have left,-
My Faith, my BIBLE, and my God.

Нохт. Rev. RALPH Hoyt is a clergyman of the Protestant Episcopal Church in New York. He is a native of the city. After passing several years as a teacher, and a writer for the gazettes, he studied theology, and took orders in the church in 1842. He may have written much, but he has acknowledged little. “ The Chant of Life and other Poems," appeared in 1814, and the second portion of the same, in 1845. These works are principally occupied with passages of personal sentiment and reflection. His pieces, entitled “Snow," " The World for Sale,” “New," and “Old," have attracted considerable attention, and become popular. A simple, natural current of feeling runs through them: the versification grows out of the subject, and the whole clings to us as something written from the heart of the author. A new edition of his “Sketches of Life and Landscape” was published in 1858.

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M HE crumbling tombstone and the gorgeous mausole'um,'

1 the sculptured marble, and the venerable cathedral, all bear witness to the instinctive desire within us to be remembered by coming generations. But how short-lived is the immortality which the works of our hands can confer! The noblest monuments of art that the world has ever seen are covered with the soil of twenty centuries. The works of the age of Pericles’ lie at the foot of the Acrop'olis in indiscriminate ruin. The plow

Mau'so lē' um, a magnificent gree of perfection that has not since tomb or monument.

been equaled, and poetry reached the ? Per i cles, the greatest of Athen- highest excellence. He died B. C. 429. ian statesmen, was born about 495 B. A crop o lis, the citadel of Athc. During his administration archiens, built on a rock, and accessible tecture and sculpture attained a de only on one side.

share turns up the marble which the land of Phidias' had chis eled into beauty, and the Mussulman has folded his flock benēath the falling columns of the temple of Minerva.'

2. But even the works of our hands too frequently survive the memory of those who have created them. And were it otherwise, could we thus carry down to distant ages the recollection of our existence, it were surely childish to waste the energies of an immortal spirit in the effort to make it known to other times, that a being whose name was written with certain letters of the alphabet, once lived, and flourished, and died. Neither sculptured marble, nor stately column, can reveal to other ages the lineaments of the spirit ; and these alone can embalm our memory in the hearts of a grateful posterity.

3. As the stranger stands benēafh the dome of St. Paul's,' or treads, with religious awe, the silent aīsles of Westminster Abbey,' the sentiment, which is breathed from every object around him, is, the utter emptiness of sublunary glory. The fine arts, obedient to private affection or public gratitude, have here embodied, in every form, the finest conceptions of which their age was capable. Each one of these monuments has been watered by the tears of the widow, the orphan, or the patriot.

4. But generations have passed away, and mourners and mourned have sunk together into forgetfulness. The agèd crone, or the smooth-tongued beadle, as now he hărries you through aisles and chapel, utters, with measured cadence and unmeaning tone, for the thousandth time, the name and lineäge of the once honored dead ; and then gladly dismisses you, to repeat again his well-conned lesson to another group of idle passers-by.

5. Such, in its most august form, is all the immortality that matter can confer. It is by what we ourselves have done, and


'Phid'i as, a Greek sculptor, and Christopher Wren in 1718. the most celebrated of antiquity, · Westminster Abbey, a church was born at Athens about 490 B. C., in Westminster, built by Edward the and died 432 B. C.

Confessor, in 1050. Henry III. made Mîner va, called Athena by the additions and rebuilt a part between Greeks, was usually regarded, in 1220 and 1269. Many of the most heathen mythology, as the goddess of distinguished statesmen, warriors, wisdom, knowledge, and art. scholars, and artists of England lie

* St. Paul's, a celebrated church in buried here. London, of very great size. It was • Súb' lu na ry, being under the begun about 1675, and finished by moon; terrestrial; earthly.

not by what others have done for us, that we shall be remembered by after ages. It is by thought that has aroused my intellect from its slumbers, which has "given luster to virtue, and dignity to truth," or by those examples which have inflamed my soul with the love of goodness, and not by means of sculptured marble, that I hold communion with Shakspeare and Milton, with Johnson and Burke, with Howard' and Wilberforce.?

DR. WAYLAND. DR. FRANCIS WAYLAND was born in the city of New York, March 11th, 1796, and in the seventeenth year of his age he was graduated at Union College, in Schenectady. After studying medicine for three years, and his admission to practice, he entered the Theological Seminary at Andover, which he left at the end of a year, to become a tutor in Union College. In 1821 he became pastor of the First Baptist Church in Boston, where he continued five years. He was elected to the presidency of Brown University, Providence, in 1826. His first publication was a sermon on the Moral Dignity of the Missionary Enterprise, delivered in Boston, in 1823, which had an extraordinary success, passing through many editions, in England and this country. Very many of his discourses, since that period, have been equally popular. He has also written numerous articles in the journals and quarterly reviews. His works on Moral Science, Political Economy, and Intellectual Philosophy, have deservedly met with great success. His very interesting “Life of the Missionary, Dr. Judson," appeared in 1853. This able thinker is equally popular as an orator and a writer. Clear, exact, and searching in his analysis, he penetrates to the very heart of his subject, and enunciates its ultimate principles in a style of transparent clearness, and classical purity and elegance, and not unfrequently rises to strains of impassioned eloquence. He died September 30th, 1865.




AS it the chime of a tiny bell,
That came so sweet to

my dreaming ear,
Like the silvery tones of a fairy's shell,

That he winds on the beach so mellow and clear,
When the winds and the waves lie together asleep,
And the moon and the fairy are watching the deep,


John Howard, the celebrated ons of Europe. On a second tour Christian philanthropist, was born of inquiry, he was seized with a maat Hackney, London, in 1726. With lignant fever, of which he died, at a view to the amelioration of pris- Kherson, Russia, Jan. 20th, 1790. oners, in 1777 he visited all the pris ? William Wilberforce, a distinons in the United Kingdom; and in guished British statesman, author, 1778, and the four following years, and Christian philanthropist, was he inspected the principal publicpris- born in 1759, and died July 28th,1833.

She dispensing her silvery light,

And he bis notes as silvery quite,
While the boatman listens and ships his öar,
To cătch the music that comes from the shore ?-

Hark! the notes on my ear that play,
Are set to words : as they float, they sāy,

"Passing'ăwāy! passing away!”. 2. But, no ; it was not a fairy's shell,

Blown on the beach, so mellow and clear :
Nor was it the tongue of a silver bell

Striking the hours that fell on my ear,
As I lay in my dream : yět was it a chime
That told of the flow of the stream of Time;
For a beautiful clock from the ceiling hung,
And a plump little girl for a pendulum, swung;

(As you've sometimes seen, in a little ring
That hangs in his cage, a canary bird swing ;)
And she held to her bosom a budding bouquet,"
And as she enjoyed it, she seemed to say,

“Passing away! passing away!"
3. Oh, how bright were the wheels, that told

Of the lapse of time as they moved round slow!
And the hands, as they swept o’er the diäl of gold,

Seemed to point to the girl below.
And lo! she had changed ;-in a few short hours,
Her bouquet had become a garland of flowers,
That she held in her outstretched hands, and flung
This way and that, as she, dancing, swung
In the fullness of grace and womanly pride,
That told me she soon was to be a bride ;

Yět then, when expecting her happiëst day,
In the same sweet voice I heard her say,

“Passing away! passing away!"
4. While I gazed on that fair one's cheek, a shade

Of thought, or care, stole softly over,
Like that by a cloud in a summer's day made,

Looking down on a field of blossoming clover.

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