by long and patient years of toil, forces the law to recognise at last some disregarded principle of justice; the teacher, the author, the artist, the physician, and the man of business, who, in their various places of duty and of influence, are serving their generation under the influence of Christian principles; these all are in their several functions the anointed ministers of Christianity,— "kings and priests to God."

In the all-embracing scheme of the eternal Providence, no act, or effort, or aspiration of goodness shall be in vain. No rain-drop mingles with the ocean or falls upon the desert sand, no particle of dew moistens the loneliest and baldest cliff, but God sees it and saves it for the uses of his own beneficence. The vanished aspirations of the youth who fell and was forgotten-whose early promise sparkled for a moment and exhaled-are not wholly lost; he has not lived nor died in vain.

Let these thoughts cheer us as we labor, and bear us up in our discouragements.

"Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,

Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.

"Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait."

Phi Beta Kappa Oration.

EDWARD C. PINKNEY, 1802-1828.

EDWARD COATE PINKNEY, son of Hon. William Pinkney,' of Baltimore, Maryland, was born in London in October, 1802, his father being at that time minister at the Court of St. James. On the return of the family, he entered "St. Mary's College" about 1812, and, at the age of fourteen, was appointed midshipman in the navy. After a varied service of nine years, he resigned his place in the navy, was married, and was admitted to the bar in 1824. But his previous habits of life were not favorable to the steady and earnest pursuit of legal investigations, and his poetic temperament did not suit well with the contentions of the court-room; consequently he had but little success as a lawyer. His health, too, had been for

I William Pinkney was a native of Annapolis,-born 1764, died 1822.-He was appointed to various European missions by our Government, and held other eminent public stations. His greatest celebrity, however, was attained at the bar, where he was distinguished alike for learning and eloquence. He it was who, in the House of Delegates in Maryland, in 1789, uttered the noble sentiment,"Sir, by the eternal principles of natural justice, no master in this State has a right to hold his slave for a single hour."

some time feeble, so that he had hardly the physical powers necessary to attain distinction in any profession. He had been for some years known as a poet to his circle of friends; and in 1825 a small volume appeared, entitled Rodolph, and other Poems. Rodolph-his longest work-has not much merit; but some of his minor pieces are very beautiful, and richly merit preservation. Had his life been spared, he would doubtless have trodden a higher walk; but he died on the 11th of April, 1828, at the early age of twenty-five.

ITALY.

Know'st thou the land which lovers ought to choose?
Like bessings there descend the sparkling dews;
In gleaming streams the crystal rivers run,
The purple vintage clusters in the sun;
Odors of flowers haunt the balmy breeze,
Rich fruits hang high upon the verdant trees;
And vivid blossoms gem the shady groves,

Where bright-plumed birds discourse their careless loves.
Belovéd!-speed we from this sullen strand,

Until thy light feet press that green shore's yellow sand.

Look seaward thence, and naught shall meet thine eye
But fairy isles, like paintings on the sky;
And, flying fast and free before the gale,
The gaudy vessel with its glancing sail;
And waters glittering in the glare of noon,
Or touch'd with silver by the stars and moon,
Or fleck'd with broken lines of crimson light,
When the far fisher's fire affronts the night.
Lovely as loved! toward that smiling shore
Bear we our household gods, to fix forever more.

It looks a dimple on the face of earth,
The seal of beauty, and the shrine of mirth:
Nature is delicate and graceful there,

The place's genius, feminine and fair;

The winds are awed, nor dare to breathe aloud;
The air seems never to have borne a cloud,
Save where volcanoes send to heaven their curl'd
And solemn smokes, like altars of the world.
Thrice beautiful!-to that delightful spot
Carry our married hearts, and be all pain forgot.

There Art, too, shows, when Nature's beauty palls,
Her sculptured marbles, and her pictured walls;
And there are forms in which they both conspire
To whisper themes that know not how to tire;
The speaking ruins in that gentle clime
Have but been hallow'd by the hand of Time,
And each can mutely prompt some thought of flame:
The meanest stone is not without a name.

Then come, beloved!-hasten o'er the sea,
To build our happy hearth in blooming Italy.

A HEALTH.

I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness alone,

A woman, of her gentle sex the seeming paragon;

To whom the better elements and kindly stars have given

A form so fair, that, like the air, 'tis less of earth than heaven.

Her every tone is music's own, like those of morning birds,
And something more than melody dwells ever in her words;
The coinage of her heart are they, and from her lips each flows,
As one may see the burden'd bee forth issue from the rose.

Affections are as thoughts to her, the measures of her hours;
Her feelings have the fragrance and the freshness of young flowers;
And lovely passions, changing oft, so fill her, she appears
The image of themselves by turns,-the idol of past years!

Of her bright face one glance will trace a picture on the brain,
And of her voice in echoing hearts a sound must long remain ;
But memory, such as mine of her, so very much endears,
When death is nigh, my latest sigh will not be life's, but hers.

I fill'd this cup to one made up of loveliness alone,

A woman, of her gentle sex the seeming paragon,

Her health! and would on earth there stood some more of such a frame, That life might be all poetry, and weariness a name.

Sleep not!-thine image wakes for aye
Within my watching breast:

Sleep not!-from her soft sleep should fly,
Who robs all hearts of rest.

Nay, lady, from thy slumbers break,

And make this darkness gay

With looks, whose brightness well might make
Of darker nights a day.

GEORGE P. MORRIS.

GEORGE P. MORRIS, to whom the common voice of the country has given the title of THE SONG-WRITER OF AMERICA, was born in Philadelphia in 1802. He early commenced his literary career, and in 1822 became the editor of "The New York Mirror," which remained under his control till 1843, when pecuniary difficulties, occasioned by the storm of financial embarrassment which had but shortly before passed over the country, compelled him to relinquish its publication. During this long period, this periodical was very ably conducted, and became the vehicle of introduction to the public of some of the best writers in the country. In 1844, he established "The New Mirror," in conjunction with his friend N. P. Willis, which was soon after changed into "The Evening Mirror." This, after being continued a year as a daily paper, with great spirit and taste, was sold out, and in November, 1846, these two gifted authors started a weekly paper, called "The Home Journal," which has been continued from year to year, with increasing popularity,-a popularity richly deserved, from the taste, elegance, and enterprise with which it is conducted.

General Morris has published the following works:-The Deserted Bride, and other Poems, 1843; The Whip-poor-will, a Poem; American Melodies; two or three dramas; and, in conjunction with his friend Willis, an admirable book entitled The Prose and Poetry of Europe and America. But it is as a writer of songs, which exert no little influence upon national character and manners, and of a few short pieces which, by their elevated moral sentiment and touching pathos, go right to the heart, that General Morris will hold an enduring place in American literature.1

1 "General Morris's fame as 'The Song-Writer of America' belongs to two hemispheres, and is greater now than it has ever been before. You ask me,' says a recent letter from an English gentleman, now representing in the House of Commons one of the most ancient of the English boroughs, whether I have seen General Morris's last song, "Jenny Marsh of Cherry Valley." You can hardly know, when you put such a question, the place he has built himself in the hearts of all classes here. His many songs and ballads are household words in every home in England, and have a dear old chair by every circle in which kindly friends are gathered; and parents smile with pleasure to see brothers and sisters join their voices in the evening song, and twine closer those loving chords, -the tenderest of the human heart. It is no mean reward to feel that the child of one's brain has a chair in such circles, and that the love for the child passes in hundreds of hearts into love for its unseen parent. After all, what are all the throat-warblings in the world to one such heart-song as "My Mother's Bible"? It possesses the true test of genius, touching with sympathy the human heart equally in the palace and the cottage.'

For a most beautifully-written critical essay upon General Morris's genius and poems, read "Literary Criticisms, and other Papers, by the late Horace Binney Wallace, Esq., of Philadelphia,"-a volume which does the highest credit to the author as a man of pure taste, correct judgment, and finished scholarship.

* He receives the title of General from his holding the rank of brigadier-general in the military organization of New York.

LIFE IN THE WEST.

Ho! brothers,-come hither and list to my story,-
Merry and brief will the narrative be:
Here, like a monarch, I reign in my glory—
Master am I, boys, of all that I see.

Where once frown'd a forest a garden is smiling,—
The meadow and moorland are marshes no more;
And there curls the smoke of my cottage, beguiling
The children who cluster like grapes at the door.
Then enter, boys; cheerly, boys, enter and rest,
The land of the heart is the land of the West.
Oho, boys!—oho, boys!—oho!

Talk not of the town, boys,-give me the broad prairie,
Where man, like the wind, roams impulsive and free;
Behold how its beautiful colors all vary,

Like those of the clouds, or the deep-rolling sea.
A life in the woods, boys, is even as changing;
With proud independence we season our cheer,
And those who the world are for happiness ranging
Won't find it at all, if they don't find it here.
Then enter, boys; cheerly, boys, enter and rest;
I'll show you the life, boys, we live in the West.
Oho, boys!-oho, boys!-oho!

Here, brothers, secure from all turmoil and danger,
We reap what we sow, for the soil is our own;
We spread hospitality's board for the stranger,
And care not a fig for the king on his throne.
We never know want, for we live by our labor,
And in it contentment and happiness find;
We do what we can for a friend or a neighbor,

And die, boys, in peace and good will to mankind. Then enter, boys; cheerly, boys, enter and rest; You know how we live, boys, and die in the West! Oho, boys!-oho, boys!-oho!

WHEN OTHER FRIENDS ARE ROUND THEE.

When other friends are round thee,

And other hearts are thine,

When other bays have crown'd thee,

More fresh and green than mine,

Then think how sad and lonely
This doating heart will be,
Which, while it throbs, throbs only,
Beloved one, for thee!

Yet do not think I doubt thee,
I know thy truth remains;
I would not live without thee,
For all the world contains.