and draws from them involuntary sighs. And yet what have they seen? Only a few external signs, feeble indices of feelings, drawn from the depths of the soul. Ah! If they could penetrate the sanctuary of the conscience where virtue already receives its reward in the delightful content which it inspires; if they could feel for once that perfect peace of a mind satisfied with its attainment through faith of infinite truth; that divine hope in which all earthly desires are quenched, and which is always urging towards eternity; that delectable love from which the soul draws long thirst-quenching draughts; that intimate unutterable enjoyment of the Divinity itself in familiar commune with his creatures as a friend with a friend entirely united with it in order to be possessed by it as his good, his joy, his mystical sustenance; how transported with admiration they would suddenly become! In dread of losing these ineffably good things, with what ardor and joy would they free themselves from the bonds of an imbecile reason that they might reach by faith according to the word of the Holy Scriptures: "to the measure of the perfect man, or to the perfect knowledge of God in Jesus Christ his Son."

Finally death, so terrible to the unbeliever, crowns the wishes of the Christian. Like Saint Paul he desires it that he may be with Jesus Christ; he desires it in order to begin to live, to be delivered from the weight of his body, from the material bonds which hold him to earth where all the pure enjoyments he tastes are but a pale shadow of those he anticipates. Did a dying Christian ever follow the example of so many unbelievers, abjure his faith and regret that he had believed? Ah! in that moment when the consoling truth shines in all its glory before his eyes, then he recognizes its value. Death is the last light to flash upon him, a light so keen that it renders the passage from faith to the clear vision of its object almost imperceptible. Hope, holding a torch beside the couch of the dying, reveals the open heaven to which love is summoning him. The cross which he holds between his feeble hands, and presses to his lips and upon his heart, awakening many merciful memories touches, fortifies, animates him. Another instant and all will be consummated, sin vanquished, and the profound mystery of deliverance accomplished. A last weakness of nature shows the moment has arrived. Then Religion raises her voice as in a final effort of tenderness: "Depart," she says, "Christian Soul; quit this world in the name of God the Father Almighty, who created

thee; in the name of Jesus Christ, Son of the living God, who suffered for thee; in the name of the Holy Ghost, whose spirit thou hast received. In separating from the body mayst thou be freely admitted to the Mountain of Sion, to the city of the living God, to the heavenly Jerusalem, to the innumerable company of angels and first born of the church whose names are written in heaven. May God rise and disperse the shades of darkness; may all the spirits of evil flee and fear to touch a sheep ransomed with the blood of Jesus Christ. May Christ who died, was crucified for thee, deliver thee from suffering and from eternal death. May the good Shepherd know his sheep and its place in the company of his elect eternally in the presence of thy Redeemer, mayst thou always contemplate truth unveiled and forever visible, in the eternal ecstasy of bliss."

LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON.

LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON, an English poet and novelist, born at Brompton, a suburb of London, Aug. 14, 1802; died at Cape Coast Castle in Western Africa, Oct. 15, 1838. At the age of eighteen she began to contribute to the Literary Gazette. In the summer of 1838 she married Mr. Maclean, the Governor of Cape Coast Castle. She published several volumes of prose and verse. Her "Literary Remains," with a "Life" by Laman Blanchard, were published in 1841.

Associate with my native place,
And those beyond the sea.

It rose upon our English sky,
Shone o'er our English land,
And brought back many a loving eye,
And many a gentle hand.

It seemed to answer to my thought,
It called the past to mind,

And with its welcome presence brought

All I had left behind.

The voyage it lights no longer ends

Soon on a foreign shore;

How can I but recall the friends

That I may see no more?

Fresh from the pain it was to part―

How could I bear the pain?

Meet, with a deeper, dearer love,

For absence shows the worth
Of all from which we then remove-
Friends, home, and native earth.

Thou lovely Polar-Star, mine eyes
Still turned the first on thee,
Till I have felt a sad surprise,

That none looked up with me.

But thou hast sunk upon the wave,
Thy radiant place unknown;

I seem to stand beside a grave,
And stand by it alone.

Farewell! Ah, would to me were given
A power upon thy light!

What words upon our English heaven
Thy loving rays should write!

Kind messages of love and hope
Upon thy rays should be;

Thy shining orbit should have scope
Scarcely enough for me.

Oh, fancy vain, as it is fond,

And little needed too;

My friends! I need not look beyond

My heart to look for you.

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR, an English poet and prose-writer, born at Warwick, Jan. 30, 1775; died at Florence, Italy, Sept. 17, 1864. He was educated at Rugby, and afterward entered the University of Oxford, but never took his degree. In 1815 he went to the Continent and, after spending some time in France, proceeded to Italy, where he resided in several places until 1821, when he took up his abode at Florence. In 1835 he went back to England, settling himself at Bath, which was his residence until 1858. He then went back to Florence, where the remaining six years. of his life were passed. His most celebrated work is "Imaginary Conversations of Literary Men and Statesmen" (1st series, 3 vols., 1824-1828; 2d series, 3 vols., 1829). Among his other works are: "Poems" (1795); "Gebir" (1798); "Count Julian, a Tragedy" (1812); "Heroic Idylls" (1814 and 1820), two volumes of Latin verse; "Satire upon Satirists and Admonition to Detractors" (1836), an attack upon Wordsworth; "The Pentameron," conversations of Petrarch and Boccaccio (1837); "Andrea of Hungary and Giovanni of Naples" (1839); "Fra Rupert, the Last Part of a Triology" (1840); "The Hellenics" (1847); "Italics," verses (1848); "Popery, British and Foreign" (1851); "Letters of an American, mainly on Russia and Revolution" (1854); "Letter to R. W. Emerson" (1856), on Emerson's "English Traits;" "Antony and Octavius: Scenes for the Study" (1856); "Dry Sticks Fagoted by W. S. Landor" (1858); "Savonarola and the Prior of St. Mark" (1860); "Heroic Idylls, with Additional Poems" (1863).

MARCELLUS AND HANNIBAL.

(From "Imaginary Conversations.")

[MARCELLUS, the Commander of the Roman army, lies before HANNIBAL, mortally wounded.]

Hannibal. Could a Numidian horseman ride no faster? Marcellus! oh! Marcellus! He moves not he is dead. Did he not stir his fingers? Stand wide, soldiers — wide, forty paces-give him air-bring water-halt! Gather those