THE APATHY OF LIFE.

"There are a few, who, down the troubled current
Of life, glide on in calmness, scarce susceptible
Of passion or emotion-heedless all

Of circumstance, or change; even as that sea
Whose darkly-slumbering water, through the reach
Of long unreckon'd ages, hath not known

The curl of ebb or tide.

There are a race

Who act on this wide theatre, a part,

A busy part perchance-and as they share
In the dread drama their allotted turn,
Wrap up the heart in apathy, nor own

A tie of lingering interest, or communion,

With those who live, and move, and sink, around them.

"There are some lonely ones who go on in gloominess,
From childhood's gay and wildly joyous years,
Even to the line, beyond whose shadowy range,
Starts forth a second infancy-the term
Of trembling dotage. Many who sojourn
Upon the destin'd way, that as they touch
The limits of their pilgrimage, can pause
And look upon the world, which sinks beneath them,
And, in their mood of heartless resignation,
Say that they quit it freely-that no object
Remaining there hath power to make them feel
One little pang at parting. To a tribe
So dead to all that makes this earth endearing,
Or winning, or delightful, it were vain
To pour one strain of softness. To such spirits
It were but wearying idleness to picture
What the warm youth experienc'd as the day
Drew near, that, by his own dear girl's appointment,
Stood mark'd for their espousals."

MORNING.

"Day dawn'd, and, o'er Clenhasten's wooded height,
Flutter'd the first half-broken streak of light:
High in her cloud, though toiling, yet in vain,
The little skylark sung her joyous strain:

Round hut and shed the house-cock's cheering call,
Proclaim'd the coming of the morn to all.
Slowly it came, for o'er the wide vales lay
The damp dark mists, still tardy to give way;
Strong in their gloom, to many a point they clung,
Till warm o'er earth the sun his splendor flung.
Then smil'd the fields, then cloud and fog withdrew,
And clear the far surrounding prospect grew:
The grove and wood look'd fresh beneath the light,
And the trim cottage rose to cheer the sight;
The hedge-rows bloom'd in their full garb of green,
And peace, and beauty, mingled in the scene.'

THE WAKE, AFTER THE EXECUTION OE DERENZIE.

66

They bore him home, and, upon the bed,
His cold-cold limbs, were gently spread;
And over his lifeless form they threw
The sheets, still moist with the morning dew.
His beard was clear'd, his hair was shorn,
The death-sweat wip'd from off his brow;
And the waking cap, but in sorrow worn,
Is on his temples now.

The flowers far round his head were plac'd,
In their mingled hues of white and green;
And there, in dark ribbons, distinctly trac❜d
O'er all, the cross was seen.

"It rose, that symbol, holy and high,
Before each bound believer's eye,
In its pride-repressing potency,
Plain as the plainest badge could be.
And it was a sight all good and fair,
To find how it work'd its wonders there;
Shedding o'er all its soften'd sway,

And urging the wildest to pause and pray.
And books by the broad bed's head arose,
Which none but the pious might open or close;
And there were beads for those restless fingers,
Upon whose tips religion lingers;

Still prompting words, as though prayer should be
Priz'd, not by the kind, but the quantity.
And goodly fare on each table lay,
And pipes were scatter'd in fair array,
But the group of smokers kept far away.

"Such was the scene-a solemn scene,
Such should it be where death hath been;
Still here did seriousness assume,

A look of more than wonted gloom."

:

FUNERAL AT SEA.

It was a morning at sea. The sun had just risen, and not a cloud appeared to obstruct his rays. A light breeze played on the slumbering ocean. The stillness of the morning was only disturbed by one ripple of the water, or the diving of a flying-fish it seemed as if the calm and noiseless spirit of the deep was brooding over the waters. The flag displayed half way down to the royal-mast, played in the breeze, unconscious of its solemn import. The vessel glided in stately serenity, and seemed tranquil as the element on whose surface she moved. She knew not of the sorrows that were in her own bosom, and seemed to look down on the briny expanse beneath her, in all the confidence and serenity of strength.

To the minds of her brave crew, it was a morning of gloom. They had been boarded by the angel of death; and the forecastle now contained all that was mortal of his victim :-his soul had gone to its final audit. Grouped around the windlass, and left to their own reflections, the hardy sons of the ocean mingled their sympathies with each other. They seemed to think of their own mortality. Conscience was at her post; and I believe their minds were somewhat impressed with the realities of eternity.

They spoke of the virtues of their deceased messmate ;-of his honesty his sensibility-his generosity. One remembered to have seen him share the last dollar of his hard-earned wages with a distressed shipmate;-all could attest his liberality. They spoke too, of his accomplishments, as a sailor-of the nerve of his arm, and the intrepidity of his soul. They had seen him in an hour of peril, when the winds of heaven were let loose in

all their fury, and destruction was on the wing, seize the helm, and hold the ship securely within his grasp till the danger had passed by.

They would have indulged longer in their reveries, but they were summoned to prepare for the rites of sepulture, and pay the last honors to their dead companion. The work of preparation was commenced with heavy hearts, and many a sigh. A rude coffin was soon constructed, and the body was deposited within it-all was ready for the final scene. The main hatches were his bier-a spare sail was his pall: his surviving comrades, in their tar-stained habiliments, stood around-all were silent. The freshening breeze, moaned through the cordage. The main-top-sail was hove to the mast. The ship paused on her course, and was still. The funeral service began, and as, "We commit his body to the deep," was pronounced, I heard the knell of the ship's bell-I heard the plunge of the coffin-I saw tears start from the eyes of the generous tars. My soul melted within me as I reverted to the home-scenes of him whom we had buried in the deep-to hopes that were to be dashed with woe-to joys that were to be drowned in lamentation.

WASHINGTON IRVING.

AN ANECDOTE.

Mr.

This distinguished author was once at a party in Philadelphia, at which a young lady was present, who was no less remarkable for her wealth, than for her vanity and ignorance. Irving had sat in her company a considerable time without noticing her, at which she was greatly piqued, and, unable any longer to restrain her feelings, she exclaimed, Irving, you have written upon, and complimented almost every lady in Philadelphia; but, during the length of time which I have been in your company to day, you have not condescended to write a line in my praise, or pay me the smallest compliment." Irving apologized, and said, that he would take an early opportunity of doing so. Shortly after the com. pany were breaking up, and the young lady, while arranging a large veil over her head, took occasion to remind Irving of his promise, when he exclaimed,

How sweet the vale where-
In-no-cence is seen.

BY L. T. VENTOUILLAC, AUTHOR OF PARIS, AND ITS

ENVIRONS," &c.

The Porte St. Martin is situated on the bouvelard of that name, and separates the rue St. Martin from the faubourg St. Martin: it is a triumphal arch, constructed in 1764, from the designs of Pierre Bullet, a pupil of the celebrated Francis Blondel, who erected the magnificent Port St. Denis. It forms a square in height and breadth of about 54 feet, and is divided into three arches, the centre one being of the height of 30 feet, and of the depth of 15 feet; and the others 8 feet wide, and 16 feet high. In the spaces over the smaller arches are two bas reliefs, the one depicting the conquest of Louis XIV. and the other exhibiting the figure of this king, in Herculean proportions, dealing death around him, and receiving a victorious crown. On the faubourg side, the bas reliefs. represent the taking of Limbourg, and the defeat of the Germans. Those bas reliefs are the united works of Desjardins, 29.

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