For know, if e'er she turn away
From all, to shed one single ray
Of secret love,

O'er all shall come a wasting grief,

As blighting frost on branch and leaf,
Falls from above.'

O! then, whilst joy doth swell thy heart
To think, that, by thy charms, thou art
Our free-will choice;

Yet-knowing how our fortunes wait
Upon that heart--our book of fate--
Trembling rejoice."

Reader, I am cut short-anon shall be forthcoming the finale of this chronicle.

MODELS IN LITERATURE.

Go to the ocean's rough and rocky shore,
And bid to cease his wild and reckless roar;
Check the huge avalanche, and bid it stay
Its crushing force, its mad career delay;
Exert thy feeble efforts to restrain
The sandy clouds of hot Arabia's plain;
Or fetter if you will the viewless wind-
You cannot bind with laws the lofty mind.
Shall genius then disclaim the fixed rules
Of science, and the learning of the schools?-
Spurn the bright galaxy of ancient times,
The talent and the taste of foreign climes?-
Sneer at the Muses of Parnassus' hill?-
Forbid his heart at Grecian worth to thrill ?—
Repress its throbbings at the name of Rome,
The seat of Cæsar, and great Tully's home?
Not so, the most exalted son of earth

Should scan with care the works of ancient worth;
Search for the hidden path, the secret way,
By which they rose to Fame's eternal day:
Thus by experience he may wiser grow,
Thus shall the liquid line spontaneous flow:
Nor doth it lessen aught of their renown,
Or is it for this reason less his own.
He sees the former planets of the sky,
And by suggestion stamps his name as high;
Still finds in science an unwritten page,
As bright as that of any previous age.

ANDEN.

What though the artist rove from place to place,
And catch from Grecian beauties every grace;
The round proportion and the love-lit eye,
The bashful face, the forehead fair and high,
The rich carnation and the changing hue,
That strives to hide, yet brings the heart to view;
The attitude that most can charm the soul,
Enforce respect, and awe-struck man control?
What though these bright young angels he had seen,
Ere yet he chiselled beauty's lovely queen?
Still the fair goddess differed from them all;
The artist summoned beauty at his call,
Bade the smooth marble every tint express,
And call'd from stone a heaven of loveliness.'
"Tis thus the author reads the speaking past,
But rears a fabric bright and new at last.
How differ such from that poor, heartless host,
Who never venture from the shallow coast!
Until some bold Columbus quit the strand,
Explore the deep and shew the sea-girt land;
Then follow in the path-way of his prow,

And pluck the wreath that should entwine his brow,
Suppress their pride, check every thought elate,

And humbly condescend to imitate.

These are the men so deep in love with Fame,

That they can woo her at the price of shame;

The poor petitioners for charity,

Who beg from others lest their names should die ;
The senseless servants, that bring up the rear,
And share the glitter of their noble peer;
Obsequious Helots, that would fain display
Their occupation and their hireling pay.
Various the causes, that have made
Such numbers follow this ignoble trade:
The larger part, devoid of genius' fire,
Pigmies in power, but giants in desire,
Must dally with a weak, yet quenchless flame,
Whose scanty fuel is another's name;

Who still in prose or verse must waste their rage,
And with the public endless warfare wage;
Spawn on the deluged world from year to year,
Their offspring, that can scarce provoke a sneer.
Yet there are those of higher power and birth,
Nature's own children, minds of real worth,
Who, loving leisure, indolence and ease,
Enamored of the wish themselves to please,
Look to the peak above of height sublime,
And shudder at the steep which toil must climb;
Love the proud hill where science sheds her ray,
But seek ascension by some beaten way;
Find all too late each path but once is trod,
That leads to her fair temple and abode.

There is another class of baser blood,
Of pirate lineage and a corsair brood,
Who, thrown in poverty upon life's stage,
Seize on their neighbors' wealth for heritage;
Turn o'er the living page of vanished years,
And rifle every gem that there appears;
Cloak borrowed thoughts beneath a specious guise,
With skill that baffles e'en the critic's eyes;
Search ancient authors, now grown obsolete,
And from their beauties their own works complete :
They, like the Persian jackalls, that exhume
The consecrated ashes of the tomb,
And having torn the sacred turf away,
Gorge with unsated rage the lifeless prey-
They follow still the unresisting wealth,
And gain a dubious character by stealth.
But transient is the echo of such praise,
And withers soon their wreath of pilfered lays.
Let then the youth be reared with strictest care,

Be his young spirit early taught to dare;
Still let him search for thought with ceaseless toil,
Nor ever from the arduous task recoil;

Yet read the classic page with critic eye,
And scan its contents with close scrutiny,
Its hidden beauties canvass and explore,
The growing mind with useful learning store;
Correct the taste with most assiduous art,
Enlarge the head and cultivate the heart:
For if the lake from whence the river flows,
Be bitterness, its offspring must be so ;
As flowers lend sweet enchantment to the air,
Exhaling health in richest odors there,

So these bright models sway his yielding heart,
And their own purity to him impart :

Their long experience he should ne'er deny,
Nor outbrave custom, nor the great defy,
Nor violate the beauty of that tongue
In which a Milton and a Thomson sung.
From such examples he shall learn to soar,
And rival e'en the Phoenix minds of yore;
Bid courts applaud and wondering nations gaze,
Exact due homage and elicit praise :

His works shall live, the future shall admire,
Catch his high spirit and his noble fire.

G. H.

"How unhappy is the fate of genius!" said I to myself, as I drew near the residence of my friend P-. "How unfortunate, how mysterious, that 'science' self' should ever 'destroy her favorite sons,' concealing, even in their devotion to their own and others' improvement, the arrow that shall lay them low!" I expected to find my friend in the condition of the Indian warrior, who, having sung his own death-song, calmly awaits his approaching fate. Of course, the hollow tone of his voice and the tomb-like expression of his countenance, did not surprise me. He was resting his pale brow upon his still paler fingers when I entered, apparently absorbed in deep meditation.

"I was comparing the close of life," said he, after the first salutations were over, "with the setting of yonder sun. When the last beams of that sun are shining, they are attended by a kind of gloominess, which is prevented from remaining with us only by the certainty that the morning will bring with it again the returning light. So when the life of man is verging towards its close, the clouds begin to gather over the blank and barrenness of the grave, but faith, immortal and immortalizing, pierces through their shade, and beholds the soul still living in all its original brightness. Such is the case with me. I can see through the gloom which is around me into fairer fields and brighter skies beyond. And yet,—yes, it is a truth, and I must out with it-my mind loves this sadness, loves to dwell mourfully over its lost hopes, and over the darkness which now rests upon it, though it does this with as little reason as we might suppose the sun to mourn over the scenes it had passed by in its midday course."

It may, perhaps, be a matter of surprise to some, to learn that notwithstanding this confession, my friend still believed himself altogether uninfluenced by motives of worldly ambition. Yet so it was. When I mentioned it, "Ambition !" he retorted, "what have I to do with ambition? To be sure, it was once my ruling passion, but experience has taught me that all its crowns are made of thorns. It is not from motives of pride or policy, nor is it from a desire to be greater or more learned than others, that my powers are exhausted in endless toil; it is to satisfy the instinctive desires of the soul, to enlarge, and purify, and enlighten the

faculties which God has given me,-and this is not ambition. And these melancholy feelings-they are no more than what every one feels on looking into the past—and the more we look back, the more intense, and the more interesting they become; surely these are not feelings of disappointed ambition. From this may be learned the most prominent characteristics of my friend's mind during his last illness; but, lest it be thought an act of desecration to lead the uninitiated beyond the vestibule of his thoughts and emotions, I must pause to ask the reader if his feelings accord with mine. If they do not-if he can look back into the past upon a continued series of successes and propitious fortunes, and can behold nought but bright visions in the long vista of the future; if he has never felt "a green and yellow melancholy" creeping over his features, and stealing with a silent influence through all the veins and arteries of his heart, he will probably be unprepared to sympathize with one whose hopes were broken, crushed, dashed to the ground, at an hour when they should have appeared the brightest. If, on the contrary, he can say with me that he has often had such feelings, and that they have been "like the memory of joys that are past, sweet and mournful to the soul," I will introduce him to a more particular acquaintance with that friend in whose society I had enjoyed life's pleasures, but whose sun was soon about to set forever.

And that I may do this, the reader must consent to go back with me into the past, yet not far-for it is not long since-it was when the year was just bursting into youth, and the freshness of a new and lively verdure was creeping over the earth-when the birds were upon every spray, and their eloquent music upon every breath of every breeze;-I spent a few days with P. His mortal frame was gradually wasting away with disease, and he felt, as he himself expressed it, that the chilling damps of death were gathering and darkening upon him. Yet his soul was unclouded, and his mental vision clear and distinct.

He had been a student, like myself; and to say that he had been aspiring and full of the fire of genius; to say that he had entered the University with high and soaring thoughts, with lively, burning energies, and with the most ardent hopes and anticipations, would be to say no more than every student would readily imagine. And to say that he was shut up, as in the cloisters of a monastery, "afar from the untasted sun-beam;" to say that he taxed his mental faculties, until-not those energies, but his bodily powers had become completely exhausted and worn down, would be saying only that which too many, alas! might read as a portion of their own sad history. And again, to speak of thoughtless einployments in the country, in the place of intellectual pursuits; to speak of rural scenery, of the fresh and free air of his native hills, of seeking a lost treasure in the surrounding woodlands,