CONSUMPTION.

There is a sweetness in woman's decay,

When the light of beauty is fading away,
When the bright enchantment of youth is gone,
And the tint that glowed, and the eye that shone,
And darted around its glance of power,
And the lip that vied with the sweetest flower,
That ever in Pæstum's' garden blew,
Or ever was steeped in fragrant dew,
When all that was bright and fair is fled,
But the loveliness lingering round the dead.
O! there is a sweetness in beauty's close,
Like the perfume scenting the withered rose ;
For a nameless charm around her plays,
And her eyes are kindled with hallowed rays,
And a veil of spotless purity

Has mantled her cheek with its heavenly dye;
Like a cloud whereon the queen of night
Has poured her softest tint of light;
And there is a blending of white and blue,
Where the purple blood is melting through
The snow of her pale and tender cheek;
And there are tones, that sweetly speak
Of a spirit who longs for a purer day,
And is ready to wing her flight away.

In the flush of youth and the spring of feeling,
When life, like a sunny stream, is stealing
Its silent steps through a flowery path,
And all the endearments, that pleasure hath,
Are poured from her full, o'erflowing horn,
When the rose of enjoyment conceals no thorn,
In her lightness of heart, to the cheery song
The maiden may trip in the dance along,
And think of the passing moment, that lies,
Like a fairy dream, in her dazzled eyes,
And yield to the present, that charms around
With all that is lovely in sight and sound,
Where a thousand pleasing phantoms flit,
With the voice of mirth, and the burst of wit,
And the music that steals to the bosom's core,
And the heart in its fulness flowing o'er
With a few big drops, that are soon repressed,
For short is the stay of grief in her breast:
In this enlivened and gladsome hour
The spirit may burn with a brighter power;

'Biferique rosaria Pæsti.- Virg.

But dearer the calm and quiet day,

When the Heaven-sick soul is stealing away.
And when her sun is low declining,
And life wears out with no repining,

And the whisper, that tells of early death,
Is soft as the west wind's balmy breath,
When it comes at the hour of still repose,
To sleep in the breast of the wooing rose;
And the lip, that swelled with a living glow,
Is pale as a curl of new-fallen snow;

And her cheek, like the Parian stone, is fair,
But the hectic spot that flushes there,
When the tide of life, from its secret dwelling,
In a sudden gush, is deeply swelling,
And giving a tinge to her icy lips,
Like the crimson rose's brightest tips,
As richly red, and as transient too,
As the clouds, in autumn's sky of blue,
That seem like a host of glory met
To honor the sun at his golden set:

O! then, when the spirit is taking wing,

How fondly her thoughts to her dear one cling,
As if she would blend her soul with his
In a deep and long imprinted kiss.

So fondly the panting camel flies,

Where the glassy vapor cheats his eyes,
And the dove from the falcon seeks her nest,
And the infant shrinks to its mother's breast.
And though her dying voice be mute,
Or faint as the tones of an unstrung lute,
And though the glow from her cheek be fled,
And her pale lips cold as the marble dead,
Her eye still beams unwonted fires

With a woman's love and a saint's desires,
And her last fond, lingering look is given
To the love she leaves, and then to Heaven;
As if she would bear that love away
To a purer world and a brighter day.

TO SENECA LAKE.

On thy fair bosom, silver lake!
The wild swan spreads his snowy sail,
And round his breast the ripples break,
As down he bears before the gale.

On thy fair bosom, waveless stream!
The dipping paddle echoes far,
And flashes in the moonlight gleam,
And bright reflects the polar star.

The waves along thy pebbly shore,

As blows the north-wind, heave their foam,
And curl around the dashing oar,

As late the boatman hies him home.

How sweet, at set of sun, to view

Thy golden mirror spreading wide,
And see the mist of mantling blue

Float round the distant mountain's side.

At midnight hour, as shines the moon,
A sheet of silver spreads below,
And swift she cuts, at highest noon,

Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow.

On thy fair bosom, silver lake!

O! I could ever sweep the oar,
When birds at early morning wake,
And evening tells us toil is o'er.

LOVE OF STUDY.1

And wherefore does the student trim his lamp,
And watch his lonely taper, when the stars
Are holding their high festival in Heaven,
And worshipping around the midnight throne?
And wherefore does he spend so patiently,
In deep and voiceless thought, the blooming hours
Of youth and joyance, when the blood is warm,
And the heart full of buoyancy and fire?
He has his pleasures-he has his reward:
For there is in the company of books,
The living souls of the departed sage,
And bard, and hero; there is in the roll
Of eloquence and history, which speak
The deeds of early and of better days;
In these and in the visions that arise
Sublime in midnight musings, and array
Conceptions of the mighty and the good,
There is an elevating influence,

That snatches us awhile from earth, and lifts
The spirit in its strong aspirings, where
Superior beings fill the court of Heaven.
And thus his fancy wanders, and has talk
With high imaginings, and pictures out
Communion with the worthies of old time.

There are many youths, and some men, who most earnestly devote themselves to solitary studies, from the mere love of the pursuit. I have here attempted to give some of the causes of a devotion which appears so unaccountable to the stirring world.

With eye upturned, watching the many stars,
And ear in deep attention fixed, he sits,
Communing with himself, and with the world,
The universe around him, and with all
The beings of his memory and his hopes;

Till past becomes reality, and joys,
That beckon in the future, nearer draw,

And ask fruition-O! there is a pure,

A hallowed feeling in these midnight dreams;

They have the light of heaven around them, breathe

The odor of its sanctity, and are

Those moments taken from the sands of life,

Where guilt makes no intrusion, but they bloom

Like islands flowering on Arabia's wild.

And there is pleasure in the utterance
Of pleasant images in pleasant words,
Melting like melody into the ear,
And stealing on in one continual flow,
Unruffled and unbroken. It is joy
Ineffable to dwell upon the lines
That register our feelings, and portray,
In colors always fresh and ever new,
Emotions that were sanctified, and loved,
As something far too tender, and too pure,
For forms so frail and fading.

THE CORAL GROVE.

Deep in the wave is a coral grove,

Where the purple mullet and goldfish rove,
Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue,
That never are wet with the falling dew,
But in bright and changeful beauty shine,
Far down in the green and glassy brine.
The floor is of sand, like the mountain drift,
And the pearl-shells spangle the flinty snow;
From coral rocks the sea-plants lift

Their bows where the tides and billows flow.
The water is calm and still below,

For the winds and waves are absent there,
And the sands are bright as the stars that glow
In the motionless fields of upper air.

There, with its waving blade of green,

The sea-flag streams through the silent water,
And the crimson leaf of the dulse' is seen

To blush, like a banner bathed in slaughter.

The dulse is a species of senweed of à reddish-brown color, found in considerable quantities on the coast of Scotland. It adheres to the rocks, in strips of ten or twelve inches long and about half an inch broad.

There, with a light and easy motion,

The fan-coral sweeps through the clear, deep sea;
And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean

Are bending, like corn on the upland lea:
And life, in rare and beautiful forms,

Is sporting amid those bowers of stone,
And is safe, when the wrathful spirit of storms
Has made the top of the wave his own:
And when the ship from his fury flies,

Where the myriad voices of ocean roar,
When the wind god frowns in the murky skies,
And demons are waiting the wreck on the shore,
Then, far below, in the peaceful sea,

The purple mullet and goldfish rove,
Where the waters murmur tranquilly

Through the bending twigs of the coral grove.

JOSIAH QUINCY.

THIS distinguished statesman and scholar was born in Boston, on the 4th of February, 1772. After the usual preparatory studies at Phillips Andover Academy, he entered Harvard College, graduated in 1790, and then entered on the practice of law in his native city. In 1797, he married Eliza, daughter of John Morton, a merchant of New York. In 1804, he was elected representative from Boston to the Congress of the United States, and held that station eight successive years, until he declined a re-election in 1813, when he was chosen senator from Suffolk county to the State Senate, which position he held till 1821. In 1822, he was elected a member of the House of Representatives of Massachusetts, and was, at the opening of the session, made speaker of that body. The same year he was appointed Judge of the Municipal Court, but resigned the office on his election as Mayor of Boston in 1823. He held the office of mayor six successive years, until he declined a re-election in December, 1828. In January, 1829, he was called, to use his own words, "from the dust and clamor of the capitol to the Presidency of Harvard University, and was as much surprised at the appointment," he said, "as if he had received a call to the pastoral charge of the Old South Church." He delivered his inaugural address in Latin, and retained his office until his resignation in 1845. Since that time he has held no public office, but is often called upon to preside at assemblages of his fellow-citizens, being always ready to