humble acquiescence in what we cannot avert, than to discipline the soul to feel that it is better thus,how loudly soever the voice of reason may speak it in the ear of faith. But if not so,-yet, when the young, the lovely, the pure, the bright, are lifted out of the dull round of earth's cares, and thus early rescued from its troubled atmosphere of mingled sunshine and storm,-if for ourselves we mourn, still for them we may rejoice,-for them, who, lost unto earth, have gained a rest in heaven.

FORTUNE,

A VISION OF TIME.

I will not here invoke the throng
Of orators and sons of song,
The deathless few;

Fiction entices and deceives,

And, sprinkled o'er its fragrant leaves,
Lies poisonous dew.

To One alone my thoughts arise,

The Eternal Truth,-the Good and Wise.

COPLAS DE Manrique,

O lady, in the turmoils of our lives,

Men are like politic states, or troubled seas,

Tossed up and down with several storms and tempests, Change and variety of wrecks and fortunes;

Till, laboring to the havens of our homes,

We struggle for the calm that crowns our ends.

FORD'S LOVER'S MELANCHOLY.

Oh gloria de mandar! Oh vana cobiça
Desta vaidade, a quem chamamos fama!
Oh fraudulento gosto, que se atiça

Co' huma aura popular, que honra se chama!
Que castigo tamanho, e que juctiça

Fazes no peito vaō que muito te ama!

Que mortes! Que perigos! Que tormentas!
Que crueldades nelles experimentas!

Dura inquietaçaõ da alma, e da vida;
Fonte de desemparos, e adulterios;
Sagaz consumidora conhecida

De fazendas, de Reinos, e de Imperios,
Chamam-te illustre, chamam-te subida,
Sendo digna de infames vituperios:
Chamam-te fama, e gloria soberana;
Nomes com quem se o povo nescio engana.

OS LUSIADAS DE CAMÕES.

FORTUNE.

ONE of Schiller's Odes represents a young man introduced into a sanctuary of ancient Egypt, where, veiled from the profane gaze of vulgar eyes, stood the image of Eternal Truth. The rash intruder presumptuously raised the mysterious veil, and on the morrow the priests found him stretched upon the pavement of the temple, struck with incurable madness, and raving in frantic despair. The idea is impressive and striking in itself; and there are moments of time, and conditions of the mind, when such a picture is calculated to sink deeply into the soul. I rose from the perusal of the ode, but the image it awakened continued to haunt me in sleep. Agitated by a kind of delirium of the imagination, slumber fell upon my eyelids, but caused no interruption to the current of my thoughts.

I fancied myself to be wandering amid arid and barren mountains, bewildered in their savage wilds. Insensibly I seemed to be entering one of those subterranean galleries of Spain, where the