In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again;
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix forever with the elements;
To be a brothier to the insensible rock,
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.
Yet not to thy eternal resting-place
Shalt thou retire alone—nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world-with kings,
The powerful of the carth--the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills,
Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun; the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between;
The venerable woods; rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks,
That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,
Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, —
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man!

The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings
of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound,
Save his own dashings-yet the dead are there!
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The fight of years began, have laid them down,
In their last sleep--the dead reign there alone!
So shalt thou rest; and what if thou shalt fall
Unnoticed by the living, and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe

Will sh

And beauty of its innocent ave cut off--
Shall, one by one, be gathered to thy side,
By those who in their turn shall follow thein.

So live, that when thy summons comes, to join
The innumerable caravan, that moves
To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon; biit, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams,

OPPOSITE EXAMPLES.- By H. Mann. I ASK the young man who is just forming his habite of life, or just beginning to indulge those habitual trains of thought out of which habits grow, to look around him, and mark the examples, whose fortune he would covet, or whose fate he would abhor. Even as we walk the streets, we meet with exhibitions of each extreme. llere, behold a patriarch, whose stock of vigor three-score years and ten seem hardly to have impaired. His erect form, his firm step, his elastic limbs, and undimmed sense are so many certificates of good conduct; or, rather, so many jewels and orders of nobility with which nature has honored him for his fidelity to her laws. His fair complexion shows that his blood has never been corrupted; his pure breath, that he has never yielded his digestive apparatus to abuse; his exact language and keen apprehension, that his brain has never been drugged or stupe fied by the poisons of distiller or tobacconist. Enjoying his appetites to the highest, he has preserved the power of enjoying them. As he drains the cup of life, there are no lees at the bottom. Hlis organs will reach the goal of existence together. Painlessly as a candle burns down in its socket, so will he expire ; and a little imagination would convert him into another Enoch, translated from earth to a better world without the sting of death.

But look at an opposite extreme, where an opposite history is recorded. What wreck so shocking to behold as the wreck of a dissolute man;-the vigor of life exhausted, and yet the first steps in an honorable career not taken; in hini. self a lazar-house of diseases; dead, but, by a heathenish custom of society, not buried! Rogues have had the initial letter of their title burnt into the palms of their hands; even for murder, Cain was only branded on the forehead, but over the whole person of the debauchee or the inebriate, the signatures of infamy are written. How nature brands him with stigma and opprobrium! How she hangs labels all over him, to testify her disgust at his existence, and to admonish others to beware of his example! How she loosens all his joints, sends tremors along his muscles, and bends forward his frame, as if to bring him upon all-fours with kindred brutes, or to degrade him to the reptile's crawling! How she disfigures his countenance, as if intent upon obliterating all traces of her own image, so that she may swear she never made him! How she pours rheum over his eyes, sends foul spirits to inhabit his breath, and shrieks, as with a trumpet, from every pore of his body, “BEHOLD A BEAST!”. Such a man may be seen in the streets of our cities every day; if rich enough, he may be found in the saloons, and at the tables of the “Upper Ten;" but surely, to every man of purity and honor, to every man whose wisdom as well as whose heart is unblemished, the wretch who comes cropped and bleeding from the pillory, and redolent with its appropriate perfumes, would be a guest or a companion far less offensive and disgusting.

Now let the young man, rejoicing in his manly proportions, and in his comeliness, look on this picture, and on this, and then say, after the likeness of which model he intends his, on erect stature and sublime countenance shall be configured.

DRIFTING.–By T. Buchanan Read.

My soul to-day

Is far away,
Sailing the Vesuvian Bay;

My winged boat,

A bird afloat,
Swims round the purple peaks remote:-

Round purple peaks

It sails, and seeks
Blue inlets and their crystal creeks,

Where high rocks throw,

Through deeps below,
A duplicated golden glow.

Far, vague, and dim,

The mountains swim;
While on Vesuvius' misty brim,

With outstretched hands,

The gray smoke stands
O'erlooking the volcanic lands.

F*

Here Ischia smiles

O'er liquid miles; And yonder, bluest of the isles,

Calm Capri waits,

Her sapphire gates Beguiling to her bright estates.

I hecd not, if

My rippling skiff Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff ;-

With dreamful eyes

My spirit lies
Under the walls of Paradise.

Under the walls

Where swells and falls The Bay's deep breast at intervals

At peace I lie,

Blown softly by,
A cloud upon this liquid sky.

The day, so mild,

Is Ileaven's own child, With earth and ocean reconciled ;

The airs I feel

Around me steal Are murmuring to the murmuring keel,

Over the rail

My hand I trail Within the shadow of the sail,

A joy intense,

The cooling sense
Glides down my drowsy indolence.

With dreamful eyes

My spirit lies Where summer sings and never dies,

O'erveiled with vines,

She glows and shines Among her future oil and wines.

Yon deep bark goes

Where Trulie blows, Froin lands of sun to lands of snow?;

This baprier one,

Its course is run
From lands of snow to lands of sun.

O happy ship,

To rise and dip,
With the blue erystal at your lip!

() happy crew,

My heart with you
Fails, and sails, and sings anew !

No more, no more

The worldly shore Upbraids me with its loud uproar!

With dreamful eyes

My spirit lies
Under the walls of Paradise !

THE IIEART OF THE WAR. PEACE in the clover-scented air,

And stars within the dome, And underneath, in dim repose,

A plain New England home. Within, a murmur of low tones

And sighs from hearts oppressed, Merging in prayer at last, that bringi

The balm of silent rest.

I've closed a hard day's work, Marty-

The evening chores are done;
And you are weary with the house,

And with the liitle one.
But he is sleeping sweetly now,

With all our pretty brood;
So come and sit upon my knee,

And it will do me goed.
O Marty! I must tell you all

The irouble in my heart,
And you must do the best you can

To take and bear your part.
You've seen the shadow on my face,

Vou've felt it day and night; For it has filled our litile home, And banished all its light.