AN AIR-CHATEAU.

From amethystine beds I'd draw

My blocks to shape its swelling dome ; Here should you trace the old Doric law, There the Corinthian grace of Rome.

In avenues of enchanting sweep,

Broad oaks and towering elms should stand; Blue lakes in placid stillness sleep,

And currents roll o'er silver sand.

Perchance, to animate the scene,
Beyond the reach of art and gold,

Some spirit, whose seraphic mien

Should wear no trace of earthly mould

Crowning each hope, might cheer my eyes
With beauty, and with love my heart,
And to my sky-hung Paradise,

Its last and loveliest charm impart.

The day, with her, more calm, more bright,
Would flit on silken wing away,

With her, the dark and drowsy night

Seem soft and cheerful as the day.

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Pensive we'd rove where scarce a ray
Pierces the dun, o'er-hanging shade,
Or, arm in arm, delighted stray

Through flowery lawn and emerald glade.

The joys of high, soul-kindling thought;
Sweet converse at the twilight hour;
The pleasures of a life, untaught

To pant for wealth or sigh for power ;

The calm delights of lettered ease;
Of virtuous toil the peaceful rest :
Who finds his bliss in such as these,
How truly wise, how deeply blest!

Of joy,-on earth, or in the skies,-
But one perennial spring is found;
Deep in the soul that fountain lies,

And flowers of Eden fringe it round.

LINES

ON

THE DEATH OF B. B. THATCHER.

BY IS A AC M'LELLAN, JR.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave,

Still, like muffled drums, are beating

Funeral marches to the grave.

LONGFELLOW.

HARK! the funeral bell is tolling-
Calling to the grave's retreat ;
And the funeral car is rolling

Through the city's crowded street.
Soon the marble cell will hold thee
In its dumb and solemn rest-
Soon the grassy turf will fold thee
Closely to its heaving breast!

On thy pallid brow a shadow
From the wing of Death is cast ;

From thy sparkling eye, the brightness
That illumined it hath past.

May the green grass, o'er thee sighing,
Whisper forth its tenderest air;

May the sweet birds, o'er thee flying,
Pour their mellowest sorrows there.
Let Nature view with tearful lashes
The spot that holds her poet's ashes.

Quenched is now thy studious taper,
And thy chair holds thee no more,
For the scholar's vigil's ended-

His task is done, his toil is o'er.
The spider on thy shelf is weaving
His untouched net from book to book,
And low the poet's harp is resting-
Neglected in his favorite nook.

The thoughtless world may soon forget thee,
But, in many a heart thy name

Shall keep its sweet and precious perfume,
In bloom and freshness still the same.
O'er Time's wide sands the rolling billow
May dim the print of thy career,
Yet love and memory still will cherish

For thee the sacred sigh and tear.

LINES.

Classmate, gentle Classmate! fast

The dizzy wheel of time flies round!
Scarce a moment doth it seem

Since thy blushing brow was bound
With the cloistered college crown,
Meekly worn, but nobly won.
As our little band departed,

Pilgrims from our classic home,
Joyous each, and happy-hearted,

Through life's untried scenes to roam,
Little recked we of its sorrow,
Joy to-day and grief to-morrow!
But alas, the thorny way

Hath entangled many feet,

And how many are reposing

Where the churchyard tenants meet!

But no purer name than thine

Fills the tablet's mournful line.

Ashes to ashes-dust to dust!

'Tis written that the glowing cheek In its youthful bloom must fade

As fades the rainbow's painted streak.
The silver head, the locks of gold,
The reverend sage, the humble child,
Must vanish, with the crumbling mould
In rolling hillocks o'er them piled '

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