now appear; and when, in the full communion of the Most High, thou shalt see him as he is?

The oak, whose top ascends unto the heavens, and which covers the mountain with its shade, was once an acorn, contemptible to the sight. The philosopher, whose views extend from one end of nature to the other, was once a speechless infant hanging at the breast. The glorified spirits, who now stand nearest to the throne of God, were once like you. To you, as to them, the heavens are open: the way is marked out: the reward is prepared.

RUINOUS CONSEQUENCES OF INDULGENCE IN UNHALLOWED

PLEASURES.-Logan.

The early period of life is frequently a season of delusion. When youth scatters its blandishments, and the song of pleasure is heard, the inexperienced and the unwary listen to the sound, and surrender themselves to the enchantment. Not satisfied with those just and masculine joys, which nature offers and virtue consecrates, they rush into the excesses of unlawful pleasure: not satisfied with those fruits bordering the paths of virtue, which they may taste, and live, they put forth their hand to the forbidden tree. One criminal indulgence lays the foundation for another, till sinful pleasure becomes a pursuit, that employs all the faculties, and absorbs all the time of its votaries.

There is no moderation nor government in vice. Desires that are innocent may be indulged with innocence: pleasures that are pure may be pursued with purity, and the round of guiltless delights may be made without encroaching on the duties of life. But guilty pleasures become the masters and tyrants of the mind; when these lords acquire dominion, they bring all the thoughts into captivity, and rule with unlimited and despotic sway.

Look around you. Consider the fate of your equals in age, who have been swept away, not by the hand of time, but by the scythe of intemperance, and involved in the shades of death. Contemplate that cloud which vests the invisible world, where their mansion is fixed forever. When the songs of the siren call you to the banquet of vice, stop in the midst of the career, pause on the brink, look down, and while yet one throb belongs to virtue, turn back from the verge of destruction. Think of the joyful morning that rises after a victory over sin-reflection thy friend, memory stored with pleasant images, thy thoughts like good angels announcing peace and presaging joy.

Or, if this will not suffice, turn to the shades of the picture, and behold the ruin, that false pleasure introduces into human nature. Behold a rational being arrested in his course; a character, that might have shone in public and in private life, cast into the shade of oblivion; a name, that might have been uttered with a tear, and left as an inheritance to a race to come, consigned to the roll of infamy. All that is great in human nature, sacrificed at the shrine of sensual pleasure in this world, and the candidate for immortality in the next, plunged into the irremediable gulf of folly, dissipation and misery.

RIENZI'S ADDRESS TO THE ROMANS.-Miss Mitford

I come not here to talk. Ye know too well
The story of our thraldom. We are slaves!
The bright sun rises to his course, and lights
A race of slaves! He sets, and his last beam
Falls on a slave; not such as, swept along
By the full tide of power, the conqueror led
To crimson glory and undying fame;
But base, ignoble slaves--slaves to a horde
Of petty tyrants, feudal despots! lords
Rich in some dozen paltry villages-
Strong in some hundred spearmen--only great
In that strange spell-a name. Each hour, dark fraud,

Or open rapine, or protected murder,

Cry out against them. But this very day,

An honest man, my neighbour, (pointing to Paolo)-there

he stands,

Was struck, struck like a dog, by one who wore

The badge of Ursini; because, forsooth,

He tossed not high his ready cap in air,

Nor lifted up his voice in servile shouts,

At sight of that great ruffian. Be we men,

And suffer such dishonour-Men, and wash not

The stain away in blood? Such shames are common:
I have known deeper wrongs. I, that speak to ye,
I had a brother once, a gracious boy,

Full of gentleness, of calmest hope,

Of sweet and quiet joy-there was the look
Of heaven upon his face, which limners give
To the beloved disciple.' How I loved
That gracious boy! Younger by fifteen
Brother at once and son! He left my side;
A summer bloom on his fair cheeks,- -a smile
Parting his innocent lips.' In one short hour
The pretty, harmless boy was slain! I saw
The corse, the mangled corse, and then I cried
For vengeance!-Rouse, ye Romans!-Rouse, ye slaves!
Have
ye brave sons?-Look in the next fierce brawl
To see them die. Have ye fair daughters?-Look
To see them live, torn from your arms, distained,
Dishonoured; and if ye dare call for justice,
Be answered by the lash. Yet this is Rome,
That sat on her seven hills, and, from her throne
Of beauty, ruled the world! Yet, we are Romans!
Why, in that elder day to be a Romana
Was greater than a king!. And once again,-
Hear me, ye walls, that echoed to the tread
Of either Brutus! once again, I swear,
The eternal city shall be free

Sprang king Leonidas, like the lightning's living brand.
Then double darkness fell, and the forest ceased its moan;
But there came a clash of steel, and a distant dying groan.
Anon, a trumpet blew, and a fiery sheet burst high,
That o'er the midnight threw a blood-red canopy.
A host glared on the hill; a host glared by the bay;
But the Greeks rushed onwards still, like leopards in their

play.

The air was all a yell, and the earth was all a flame, Where the Spartan's bloody steel on the silken turbans

came.

And still the Greek rushed on, where the fiery torrent

rolled,

Till like a rising sun, shone Xerxes' tent of gold.
They found a royal feast, his midnight banquet there;
And the treasures of the East lay beneath the Doric spear.
Then sat to the repast the bravest of the brave!
That feast must be their last, that spot must be their grave.
Up rose the glorious rank, to Greece one cup poured high,
Then hand in hand they drank, 'to immortality!'

Fear on king Xerxes fell, when, like spirits from the tomb,
With shout and trumpet knell, he saw the warriors come.
But down swept all his power, with chariot and with charge;
Down poured the arrows' shower, till sank the Spartan

targe.

Thus fought the Greek of old! thus will he fight again! Shall not the self-same mould bring forth the self-same men?

ECHOES.-Proctor.

YE Spirits like the winds!--ye who around
The rocks and these primeval mountains run,
With cries as though some thunder-god unbound
His wings, to celebrate the set of sun;
And, leaning from yon fiery cloud,
Alarming blew his brazen horn aloud,
And then with faint, and then with fainter voice,
That bade the world rejoice,

Proclaiming care asleep, and earthly labour done.

Oh! Spirits of the air and mountains born,
And cradled in the cave where silence lies!
As from dusk night at once the tropic morn
Springeth upon the struck beholder's eyes
In mid-day power, bright and warm;
So ye, called forth from some unholy calm,

Mysterious, brooding, and prophetic, seem
To rise as from a dream,

And break your spell; but keep the secret of the charm.

Not only like the thunder and the blast

Are your high voices heard, for far away
Ye gently speak; and as, when life is past,
The white swan crowns with song her dying day;
So, in music, faint and sad

Ye perish, who, exultingly and glad
Rushed forward in your earlier course,
Like rivers from a rocky source,

Fast flashing into light, and sinking soon to shade
Pale poets of the hills! doubtless ye are
Like those on earth, short-lived and self-consuming
Yet bright, from lightnings which around your hair
Stream, and exhausted with too soon resuming
Your shouts, which first were stern and strong,
And bore the burden of your youth along,
But after, as ye further flew,
Grew slight, but ah! grew weaker too,

Until alone remained the memory of your song.

ABORIGINALS OF NEW ENGLAND. - Sprague.

Not many generations ago, where you now sit, circled with all that exalts and embellishes civilized life, the rank thistle nodded in the wind, and the wild fox dug his hole unscared. Here lived and loved another race of beings. Beneath the same sun that rolls over your heads, the Indian hunter pursued the panting deer; gazing on the same moon that smiles for you, the Indian lover wooed his dusky mate. Here the wigwam blaze beamed on the tender and helpless, the council fire glared on the wise and daring. Now they