As I beheld thy rising fire,

I thought of hopes that brightest beam'd: And when I saw those flames expire,

Of hope's fell blight I could but deem.

How oft the ling'ring flame return'd,
As loth to leave the much-lov'd lay!
How softly, brightly, slowly burn'd,
As though it could not die away!

The flame gone out-my pensive eye
Would still the mournful embers mark;
A bliss each moment seem'd to die,
A hope expir'd with ev'ry spark.

My hope and flame together shone:
I mourn them both with deep regret :
The past is all "forgiven," gone!

Be still, my bosom, and forget!

Impossible:-thou wilt be still;

But when life's sun in death has set-
When dearest hopes no more can thrill,
And not till then, wilt thou forget.

Thus have I your behest observ'd

In what remains no harm can be;
The valued ashes are preserv'd,
Sacred to friendship, and to me.

Feb. 22.

A. M.

DEATH.

Can storied urn, or animated bust,

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath;

Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust,

Or flatt'ry sooth the dull cold ear of DEATH? GRAY.

What awful reflections this apparently trivial word is calculated to awaken in the human breast!

"That undiscover'd country, from whose bourne
No traveller returns,"

is, indeed, to the sons of frail mortality, a subject fraught with the deepest interest. Whether high or low, rich or poor, however widely differing in dispositions, habits, rank, or attainments, death will do away with all distinctions; death will reduce all to one common level. It mingles the ashes of the monarch, at whose sceptred sway obedient millions trembled, with the dust of the lowly peasant, in whose humble cot poverty and wretchedness met together; where disease and misery embraced each other.

What contemplative mind has considered this subject, and has not thought with the immortal bard

Aye, but to die, and go we know not where!
To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot;

This sensible warm motion to become
A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit
To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside
In thrilling regions of thick-ribb'd ice ;

To be blown with restless violence round about
The pendent world, or to be worse than worst
Of those, that lawless and uncertain thoughts
Imagine howling! 'Tis too horrible!!

The weariest and the most loathed worldly life
That age, ache, penury and imprisonment
Can lay on nature, is a Paradise

To what we fear of death."

And yet how little the generality of mankind reflect upon this solemn theme; or, if it does sometimes force itself intrusively upon their minds, how eagerly they strive to banish it, and to drown, in other and more

lively scenes, all such gloomy recollections. Youth, glowing with health and cheerfulness, supported by the buoyant spirits peculiar to them, view death as it were a distant, nay, almost an imaginary evil, and plunging into the empty and trifling pleasures of this sublunary world, are suddenly arrested in the midst of their gay career, and summoned into the presence of an offended Maker :

"Cut off in the blossom of their sins,

No reckoning made, but sent to their account
With all their imperfections on their head.”

The aged, tottering on the verge of eternity, still tenaciously cling to life, and fondly hope, at the close of each passing day, that to-morrow will be added to their frail existence, forgetting that death, though it may be slow in advance, is yet sure and inevitable; until, at length, bowed down by the weight of infirmity, they sink into the cold and silent grave. The beauty, almost worshipped by admiring throngs-the statesman, at whose bare word contending myriads met, and empires fell or flourished-the orator, whose ravishing eloquence has charmed enraptured senates-the warrior, whose fame and glory have pervaded the habitable globe--must die.

"The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike th' inevitable hour:

The paths of glory lead but to the grave."

But how peculiarly wretched and loathsome must death appear to the blaspheming infidel. To seek

"The grave, and sleep for ever there,"

The thought

is, indeed, a cold and comfortless tenet. that any man can be so wilfully blind to the belief, that death is but an eternal sleep, must, in every feeling breast, awaken the deepest pity and commiseration. But, from the contemplation of the agonizing picture. which death must disclose to the deluded votaries of infidelity, let us turn to the cheering prospect opened to the sincere and pious Christian, who, with humble confidence,

G

leaning ont he all-sufficient merits of a merciful Redeemer, enters the "valley of the shadow of death," without fear and without trembling; and who, in the emphatic language of the Apostle, can triumphantly exclaim, "O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?" To him, death is but the forerunner of an eternal beatitude, and the grave but the entrance into a blessed immortality.

G. S.

HONOR.

It must be so!" said George Stanley to a friend; 'my honor calls upon me to avenge the insult. Charles, I commission you to settle with him the time and place of meeting."

Does honor, then, require the sacrifice of a human being? Will nothing short of blood satisfy the demands of honor? If so, to live in dishonor would be glorious.-But it is not: there is in man a feeling too often mistaken for honor. A feeling, which, under the semblance of honor, imposes upon men, and causes them to commit actions wholly unworthy of them. This is the baneful motive which prompts the gamester to disregard the just payment of his tradesmen, in order to discharge those debts of honor, which it would be far more honorable never to have incurred. It is this kind of honor which actuates a man, in a hasty moment, to become the murderer of his friend, on account of an unguarded word, which the same honor forbids him to retract. False honor stimulates a disputant to maintain his assertions, through an unwillingness to coincide with the sounder arguments of his adversary; true honor teaches us that nothing is more generous than to own ourselves in the wrong. By honor, also, may be understood, that spirit which pervaded the minds of the knights in olden times, and induced them to court perils and dangers, deeming themselves unworthy of a favorable glance from the eyes of a fair lady, until they had signalized themselves by

the most arduous exploits, and daring deeds of arms; it was this honor which made them the courteous protectors of the whole sex. Such was the renowned Chevalier Bayard, who made all Europe resound with his praises, and was termed the "pink of honor and of chivalry." There are some persons, indeed, who affirm, that honor is a mere name, which is often made use of as a pretext for the commission of many follies. These men surely err. That there is, and ought to be, a feeling in men corresponding with the sense of shame in women, is certain this should direct them as to all those points of etiquette, which distinguish the gentleman from the clown; and this should be the incentive and regulating principle of their conduct towards society.

:

G. W.

A FAREWELL.

Farewell, dear Maria, the shadows of night
Have eclips'd, for a while, the splendor of day;
E'en Phœbus himself, the free giver of light,
Has past to his bed in the ocean away.

The labour of day among mortals is o'er,

And nature herself seems in quiet to rest :

What breaks the calm stillness? Ah! hear you the roar Proclaiming the mirth of yon Bacchanal feast?

There let them carouse; let the silence of night
Be converted to uproar, by riot and wine:
Their clamour and noise can afford no delight
To bosoms as pure and unsullied as thine.

No, thou shalt retire, and whilst angels on high Preside o'er thy slumbers, to guard thee from harm; May thy dreams be of joys undisturbed by a sigh, And thy sleep be unbroken by fancied alarm.