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With wild, unbridled bound,
Finds fresher pasture than the bee,
On thymy bank or vernal tree,
Intent to store her industry

Within her waxen round?

Think'st thou the fountain forced to turn
Through marble vase or sculptured urn
Affords a sweeter draught

Than that which, in its native sphere,
Perennial, undisturb'd and clear,
Flows the lone traveller's thirst to cheer,
And wake his grateful thought?

Think'st thou the man whose mansions hold
The worldling's pomp and miser's gold
Obtains a richer prize

Than he who, in his cot at rest,
Finds heavenly peace a willing guest,
And bears the promise in his breast
Of treasure in the skies?

THE CORAL-INSECT.

Toil on toil on! ye ephemeral train,
Who build in the tossing and treacherous main;
Toil on-for the wisdom of man ye mock,

With your sand-based structures and domes of rock:

Your columns the fathomless fountains lave,

And your arches spring up to the crested wave;

Ye're a puny race, thus to boldly rear

A fabric so vast, in a realm so drear.

Ye bind the deep with your secret zone,
The ocean is seal'd, and the surge a stone;
Fresh wreaths from the coral pavement spring,
Like the terraced pride of Assyria's king;

The turf looks green where the breakers roll'd;
O'er the whirlpool ripens the rind of gold;
The sea-snatch'd isle is the home of men,

And the mountains exult where the wave hath been.

But why do ye plant 'neath the billows dark
The wrecking reef for the gallant bark?

There are snares enough on the tented field,
'Mid the blossom'd sweets that the valleys yield;
There are serpents to coil, ere the flowers are up;
There's a poison-drop in man's purest cup;
There are foes that watch for his cradle breath;
And why need ye sow the floods with death?

With mouldering bones the deeps are white,
From the ice-clad pole to the tropics bright;
The mermaid hath twisted her fingers cold
With the mesh of the sea-boy's curls of gold,

And the gods of ocean have frown'd to see
The mariner's bed in their halls of glee;
Hath earth no graves, that ye thus must spread
The boundless sea for the thronging dead?

Ye build-ye build-but ye enter not in,

Like the tribes whom the desert devour'd in their sin;
From the land of promise ye fade and die,
Ere its verdure gleams forth on your weary eye;
As the kings of the cloud-crown'd pyramid,

Their noteless bones in oblivion hid,

Ye slumber unmark'd 'mid the desolate main,
While the wonder and pride of your works remain.

THE GAIN OF ADVERSITY.

"Sweet are the uses of adversity."

A Lily said to a threatening Cloud
That in sternest garb array'd him,

"You have taken my lord, the Sun, away,
And I know not where you have laid him.”

It folded its leaves, and trembled sore

As the hours of darkness press'd it,
But at morn, like a bride, in beauty shone,
For with pearls the dews had dress'd it.

Then it felt ashamed of its fretful thought,
And fain in the dust would hide it,

For the night of weeping had jewels brought,
Which the pride of day denied it.

THE PRIVILEGES OF AGE.

The aged, especially if their conquest of self is imperfect, are prone to underrate the advantages that remain. Their minds linger among depressing subjects, repining for what "time's effacing fingers" will never restore. Far better would it be to muse on their remaining privileges, to recount them, and to rejoice in them. Many instances have I witnessed, both of this spirit, and the want of it, which left enduring impressions.

I well remember an ancient dwelling, sheltered by lofty, umbrageous trees, and with all the appendages of rural comfort. A fair prospect of hill and dale, and broad river, and distant spire, cheered the vine-covered piazzas, through whose loop-holes, with the subdued cry of the steam-borne cars, the world's great Babel made a dash at the picture without coming too near. Traits of agricultural life, divested of its rude and sordid toils, were pleasantly visible. A smooth-coated and symmetrical cow ruminated over her clover-meal. A faithful horse, submissive to the gentlest

rein, protruded his honest face through the barn window. A few brooding mothers were busy with the nurture of their chickens, while the proud father of the flock told, with a clarion-voice, his happiness. There were trees, whose summer fruits were richly swelling, and bushes of ripening berries, and gardens of choice vegetables. Those who, from the hot and dusty city, came to breathe the pure air of this sylvan retreat, took note of these "creature-comforts," and thought they added beauty to the landscape.

Within the abode, fair pictures and books of no mean literature adorned the parlors; in the carpeted kitchen, ticked the stately old family clock, while the bright dishes stood in orderly array upon the speckless shelves. Visitants could not but admire that union of taste and education which makes rural life beautiful. It might seem almost as an Elysium, where care would delight to repose, or philosophy to pursue her researches without interruption. But to any such remark, the excellent owner was wont mournfully to reply,

"Here are only two old people together. Our children are married and gone. Some of them are dead. We cannot be expected to have much enjoyment."

Oh, dear friends, but it is expected that you should. Your very statement of the premises is an admission of peculiar sources of comfort.

"Two old people together." Whose sympathies can be so perfect? And is not sympathy a source of happiness? Side by side ye have journeyed through joys and sorrows. You have stood by the grave's brink when it swallowed up your idols, and the iron that entered into your souls was fused as a living link, that time might never destroy. Under the cloud, and through the sea, you have walked hand in hand, heart to heart. What subjects of communion must you have, with which no other human being could intermeddle!

"Two old people." Would your experience be so rich and profound, if you were not old? or your congeniality so entire, if one was old, and the other young? What a blessing that you can say, There are two of us. Can you realize the loneliness of soul that must gather around the words "left alone!" How many of memory's cherished pictures must then be viewed through blinding tears! how feelingly the expression of the poet must be adopted-"'tis the survivor dies"!

"Our children are married and gone." Would you have it otherwise? Was it not fitting for them to comply with the institution of their Creator? Is it not better than if they were all at home, without congenial employment, pining in disappointed hope, or solitude of the heart? Married and gone! To teach in other

homes the virtues they have learned from you. Perchance, in newer settlements, to diffuse the energy of right habits, and the high influence of pure principles. Gone! to learn the luxury of life's most intense affections, and wisely to train their own young blossoms for time and for eternity. Praise God that it is so.

"Some are dead." They have gone a little before. They have shown you the way through that gate where all the living must pass. Will not their voice of welcome be sweet in the skies? Dream ye not sometimes that ye hear the echo of their harpstrings? Is not your eternal home brought nearer and made dearer by them? Then praise God.

Past Meridian.

ALEXANDER H. EVERETT, 1791-1847.

ALEXANDER HILL EVERETT, Son of Rev. Oliver Everett, of Dorchester, Massachusetts, was born in Boston, March 19, 1790, and graduated with very distinguished reputation at Harvard University, in 1806. After leaving college, he was an usher in Phillips Exeter Academy, and then engaged in the study of the law. In 1809, he accompanied John Quincy Adams, as secretary of legation, to St. Petersburg; and after that his life was more devoted to diplomatic pursuits than to the legal profession.

In 1815, he again went to Europe as secretary of legation at the court of the King of the Netherlands, and returned home in 1817. In 1818 he embarked again for Holland, having been appointed chargé d'affaires; and in 1825 he accepted the position of ambassador at the court of Madrid, where he remained till 1829. A few months after his return to the United States from Madrid, Mr. Everett became the editor and principal proprietor of the "North American Roview." He had long been a leading contributor to this journal, and under his charge it was materially improved. About the year 1832, he engaged actively in politics, and, in 1845, was appointed commissioner to China; but, in consequence of ill health, he proceeded no farther than Rio Janeiro, whence he returned to the United States. After an interval of several months, he again sailed for Canton, but had hardly become settled in his new residence, when his mortal career was terminated, on the 28th of June, 1847.

Mr. Everett was one of the most eminent literary men of our country; proficient in the languages and literature of modern Europe, in philosophy, in diplomacy, the law of nations, and all the learning requisite for a statesman; and in his death our country incurred the loss of one who had served her ably and faithfully abroad, and had contributed essentially to elevate, among European scholars, the character of American literature.

Besides his numerous contributions to periodicals, Mr. Everett's principal published works are, Europe,-a treatise on the political condition of Europe in 1821, published in 1822; America,—a similar treatise on our country, published in 1825; and New Ideas on Population, suggested by, and a reply to, Malthus and

his school, published in 1827. Two volumes of his Critical and Miscellaneous Essays had been published before his death, and he was, at the time of that event, preparing for a continuation of the series.1

ENGLAND.

Whatever may be the extent of the distress in England, or the difficulty of finding any remedies for it which shall be at once practicable and sufficient, it is certain that the symptoms of deeline have not yet displayed themselves on the surface; and no country in Europe, at the present day, probably none that ever flourished at any preceding period of ancient or of modern times, ever exhibited so strongly the outward marks of general industry, wealth, and prosperity. The misery that exists, whatever it may be, retires from public view; and the traveller sees no traces of it except in the beggars, which are not more numerous than they are on the Continent,-in the courts of justice, and in the newspapers. On the contrary, the impressions he receives from the objects that meet his view are almost uniformly agreeable. He is pleased with the great attention paid to his personal accommodation as a traveller, with the excellent roads, and the conveniences of the public carriages and inns. The country everywhere exhibits the appearance of high cultivation, or else of wild and picturesque beauty; and even the unimproved lands are disposed with taste and skill, so as to embellish the landscape very highly, if they do not contribute as they might to the substantial comfort of the people. From every eminence, extensive parks and grounds, spreading far and wide over hill and vale, interspersed with dark woods and variegated with bright waters, unroll themselves before the eye, like enchanted gardens. And while the elegant constructions of the modern proprietors fill the mind with images of ease and luxury, the mouldering ruins that remain of former ages, of the castles and churches of their feudal ancestors, increase the interest of the picture by contrast, and associate with it poetical and affecting recollections of other times and manners. Every village seems to be the chosen residence of Industry, and her handmaids, Neatness and Comfort; and, in the various parts of the island, her operations present themselves under the most amusing and agreeable variety of forms. Sometimes her votaries are mounting to the skies in manufactories of innumerable stories in height, and sometimes diving in mines into the bowels of the earth, or dragging up drowned treasures from

Read an excellent biographical sketch of Mr. Everett in the tenth volume of the "Democratic Review," and an article on his Essays in the eighteenth volume of the same

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