the Philadelphia Gazette," one of the oldest and most respectable journals in Pennsylvania, of which he ultimately became proprietor, and from that time until his death continued to conduct it. In 1836 he married ANNE POYNTELL CALDCLEUGH, the daughter of one of the wealthiest citizens of Philadelphia, and a woman of great personal beauty, rare accomplishments, and affectionate disposition, who soon after died of consumption, leaving her husband a prey to the deepest melancholy. From this time his health gradually declined, though he continued to write for his paper until the last day of his life, the twelfth of June, 1841. His metrical writings, which are pervaded by a gentle religious melancholy, are all distinguished for a graceful and elegant diction, thoughts morally and poetically beautiful, and chaste and appropriate imagery. His prose writings, on the other hand, were usually marked by passages of irresistible humor and wit. His perception of the ludicrous was acute, and his jests and "cranks and wanton wiles" evinced the fullness of his powers and the benevolence of his feelings.

21. SELECT PASSAGES IN VERSE.

I.

SUCCESSION OF HUMAN BEINGS.

Like leaves on trees the life of man is found,
Now green in youth, now withering on the ground;
Another race the following spring supplies,

They fall successive, and successive rise:

So generations. in their course decay;

So flourish these, when those have pass'd away.

II.

DEATH OF THE YOUNG AND FAIR.-ANON.

She died in beauty, like a rose blown from its parent stem;
She died in beauty, like a pearl dropp'd from some diadem;
She died in beauty, like a lay alõng a moonlit lake;
She died in beauty, like the song of birds amid the brake;
She died in beauty, like the snow on flowers dissolved away;
She died in beauty, like a star lost on the brow of day ;-
She lives in glōry, like Night's gems set round the silver moon;
She lives in glory, like the sun amid the blue of June

III.

A LADY DROWNED.-PROCTER.

Is she dead?...

Why so shall I be,-ere these autumn blasts

Have blown on the beard of Winter. Is she dead?
Ay, she is dead,-quite dead! The wild Sea kiss'd her
With its cold white lips, and then-put her to sleep:
She has a sand pillow, and a water sheet,
And never turns her head or knows 'tis morning!

IV.

THE LIFE OF MAN.-BEAUMONT.

Like to the falling of a star,

Or as the flights of eagles are,
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew,
Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood:
E'en such is man, whose borrow'd light
Is straight call'd in and paid to-night:
The wind blows out, the bubble dies;
The spring entomb'd in autumn lies;
The dew's dried up, the star is shot,
The flight is past, and man forgot.

V.

CORONACH.-SCOTT.

He is gone on the mountain, he is lost to the forest,
Like a summer-dried fountain, when our need was the sorest;
The fount, reäppearing, from the rain-drops shall bŏrrōw,
But to us comes no cheering, to Duncan no morroōw!
The hand of the reaper takes the ears that are hōary,
But the voice of the weeper wails manhood in glory;
The autumn winds rushing waft the leaves that are serest,
But our flower was in flushing when blighting was nearest.—
Fleet foot on the correi, sage counsel in cumber,3
Red hand in the foray, how sound is thy slumber!
Like the dew on the mountain, like the foam on the river,
Like the bubble on the fountain, thou art gone, and forever!

'Coronach (kor' o nak), a song of lamentation; a lament.-' Corroi (kor' rå), the side of a hill where game usually lies.- Cům' ber, perplexity; distress.- Fò' rày, a sudden pillaging incursion in peace or

war.

THE

VI.

IMMORTALITY.-R. H. DANA.

แ "Man, thou shalt never die!"

Celestial voices

Hymn it unto our souls: according harps,
By angel fingers touch'd, when the mild stars
Of morning sang together, sound fōrth still
The song of our great immortality!
Thick-clustering orbs on this our fair domain,
The tall, dark mountains, and the deep-toned seas,
Join in this solemn, universal song.

Oh listen, ye our spirits! drink it in

From all the air! 'Tis in the gentle moonlight;
'Tis floating mid day's setting glories; night,
Wrapp'd in her sable robe, with silent step,
Comes to our bed, and breathes it in our ears.
Night and the dawn, bright day and thoughtful eve,
All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse,
As one vast mystic' instrument, are touch'd
By an unseen, living hand, and conscious chords
Quiver with joy in this great jubilee :*
The dying hear it; and, as sounds of earth
Grow dull and distant, wake their passing souls
To mingle in this heavenly harmony.

Aut Lesson on foor

22. SELECTED EXTRACTS.

HE man who carries a lantern in a dark night, can have friends all around him, walking safely by the help of its rays, and he be not defrauded. So he who has the God-given light of hope in his breast, can help on many others in this world's darkness, not to his own loss, but to his precious gain.

2. As a rose after a shower, bent down by tear-drops, waits for a passing breeze or a kindly hand to shake its branches,

'Mys' tic, obscure; involving some secret meaning.—' Ju' bi lee, a great festival among the Jews every fiftieth year, when the bondsmen were all set free and lands restored to their former owners.

that, lightened, it may stand once more upon its stein,—s() one who is bowed down with affliction longs for a friend to lift him out of his sorrow, and bid him once more rejoice. Happy is the man who has that in his soul which acts upon the dejected like April airs upon violet roots.

3. Have you ever seen a cactus growing? What a dry, ugly, spiny thing it is! But suppose your gardener takes it when just sprouting forth with buds, and lets it stand a week or two, and then brings it to you, and lo! it is a blaze of light, glorious above all flowers. So the poor and lowly, when God's time comes, and they begin to stand up and blossom, how beautiful they will be!

4. The sun does not shine for a few trees and flowers, but for the wide world's joy. The lonely pine upon the mountain-top waves its somber boughs, and cries, "Thou art my sun." And the little meadow-violet lifts its cup of blue, and whispers with its perfumed breath, "Thou art my sun." And the grain in a thousand fields rustles in the wind, and makes answer, "Thou art my sun." And so God sits effulgent in heaven, not for a favored few, but for the universe of life; and there is no creature so poor or so low that he may not look up with child-like confidence and say, "My Father! Thou art mine."

5. I think the human heart is like an artist's studio. You can tell what the artist is doing, not so much by his completed. pictures, for they are mostly scattered at once, but by the halffinished sketches and designs which are hanging on his wall. And so you can tell the course of a man's life, not so much by his well-defined purposes, as by the half-formed plans—the faint day-dreams, which are hung in all the chambers of his heart.

6. Men are like birds that build their nests in trees that hang over rivers. And the birds sing in the tree-top, and the river sings underneath, undermining and undermining, and in the moment when the bird thinks not, it comes crashing down, and the nest is scattered, and all goes floating down the flood. If we build to ambition, we are like men who build before the track of a volcano's eruption, sure to be overtaken and burnt up by its hot lāva. If we build to wealth, we are as those who build upon the ice. The spring will melt our foundations from under us.

7. Shall we build to earthly affections? If we can not transfigure' those whom we love-if we can not behold the eternal world shining through the faces of father and mother, of husband and wife-if we can not behold them all irradiated with the glory of the supernal sphere, it were not best to build for love. Death erects his batteries right over against our homes, and in the hour when we think not, the missile flies and explodes, carrying destruction all around.

8. I think it is a sad sight to look at one of the receiving hulks at the Navy Yard. To think that that was the ship which once went so fearlessly across the ocean! It has come back to be anchored in the quiet bay, and to roll this way and that with the tide. Yet that is what many men set before them as the end of life-that they may come to that pass where they may be able to cast out an anchor this way and an anchor that way, and never move again, but rock lazily with the tide without a sail-without a voyage-waiting simply for decay to take their timbers apart. And this is what men call, "retiring from business"-to become simply an empty old hulk.

9. We are beleaguered by Time, and parallel after parallel is drawn around us, and then a change is made, and we see the enemy's flag waving on some outpost. And as the sense of hearing, and touch, and sight fails, and a man finds all these marks of time upon him, oh woe! if he has no Hereafter, as a final citadel into which to retreat.

10. Would that I could break this Gospel as a bread of life to all of you! My best presentations of it to you are so incomplete! Sometimes, when I am alone, I have such sweet and rapturous visions of the love of God and the truths of His word, that I think if I could speak to you then, I should move your hearts. I am like a child, who, walking forth some sunny summer's morning, sees grass and flowers all shining with drops of dew, that reflect every hue of the rainbow. "Oh!" he cries, "I'll carry these beautiful things to my mother," and eagerly shakes them off into his little palm. But the charm is gonethey are no more water-pearls.

Transfigure (tråns fig' yer), change the outward form or appearance, 'Su pêr' nal, being in a higher region or place; celestial; heavenly.