And hence that calm delight the portrait gives :
We gaze on every feature till it lives!

Still the fond lover sees the absent maid;
And the lost friend still lingers in his shade!
Say why the pensive widow loves to weep,
When on her knee she rocks her babe to sleep:
Tremblingly still, she lifts his vail to trace
The father's features in his infant face.
The hoary grandsire smiles the hour away
Won by the raptures of a game at play;
He bends to meet each artless burst of joy,
Forgets his age, and acts again the boy.

What though the iron school of War erase
Each milder virtue and each softer grace;
What though the fiend's torpedo-touch arrest
Each gentler, finer impulse of the breast;
Still shall this active principle preside,
And wake the tear to Pity's self denied.

The intrepid Swiss, who guards a foreign shore,
Condemn'd to climb his mountain-cliffs no more,
If chance he hears the song so sweetly wild
Which on those cliffs his infant hours beguiled,
Melts at the long-lost scenes that round him rise,
And sinks a martyr to repentant sighs.

Ask not if courts or camps dissolve the charm:
Say why Vespasian' loved his Sabine farm?

Why great Navarre,2 when France and Freedom bled,
Sought the lone limits of a forest-shed?

When Diocletian's self-corrected mind'
The imperial fasces of a world resign'd,

Say why we trace the labors of his spade,

In calm Salona's philosophic shade?

Say, when contentious Charles renounced a throne,4
To muse with monks unletter'd and unknown,
What from his soul the parting tribute drew?
What claim'd the sorrows of a last adieu?
The still retreats that soothed his tranquil breast
Ere grandeur dazzled and its cares oppress'd.

The same.

1 Vespasian, according to Suetonius, constantly passed his summers in a small villa near Reate, where he was born, and to which he would never add any embellishment.

"That amiable and accomplished monarch, Henry the Fourth of France, made an excursion from his camp, during the long siege of Laon, to dine at a house in the forest of Folambray, where he had often been regaled, when a boy, with fruit, milk, and new cheese, and in revisiting which he promised himself great pleasure."-MEM. DE SULLY.

a "Diocletian retired into his native province, and there amused himself with building, planting, and gardening. His answer to Maximian is deservedly celebrated. He was solicited by that restless old man to reassume the reins of government and the imperial purple. He rejected the temptation with a smile of pity, calmly observing, That if he could show Maximian the cabbages which he had planted with his own hands at Salona, he should no longer be urged to relinquish the enjoyment of happiness for the pursuit of power. "-GIBBON.

4 "When the Emperor Charles V. had executed his memorable resolution, and had set out for the monastery of St. Justus, he stopped a few days at Ghent," says his historian, "to indulge that tender and pleasant melancholy which arises in the mind of every man, in the decline of life, on visiting the place of his nativity, and viewing the scenes and objects familiar to him in his carly youth."-ROBERTSON,

THE POWER OF MEMORY.

Sweet Memory, wafted by thy gentle gale,
Oft up the stream of Time I turn my sail,
To view the fairy haunts of long-lost hours,
Blest with far greener shades, far fresher flowers.

Ages and climes remote to thee impart
What charms in Genius and refines in Art;
Thee, in whose hand the keys of Science dwell,
The pensive portress of her holy cell;
Whose constant vigils chase the chilling damp
Oblivion steals upon her vestal-lamp.

The friends of Reason and the guides of Youth,
Whose language breathed the eloquence of Truth;
Whose life, beyond preceptive wisdom, taught
The great in conduct and the pure in thought;
These still exist' by thee to Fame consign'd,
Still speak and act, the models of mankind.

From thee, sweet Hope, her airy coloring draws;
And Fancy's flights are subject to thy laws.
From thee that bosom-spring of rapture flows,
Which only Virtue, tranquil Virtue, knows.

When Joy's bright sun has shed his evening ray,
And Hope's delusive meteors cease to play;
When clouds on clouds the smiling prospect close,
Still through the gloom thy star serenely glows;
Like yon fair orb, she gilds the brow of night
With the mild magic of reflected light.

The beauteous maid who bids the world adieu,
Oft of that world will snatch a fond review;
Oft at the shrine neglect her beads to trace
Some social scene, some dear familiar face;
And ere, with iron tongue, the vesper-bell
Bursts through the cypress-walk, the convent-cell,
Oft will her warm and wayward heart revive,
To love and joy still tremblingly alive;

The whisper'd vow, the chaste caress prolong,
Weave the light dance and swell the choral song;
With rapt ear drink the enchanting serenade,
And, as it melts along the moonlight glade,
To each soft note return as soft a sigh,

And bless the youth that bids her slumbers fly.

1 There is a future existence even in this world, an existence in the hearts and minds of those who shall live after us. It is in reserve for every man, however obscure; and his por tion, if he be diligent, must be equal to his desires. For in whose remembrance can we wish to hold a place but such as know and are known by us? These are within the sphere of our influence, and among these and their descendants we may live evermore.

It is a state of rewards and punishments; and, like that revealed to us in the gospel, has the happiest influence on our lives. The latter excites us to gain the favor of God, the former to gain the love and esteem of wise and good men, and both lead to the same end; for, in framing our conceptions of the Deity, we only ascribe to Ilim exalted degrees of wisdom and goodness.

But not till Time has calm'd the ruffled breast
Are these fond dreams of happiness confest;
Not till the rushing winds forget to rave
Is Heaven's sweet smile reflected on the wave.

From Guinea's coast pursue the lessening sail,
And catch the sounds that sadden every gale.
Tell, if thou canst, the sum of sorrows there;
Mark the fix'd gaze, the wild and frenzied glare,
The racks of thought, and freezings of despair!
But pause not then-beyond the western wave,
Go, view the captive barter'd as a slave!
Crush'd till his high heroic spirit bleeds,
And from his nerveless frame indignantly recedes.
Yet here, even here, with pleasures long resign'd,
Lo! Memory bursts the twilight of the mind.
Her dear delusions soothe his sinking soul
When the rude scourge assumes its base control;
And o'er Futurity's blank page diffuse

The full reflection of her vivid hues.
'Tis but to die, and then to weep no more,
Then will he wake on Congo's distant shore;
Beneath his plantain's ancient shade, renew
The simple transports that with freedom flew ;
Catch the cool breeze that musky evening blows,
And quaff the palm's rich nectar as it glows;
The oral tale of elder time rehearse,
And chant the rude traditionary verse
With those, the loved companions of his youth,
When life was luxury and friendship truth.

CONCLUSION.

The same.

Hail, Memory, hail! in thy exhaustless mine
From age to age unnumber'd treasures shine!
Thought and her shadowy brood thy call obey,
And Place and Time are subject to thy sway!
Thy pleasures most we feel when most alone;
The only pleasures we can call our own.
Lighter than air Hope's summer visions die,
If but a fleeting cloud obscure the sky;
If but a beam of sober Reason play,
Lo, Fancy's fairy frost-work melts away!
But can the wiles of Art, the grasp of Power,
Snatch the rich relics of a well-spent hour?
These, when the trembling spirit wings her flight,
Pour round her path a stream of living light;
And gild those pure and perfect realms of rest,
Where Virtue triumphs and her sons are blest!

The same.

HUMAN LIFE.

The lark has sung his carol in the sky,
The bees have humm'd their noontide lullaby;

Still in the vale the village bells ring round,
Still in Llewellyn hall the jests resound;
For now the caudle-cup is circling there,

Now, glad at heart, the gossips breathe their prayer,
And, crowding, stop the cradle to admire
The babe, the sleeping image of his sire.

A few short years, and then these sounds shall hail
The day again, and gladness fill the vale;
So soon the child a youth, the youth a man,
Eager to run the race his fathers ran.
Then the huge ox shall yield the broad sirloin;
The ale, now brew'd, in floods of amber shine;
And basking in the chimney's ample blaze,
'Mid many a tale told of his boyish days,
The nurse shall cry, of all her ills beguiled,
"'Twas on these knees he sat so oft and smiled."

And soon again shall music swell the breeze;
Soon, issuing forth, shall glitter through the trees
Vestures of nuptial white; and hymns be sung,
And violets scatter'd round; and old and young,
In every cottage-porch, with garlands green,
Stand still to gaze, and, gazing, bless the scene;
While her dark eyes declining, by his side,
Moves in her virgin vail the gentle bride.

And once, alas! nor in a distant hour, Another voice shall come from yonder tower; When in dim chambers long black weeds are seen, And weepings heard where only joy has been ; When, by his children borne, and from his door, Slowly departing to return no more,

He rests in holy earth with them that went before.

And such is human life; so gliding on,

It glimmers like a meteor, and is gone!
Yet is the tale, brief though it be, as strange,
As full, methinks, of wild and wondrous change,
As any that the wandering tribes require,
Stretch'd in the desert round their evening fire;
As any sung of old, in hall or bower,

To minstrel-harps at midnight's witching hour!

The hour arrives, the moment wish'd and fear'd; The child is born, by many a pang endear'd. And now the mother's ear has caught his cry; Oh grant the cherub to her asking eye!

He comes-she clasps him. To her bosom press'd, He drinks the balm of life and drops to rest.

Her by her smile how soon the stranger knows! How soon by his the glad discovery shows! As to her lips she lifts the lovely boy, What answering looks of sympathy and joy! He walks he speaks. In many a broken word His wants, his wishes, and his griefs are heard.

And ever, ever to her lap he flies,

When rosy Sleep comes on with sweet surprise.
Lock'd in her arms, his arms across her flung,
(That name most dear for ever on his tongue,)
As with soft accents round her neck he clings,
And, cheek to cheek, her lulling song she sings,
How blest to feel the beatings of his heart,
Breathe his sweet breath, and kiss for kiss impart;
Watch o'er his slumbers like the brooding dove,
And, if she can, exhaust a mother's love!

But soon a nobler task demands her care,
Apart she joins his little hands in prayer,
Telling of Him who sees in secret there:
And now the volume on her knee has caught
His wandering eye-now many a written thought
Never to die, with many a lisping sweet,

His moving, murmuring lips endeavor to repeat.'

Human Life.

PÆSTUM.

From my youth upward have I long'd to tread
This classic ground; and am I here at last?
Wandering at will through the long porticos,
And catching, as through some majestic grove,
Now the blue ocean, and now, chaos-like,
Mountains and mountain-gulfs, and, halfway up,
Towns like the living rock from which they grew?
A cloudy region, black and desolate,

Where once a slave withstood a world in arms.

The air is sweet with violets, running wild
'Mid broken friezes and fallen capitals;
Sweet as when Tully, writing down his thoughts,
Those thoughts so precious and so lately lost,
(Turning to thee, divine philosophy,

Ever at hand to calm his troubled soul,)
Sail'd slowly by, two thousand years ago,

For Athens; when a ship, if north-east winds

Blew from the Pæstan gardens, slack'd her course.

On as he moved along the level shore,
These temples, in their splendor eminent
'Mid arcs and obelisks, and domes and towers,
Reflecting back the radiance of the west,

Well might he dream of glory! Now, coil'd up,
The serpent sleeps within them; the she-wolf
Suckles her young; and as alone I stand

"I have now lost my barrier between me and death. God grant I may live to be as well prepared for it as I confidently believe her to have been. If the way to Heaven be through piety, truth, justice, and charity, she is there."-SWIFT, on the death of his mother.

The temples of Pæstum are three in number, and have survived nearly nine centuries the total destruction of the city. Tradition is silent concerning them; but they must have existed now between two and three thousand years.