And fondly would I bid them linger yet, power." Halleck. The youth as he stood upon the hill, and watched the sun sink to his ocean-bed, surrounded by the pomp of summer clouds, vainly dreamed and believed, that even so would be the termination of his own career. The poverty stricken laborer, as he sits at his scanty board with his wife and children, comfortless and friendless around him, the bitter murmur trembles from his lips: "O that God would take me from this heartless world, and lay my weary bones in the grave!" As the sick man upon his bed presses with his hands his feverish brow, and turns his languid eye towards the dim shadows upon the wall, (which to him are spiritual beings, transcendent for their loveliness or deformity) he feels in his inmost soul that there is an eternity beyond the threshold of the grave. The shipwrecked mariner, as he floats upon a plank out-sight of land, sighs to the passing zephyr, as if it had the disposition or the power to waft some wandering ship to his rescue. Dear to my heart is the evening twilight, because it was the hour when Jesus Christ partook of the Sacrament of the Last Supper with his twelve disciples. After our blessed Redeemer had endured the mental sufferings of that night, and the agony of the cross on the following day, it was at the twilight hour also, that Joseph, of Arimathea, took down his body and placed it in the sepulchre. Therefore, is it an hollowed hour. Lo! the star of descending night is mildly beaming upon me from her purple throne in the western sky. She is not alone; but of that vast assembly which surround her, she is the brightest and most fair. Who can form an adequate conception of the nature and destiny of those countless stars? The astronomer hath said that every one of them is an inhabited world, perfect and complete in itself. How overwhelming is such a thought! What an idea does it give of the omnipotence of God! O! that I had the wings of a dove, that I might fly to those pure realms, where the baneful influences of sin were never known! Did not our Saviour allude to these, when he said, "In my Father's house are many mansions?" Yes, those stars are the glorious mansions of the redeemed. They are the everlasting homes of Christians, whose bodies by-gone years have seen mingle with the dust. Far beyond these, and beyond the ken of mortal, there are an innumerable number more, awaiting the arrival of other souls, not yet released from the thraldom of our earth. The bright effulgence that we see around them, is the reflection of God's smile. But see! up springs the moon, rejoicing to run her course in the illimitable sky! The twilight hour is ended, and so too, are the musings it has inspired. THOUGHTS ON LITERATURE. A TASTE for literature is one of the most substantial sources of enjoyment with which the human race is acquainted. It has a tendency to bring to perfection many of the noblest feelings of the heart. To its possessor it is a treasure of which the revolutions of the world cannot deprive him. In opulence or poverty, whether free to roam over the world or confined in a prison, still, if he has within his reach a few favorite authors, he can banish the troubles and trials of the present, and be happy within the world of mind. There is a certain class of men in almost every community, who take pleasure in sneering at those who follow literature as a profession, and who are anxious for its rewards. They look upon the man of letters as one prone to build airy castles, continually longing for pleasures which can never be realized, or as a mere day-dreamer. They think it would be better if all men were mechanics, or merchants, or farmers, and that man was made to plod through life with no higher aim than to satisfy his sensual desires! How foolish, how despicable are such ideas. These persons generally pass through life without making any good impressions upon their fellows, and when they die the memory of their usefulness is buried with them. What is the object of our living upon earth if it is not to train the soul for its future life? Why do people forget that gold is but dust, and that sensual gratifications tend but to debase the mind? Why is it we forget, that time is but the dawn of our existence? The beneficial results of literature are many and varied, and its pleasures are of the most |