as Jean Paul. The spirit is departed, the words only are left. He has gone hence; and in whatever heaven he wanders, in whatever star he dwells, he will not forget in his transfiguration the earth he knew so well, nor his own fellow-men, who played and wept with him, and like him loved and endured. From the German of Ludwig Boerne, 1825.

DEATH OF PRESIDENT TAYLOR.

If I were to speak of that single characteristic of Zachary Taylor which has always impressed my own mind with most force, I should say that he realized more perfectly than any other person the pure ideal of a REPUBLICAN CITIZEN. Equal to the highest, not seeming superior to the humblest, accessible alike to all, modest, resolved, courteous, firm, benevolent, just, loyal to his government, "true to himself," and therefore"false to no man"—of what other great character of our time can all this be said so truly?

But, fellow-citizens, while I thus speak of this event as an irreparable loss--even as a great public calamity-I do not partake the fears of those who view in it a reason for agitation and alarm-who draw from it fatal auguries to the safety of the Republic. I do not believe that Divine Providence has chosen to suspend the fate of this people upon the life of any one man. God's purposes in respect to this nation of ours are not to be thus accomplished. It was not for a destiny which we have yet fulfilled that for four thousand years. he kept this half of the globe concealed behind the curtain which shut down upon the western horizon of the Old World. It was not for this early fruit which we have yet gathered that he then planted it with that "winnowed seed." Not for this short national life did he teach us how to frame this organized living body politic, vital in every part. Surely, surely, this new career of the world's progress, so full of radiant promise, is not to be suddenly arrested!

How admirably indeed has this mournful event itself illustrated the strength and beauty of our political system! How fully is its whole philosophy vindicated by one simple almost unnoticed event. A gentleman from a Southern State has arisen to address the Senate of the United States upon an agitating question of internal policy. While he is speaking, a Senator from Massachusetts arises, and, in a voice weak with emotion, announces that the executive head of the Republic is rapidly drawing near the end of life. The speech

is suspended, and the Senate adjourns. In six days it again assembles. In that short interval the executive government of the country has been silently but totally changed. The sceptre of power has fallen from the hand of one man touched with the finger of death-and has been instantly taken up and borne without challenge by another. Changes have taken place which would have convulsed some of the self-styled strong governments of the Old World to their centres, and behold! the Senate calmly resumes the order of its business-and the Senator arises to proceed with the unfinished speech!

But, my friends, though we do not yield to melancholy forebodings for ourselves, we do not the less cherish the precious memory of the departed. Fellow-citizens, it is not often we are called to mourn for such a loss. Soldiers, statesmen, orators, scholars, daily pass away from amongst us, and others daily arise to fill their places. But when a great heart-upon which a nation, in its hour of peril, has rested the burthen of its hopes and fears-ceases to beat, it is a time to pause in awe and sorrow.

Ah! my countrymen, this recent grave has indeed opened at the feet of truth and honor, of private worth and public station, of highest power united to purest virtue-" the cord that is loosed was indeed of silver, the bowl that is broken was of gold beyond all price!"

Hon. James Humphrey, 1860.

THE GRAVE.

Oн, the grave! the grave! It buries every error; covers every defect; extinguishes every resentment. From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can look down upon the grave even of an enemy, and not feel a compunctious throb, that ever he should have warred with the poor handful of earth that lies mouldering before him? But the grave of those he loved, what a place for meditation! Then it is we call up, in long review, the whole history of virtue and gentleness, and the thousand endearments lavished upon us, almost unheeded, in the daily intercourse of intimacy; then it is, we dwell upon the tenderness, the solemn and awful tenderness of the parting scene; the bed of death, with all the stifled grief; its noiseless attendants, its mute, watchful assiduities; the last testimonies of expiring love; the feeble, fluttering, thrilling

Oh! how thrilling the pressure of the hand; the last, fond look of the glazed eye, turning upon us, even from the threshold of existence; the faint, faltering accents struggling in death to give one more assurance of affection! Aye, go to the grave of buried love and meditate! There settle the account with thy conscience, for every past endearment, unregarded, of that departed being, who never, never, never can return, to be soothed by contrition!

If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent; if thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms, to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth; if thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged in thought, or word, or deed, the spirit that generously confided in thee; if thou art a lover and hast ever given an unmerited pang to the true heart that now lies cold and still beneath thy feet; then be sure that every unkind look, every ungracious word, every ungenteel action, will come thronging back upon thy memory, and knocking dolefully at thy soul; then be sure thou wilt be down, sorrowing and repentant on the grave, and utter the unheard groan, and pour the unavailing tear, more deep, more bitter, because unheard and unavailing. Washington Irving.

THE SEVEN AGES.

ALL the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players; they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time, plays many parts; his acts being -Seven Ages. At first, the Infant, mewling and puking in the nurse's arms. And then the whining School-boy with his satchel and shining morning face; creeping like a snail unwillingly to school. And then the Lover, sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad made to his mistress's eye-brow. Then a Soldier, full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard; jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel; seeking the bubble, reputation, even in the cannon's mouth. And then, the Justice, in fair round belly with good capon lined, with eyes severe and beard of formal cut, full of wise saws and modern instances; and so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts into the lean and slippered Pantaloon, with spectacles on nose, and pouch on side; his youthful hose well saved, a world too wide for his shrunk shank; and his big, manly

voice, turning again to childish treble, pipes and whistles in the sound. Last scene of all, that ends this strange, eventful history, is-second childishness and.mere oblivion; sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything!

Shakespeare.

ONCE, in the

THE COMMON LOT.

flight of ages past, there lived a man; and who was he! Mortal! howe'er thy lot be cast, that man resembled thee. Unknown the region of his birth; the land in which he died, unknown; his name has perished from the earth; this truth survives alone-that joy, and grief, and hope, and fear, alternate triumphed in his breast; his bliss, and woe-a smile, a tear; oblivion hides the rest. The bounding pulse, the languid limb, the changing spirit's rise and fall; we know that these were felt by him, for these are felt by all. He suffered-but his pangs are o'er; enjoyedbut his delights are fled; had friends--his friends are now no more; had foes-his foes are dead. He loved-but whom he loved, the grave hath lost in its unconscious womb: 0, she was fair! but nought could save her beauty from the tomb. He saw-whatever thou hast seen; encountered all that troubles thee; he was-whatever thou hast been; he is what thou shalt be! The rolling seasons, day and night, sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main-ere while his por tion-life and light; to him exist in vain. The clouds and sunbeams, o'er his eye that once their shades and glory threw, have left, in yonder silent sky, no vestige where they flew. The annals of the human race, their ruins since the world began, of him afford no other trace than this,—THERE LIVED A MAN!—James Montgomery.

SPEECH OF SATAN TO HIS LEGION.

PRINCES, potentates, warriors! the flower of heaven, once yours; now lost, if such astonishment as this can seize eternal spirits; or have ye chosen this place after the toil of battle to repose your wearied virtue, for the ease you find to slumber here as in the vales of heaven? Or, in this abject posture, have ye sworn to adore the conqueror? who now beholds cherub and seraph rolling in the flood, with scattered

arms and ensigns; till anon his swift pursuers from heavengates discern the advantage, and, descending, tread us down thus drooping; or, with linked thunderbolts, transfix us to the bottom of this gulf. Awake! arise! or be forever fallen!

Milton.

TREASURES OF THE DEEP.

Sweep o'er thy claims not these Thy waves have Sand hath filled

WHAT had'st thou in thy treasure-caves and cells, thou hollow sounding and mysterious Main?-pale, glistening pearls, and rainbow-colored shells, bright things which gleam unrecked of, and in vain. Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea! we ask not such from thee. Yet more, the depths have more! What wealth untold, far down and shining through their stillness lies! Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold, won from ten thousand royal argosies. spoils, thou wild and wrathful Main; earth again! Yet more, the depths have more! rolled above the cities of a world gone by! up the palaces of old, sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry! Dash o'er them, ocean! in thy scornful play; man yields them to decay! Yet more! the billows and the depths have more! High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast! They hear not now the booming waters roar, the battle thunders will not break their rest; keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave-give back the true and brave!Give back the lost and lovely! those for whom the place was kept at board and hearth so long: the prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom, and the vain yearning woke 'mid festal song! Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown,--but all is not thine own! To thee the love of woman hath gone down; dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head, o'er youth's bright locks and beauty's flowery crown; yet must thou hear a voice-"Restore the dead." Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee: "Restore the dead, thou sea!"—Mrs. Hemans.

EASTER MORNING.

Nor another day of the year comes upon the earth with such universal acceptance as this. Although every sabbath day is now changed to be a day of rejoicing for the resurrec