achievements? Every dispassionate bosom will answer

No.

When we contemplate the insufficiency of worldly means to bestow on us that felicity which we so eagerly seek, and yet see men so infatuated as to persist in courses fraught with destruction, we are tempted to drop the tear of compassion over these deluded beings, and exclaim, with Young,

A soul immortal, spending all her fires,
Wasting her strength in strenuous idleness,
Thrown into tumult, raptur'd or alarm'd
At aught this scene can threaten or indulge,
Resembles ocean into tempest wrought,
To waft a feather, or to drown a fly.

Where, then, and how, can we gain possession of this precious gem, this inestimable treasure,

"Which nothing earthly gives or can destroy,
The soul's calm sunshine, and the heartfelt joy."

To this I answer, perfect happiness we must not expect in this world; the all-wise Ruler of the universe designed this life to be a state of probation for his creatures; and, by the mouth of his apostle, declared that the reward of those who pass through it in the practice of virtue, and in submission to his never-erring decrees, shall be that happiness we vainly seek in this transitory existence. What words can be more explicit, or bear with them a more joyful sound than,

Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither hath it entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath prepared for them that love him.'

But, although perfect felicity is beyond our reach here, yet there is a degree of happiness which we may obtain, nay, to which we must direct our most serious attention, if we would fit ourselves for the pure enjoyments of the happiness above. For, as no one would affirm that the untutored savages drawn from the wilds of America, or

Tartary, could mix in the polished intercourse of European society, unless instructed in its usages by previous education: just so with the human species in general; how can they participate in the unutterable bliss promised hereafter, if they do not, by preparation, mortify their passions, and cleanse from the gross dregs of mortality their eternal spirits?

But no humble efforts of mine, no, nor even the ravishing eloquence of a Demosthenes, not the majesty of a Cicero, nor, above all, the sublime strains of a Milton, could so accurately, or so forcibly, depict this happiness, or the only true measures which will ensure its possession, as those two simple, yet grand and inestimable precepts of our blessed Redeemer,

Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind;" and "As ye would that men should do unto you, do ye also to them likewise.”

G. S.

LINES,

Supposed to be written by a Mother on the Death of her Infant.

Sweet babe, for thee with sad regret

My heart is ever fraught;

No time will ever serve to chase

Thy image from my thought.

For thee I cannot cease to mourn,
And shed affection's tear :
To part, alas! so soon from one
So much belov'd, so dear.

And yet how blissful is thy lot,
From ev'ry trouble free;

So soon to dwell in happiest climes
Of immortality.

Thy little bosom never felt
A grief, an anxious fear;
Keen sorrow never caus'd thee pain,
Nor memory a tear.

Before the thoughts of worldly care Could cloud thy brows with gloom, Death's friendly hand, in pity, came To seal thy envied doom.

Oft vainly did I strive to lull
To sleep thy watchful eyes,
And bending o'er thee softly sing
The soothing lullabies.

Alas, those songs are silenc'd now,
Those eyes, that sweetest face,
Have sought the cold-the silent grave,
And chilling death's embrace.

Ah, never wilt thou wake again
To cheer thy mother's sight;
Nor e'er, in days of tott'ring age,
A mother's care requite.

I've seen the rose, whose op'ning bud,

Woo'd by the passing breeze,

Had just begun to shed abroad
The fragrance of its leaves;

But ere it bloom'd, it felt the shock
Of some ill-fated show'r ;
Snapt from its parent stem, it hung
A drooping, blighted flower.

Thus did affliction's storm assail,
And blight thy ev'ry charm,
Death early came, and o'er thee spread
His unrelenting arm.

Be hush'd, my sighs, my tears away—
The God who rules above,

In mercy took my child from woe

To realms of bliss and love.

LATHAM.

To

With a Copy of the "Hora Sarisburienses.”

'Tis not intrinsic worth with thee

That makes the gift in mem'ry live;
Or gems alone would welcome be,
And only wealth have pow'r to give.

There are from whom a simple flow'r
Might rival mines of rich Peru ;

Oh hast thou never known that hour?
Has thy fond heart ne'er own'd it true?

To me the hand that is sincere,

And that alone, can worth impart ;

To me a trifle thence is dear,

And only then can reach the heart.

With such to thee this book I give ;
Do thou my boon as freely take;
Oh let it in remembrance live,
Medora, for the giver's sake.

We ne'er design'd our youthful lays

Should claim the meed of deathless fame;

And, where we do not merit praise,

I have no fear that you will blame.

As I peruse, some valued friend

I trace on many a welcome page, Whose friendship would a pleasure lend To youth, to manhood, and to age.

I can but think we soon shall part,
Perchance to never meet again—
But why should sorrow sink my heart,
Or why that parting give me pain?

'Tis true, indeed, all-ruling time
May much diversify our lot;
But, oh! can years, can distant clime,
Bid youthful friendship be forgot?

Whate'er my fate-where'er I roam-
Be smiles or care upon my brow,
Whate'er is past-whate'er to come,
I'll think of some around me now.

Where they have err'd, let early youth
Excuse for all their errors seem;

If not as bards, I know, in truth,
As friends they justly claim esteem.

ΤΟ

With me thy hope of life is gone,
The sun of joy is set,

One wish my soul still dwells upon,

The wish it could forget.

And can I not forget the past?
Will sad reflection always last?

Will nothing set remembrance free?
Will nothing heal

The all I feel

As constantly I think on thee?

A. M.

L. E. L.