perplexing the tumults and agitations of the world; but, amidst all these, in a friend, we may find a haven and soft anchorage from the storm-a retreat from care and disquietude.

To find, among the frail heirs of mortality, friendship thus true and perfect, may be, nay is, next to an impossibility. The capriciousness of our fancies-the waywardness of our desires-the love of change-and, above all, self-love and self-interest are causes why, of ourselves, we are induced to forget, or neglect, those who may once have stood the highest in our estimation. And if we can hardly be guarded against such ourselves, how shall we wonder at often seeing the friendship of others changed into the bitterest enmity. True it is, we have been advised to live on such terms one with another, as though we were some day to be enemies. But this is a sentiment so utterly unworthy of a man, that I can scarcely believe that any one exists who acknowledges it as his tenet; and there is no one who ever knew the sweets of even an occasional friendship, but would willingly consent to be deceived in friendship, by instances innumerable, than to live in a state of apathy so cold, selfish, and uncharitable.

These reflections naturally present to my thoughts the memorable and feeling appeal of Cardinal Wolsey:

"Had I but served my God

As diligently as I have served my king,

He would not have given me over in my grey hairs."

Here, then, and here only, it indeed is that we are to seek for real friendship. It is only the Almighty whose friendship is true, perfect, and everlasting. We may fail in all our endeavors to gain some earthly friend, whose esteem is necessary to our happiness, or, having won it, may live to see it forfeited without the least fault of our's: others may displace us in the affection of terrestrial beings; at best, we must be deprived of them by death, and to that loss we are momentarily liable. There is one fixed, one unerring way, by which we are certain

to obtain our Creator's favor: it is by the unceasing prac tice of our virtuous duties. In this we have only to persevere; and not all the glories, the possessions, the intrigues, and the temptations, of this perishable world, no, nor even the mansions of the grave, nor the powers of darkness, shall be able to deprive us of that all-sufficient reward which we shall assuredly experience in his unspeakable love. Be his friendship our aim, and virtue our invariable pursuit, and we shall—we must, be blest in the favor of the immortal Jehovah, when time is but as an undistinguishable drop in the boundless ocean of eternity.

KENYON.

THE TEAR OF PITY.

There is a pearl that far outshines
The brightest gem e'er found in mines,
Or hue of costly gold;

No twinkling star that decks the sky,
No meteor's gleam which flits on high,
Such lustre can unfold.

The feeling tear that kindly flows
In pity, for another's woes,

Čan far more worth impart;

'Tis generous, noble, sacred, free;
Then what can e'er so valued be,
So welcome to the heart?

The diamond bright may add new grace,
Fresh loveliness to beauty's face,
May dazzle fashion's eye :
But, oh! let beauty shed this tear,
So bright-so "dangerously dear,"
And nought can it outvie.

'Tis this can ev'ry breast subdueAffection win-can keep it true

And all our thoughts control: This, this can still each gay desireKindle our hearts with magic fire, And win our very soul.

LATHAM.

SONG TO BACCHUS.

Rosy God of the ruddy brow!
All hail! we greet the gladly!
If thou refus't to yield thy aid
E'en love is weaken'd sadly.

Without thee what would be the dance!
How ling'ring every motion!
And beauty, too, could scarcely claim
A spark of true devotion.

Without thee we should shrink from war,
And slothfully should arm us :
Best melodies would sound in vain,
Their sweetness would not charm us.

Love, battle, beauty, songs, the dance,
Want energies without thee-
So bring thy deepest cup, and fling
Thy thickest wreath about thee.

Come with thy juice, and gladden, us—
Aye! stir us into madness :
"Twere better to be mad than give

A passing thought to sadness.

C. DASHWOOD.

In sullen misery?

Or why my bosom cannot feel,

The charms which joys like these reveal?

'Tis not for common friends who sleep Lamented in the grave

Mine eye is ever wont to weep

Sad tears, that cannot save :

But 'tis that I am doom'd to roam,
An exile from my native home,

Thus sunder'd by the wave.

I live-but far, yes, far apart

From those who claim this youthful heart.

I seem to see who gave me birth,

The grave's unpitied prey,

Both mould'ring in their bed of earth,
And sunk in cold decay :

Or, yielding now to tyrant death,
In agony, their latest breath,

Whilst I am far away.

Nor can I watch around their bed,
Or pray a requiem for the dead.

And there is one, how heav'nly fair!
Whom in my heart's best core
I blindly lov'd, till chill'd despair
Forbad me to adore.

And now to see her blest in life-
A rival's own-another's wife-
I dare not see her more!

The sight of one I lov'd in vain
Would cause too exquisite a pain.

Whilst other friends 'tis her's to see,
I doubtless am forgot,

Nor would I have her think of me-
I ask, I wish it not.

But deems she I forget those hours
We us'd to cull the fragrant flow'rs
In that sequester'd spot?
Alas! that happy time is past,
'Twas far too blissful long to last.

No more inquire why I am sad,
Nor wonder at the tear;
Could'st thou be ever gay or glad

With thoughts so dark and drear?
Oh! could'st thou banish from thy mind
All trace of those left far behind,

Once to thy heart so dear,

Teach me the charm, and thou shalt be
Home, friends, and parents-all to me.

F. DARLINGTON.