tories of Death are permanent; its monuments never decay, or moulder.

Even when a great man dies, the most poignant grief is not public. The bitterest sighs are heaved, and the most scalding tears are shed in private. Even now, while a nation is clad in mourning for the hero and the statesman, and the parade and circumstance of public sorrow present an imposing and engrossing spectacle to all eyes, there is a mansion on the banks of the Ohio, where the names of General and President are not mentioned. The sorrows, that darken that house, are the sorrows which bereaved woman always feels; the tears, that are shed there, are such as crushed affection every where sheds. It is nothing to her, who sits a widow, in that vacant home, that the warrior and the politician is called from the scene of his triumphs. It is little to her, that a new Government is deprived of its head, a great people of a favorite Ruler. Her lamentation is for the husband of her youth and the father of her children. It is the bitterness of her cup, that the vacant place at her table, and at her fireside, and on her couch of rest, will never, never more be filled; that henceforth her way is to be solitary, and her heart lonely. To her life is ended before the time.

Such is Death always. But when one of the gifted is taken away, it is a public calamity. A great man belongs to his people. He is a public possession - part of a nation's capital, strength, and honor. A comprehensive intellect, a beautiful imagination, superior activity and energy, sublime principle, in which the heart of a nation may trust, magnanimity and enterprise capable of inspiring and sustaining popular enthusiasm, mind to dignify, adorn, and perpetuate what has a people so precious, so sacred? What should a community so prize and cherish?

In whatever department of honorable industry such mind discovers itself, it is above all price. Be it in Philosophy, secluding itself and wearying the hours in the study of truth; or in Art, disciplining itself, and raising itself up,

DEATH OF HARRISON,

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in the fond hope of realizing in marble, or on canvass, or in the more enduring forms of language, the features of beauty, which it has dimly conceived in its favored moments; or, be it in Eloquence, or Policy, or action - wherever more than ordinary intellect, or taste, or goodness, shows itself, there is some part of a nation's greatness; there, one of the gems of its future crown. Without such mind it may possibly exist, may vegetate upon the earth; but the frosts of the first winter will scorch every green thing, and the winds will blow it away. Nothing of all a people's treasures is imperishable but its great minds. Nothing but the genius and virtue of its noble sons can bind it to the family of illustrious nations, or link its history to the series of renowned ages. And when the men, to whom it owes its place and its hopes, are removed by death, it is proper to mourn. The tears of a whole people are a fit tribute to departed greatness. The treasure was public; the loss is public, too. And in proportion as it is great, it is also irreparable. A great man may make an age, may be himself the age.

ORDINATION HYMN.

BY GEORGE KENT.

Or old, O Lord, by cliff or stream,
In glen or mount thy name was praised;
Creation's works the primal theme

Of shepherds, as to heaven they gazed.

A nobler song 't was their's to raise,
From Judah's plains and Bethlehem's hills;
The star prophetic meets their gaze,
The angelic shout their chorus fills.

"Jesus the son of God is born!"

A Saviour lives to rule and bless,
To cheer the fainting and forlorn,
And lead in paths of righteousness.

That Christ is ours- his word our guide,
His bright example be our aim;
The life he lived, the death he died,
Circle with grace the christian name.

Not ours our Heavenly Father's will
Dimly to read in nature's frame;
Nor ours to worship on the hill,

Or in the vale, by cliff or stream.

The word Divine to us is given,
To us a Messenger is sent;
This day records in sight of heaven,
The holy ties we here cement.

Teach us in mutual love to live,

In holy faith and heavenly joy;
Help us, O God, at once to give
Our willing minds to thine employ.

Aid us at last -our duty done,

Our hopes all bright-our souls serene; Calmly to meet life's setting sun,

And triumph in life's closing scene.

RATHER HYPERBOLICAL.

BY HORATIO HALE.

THEY tell me, love, that heavenly form
Was fashioned in an earthly mould;
That once each limb and feature warm
Was lifeless clay and cold.

And the old nurse, in prating mood,
Vows she beheld thy baby-hood.
But vain the specious web and frail,
My heart can weave a truer tale.

They lured a radiant angel down,
And clipped its glorious wings away;
They bound its form in stays and gown,
And taught it here to stay.

But earth, nor art could e'er efface
Its angel form, its heavenly grace.

And would'st thou deign to linger here,
And tread with me this mortal earth,
A group of charming cherubs, dear,
Might cheer our humble hearth.

And each would be-nay, do not laugh,-
Angel and mortal, half and half,

And every pretty dear, when vexed,

Would cry one hour, and sing the next.

But oh! I greatly fear, my love,

That earthly joys would all be vain,
That longing much for things above,
The plumes would grow again;
And so you might, some pleasant day,
Take to your wings and flee away;
I shall be sorry, if
you do,

But, dearest-take the children too!

INFLUENCE OF CLASSIC STUDIES UPON THE

IMAGINATION AND TASTE.

BY EDWIN D. SANBORN.

THE study of the classics tends to refine, chasten and exalt the imagination. Perhaps there is no one of the native powers of the mind, which usually exerts so important an influence upon our happiness or misery in this life, as the imagination. If properly trained and directed, it may become the source of the most exquisite pleasure; if neglected and abused, of the most excruciating torment. In those departments of literature which are the peculiar province of the imagination, the ancients stand unrivalled. In their poetry and oratory, the student is introduced to the most splendid creations of genius. It is the prevailing opinion of some of our best critics, that the infancy of society is most favorable to poetic excellence. Every thing then is new. All the impressions of the bard are fresh and vivid. The current of his thoughts gushes out warm from nature's living fount. As men advance in society, they become less susceptible to those lively emotions, excited by an ardent imagination. They deal more in general ideas and cold abstractions. The reasoning powers become more acute, the imagination more tame. The experimental sciences, which require time for maturity, advance with the improvement of society, while poetry remains stationary or retrogrades. "As civilization advances," says Macaulay, "poetry almost necessarily declines. In proportion as men know more and think more, they look less at individuals, and more at classes. They therefore make better theories and worse poems. They give us vague phrases instead of images, and personified