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mittent have been coming over me from time tw time of late. Did you ever see that electrical experi ment which consists in passing a flash through letters of guld leaf in a darkened room, whereupou some name or legend springs out of the darkness in char. acters of fire ?

There are songs all written out in my soul, which I could read, if the flash might pass through them,but the fire must come down from heaven. Ah! · but what if the stormy nimbus of youthful passion has blown by, and one asks for lightning from the ragged cirrus of dissolving aspirations, or the silvered cumulus of sluggish satiety? I will call on her whom the dead poets believed in, whom living ones no longer worship,—the immortal maid, who, name her what you will,—Goddess, Muse, Spirit of Beauty,--sits by the pillow of every youthful poet and bends over his pale forehead until her tresses lie upon his cheek and rain their gold into his dreama

MUSA.

O my lost Beauty !-hast thou folded quite

Thy wings of morning light

Beyond those iron gates
Where Life crowds hurrying to the haggard Fates,
And Age upon his mound of ashes waits

To chill our fiery dreams,
Hot from the heart of youth plunged in his icy straw?

Leave me not fading in these weeds of care,

Whose flowers are silvered hair L

Have I not loved thee long,
Though my young lips have often done thee wrong
And vexed thy heaven-tuned ear with careless song?

Ah, wilt thou yet return,
Bearing thy rose-hued torch, and bid thine altar bura ?

Come to me !—I will flood thy silent shrine

With my souls sacred wine,

And heap thy marble floors
As the wild spice-trees waste their fragrant stores
In leafy islands walled with madrepores

And lapped in Orient seas,
When all their feathery palms toss, plume-like, in the brooke

Come to me thou shalt feed on honied words,

Sweeter than song of birds ;

No wailing bulbul's throat,
No melting dulcimer's melodious note,
When o'er the midnight wave its murmurs Agat,

Thy ravished sense might soothe
With flow so liquid-soft, with strain so velvet-smooth.

Thou shalt be decked with jewels, like a queen,

Sought in those bowers of green

Where loop the clustered vines
And the close-clinging dulcamara twines,
Lure pearls of Maydew where the moonight shinca,

And Summer's fruited gems,
And coral pendants shorn from Autumn's berried stems

Sit by me drifting on the sleepy waves,

Or stretched by grass-grown graves,

Whose gray, high-shouldered stones,
Carved with old names Life's time-worn roll disoWDA

Lean, lichen-spotted, o'er the crumbled bones

Suill slumbering where they lay
While the sad Pilgrim watched to scare the wolf away

Spread o'er my couch thy visionary wing!

Still let me dream and sing,

Dream of that winding shore
Where scarlet cardinals bloom,-for me no more,
The stream with heaven beneath its liquid floor,

And clustering nenuphars
Sprinkling its mirrored blue like golden-chaliced stars !

Come while their balms the linden-blossoms shed

Come while the rose is red,

While blue-eyed Summer smiles
On the green ripples round yon sunken piles
Washed by the moon-wave warm from Indian isles,

And on the sultry air
The chestnuts spread their palms like holy men in prayer

Oh, for thy burning lips to fire my brain

With thrills of wild sweet pain

On life's autumnal blast, Like shrivelled leaves, youth's passion-flowers are cast, Once loving thee, we love thee to the last!

Behold thy new-decked shrine, And dear once more the voice that breathed “ Forever thize

XL [The company looked a little flustered one morn ing when I came in,--so much so, that I inquired of my neighbor, the divinity-student, what had been going on, It appears that the young fellow whoin they call John had taken advantage of my being a little late (I having been rather longer than usual dressing that morning) to circulate several questions involving a quibble or play upon words,-in short, containing that indignity to the human understanding, condemned in the passages from the distin. guished moralist of the last century and the illustrious historian of the present, which I cited on a former occasion, and known as a pun. After breakfast, one of the boarders handed me a small roll of paper containing some of the questions and their answers. I subjoin two or three of them, to show what a tendency there is to frivolity and meaningless talk in young persons of a certain sort, when not restrained by the presence of more reflective natures. -It was asked, “ Why tertian and quartan fevers were like certain short-lived insects.” Some interesting physiological relation would be naturally suggested. The inquirer blushes to find that the answer is in the paltry equivocation, that they skip a day or wo.-" Why an Englishman must go to the Contie nent to weaken his grog or punch." The answer proves to have no relation whatever to the temperance-movement, as no better reason is given than that island- (or, as it is absurdly written, ile and) water won't mix.-But when I came to the next question and its answer, I felt that patience ceased to be a virtue. “ Why an onion is like a piano" is a query that a person of sensibility would be slow to propose ; but that in an educated community an indi. vidual could be found to answer it in these words, “ Because it smell odious," quasi, it's melodious,-is jot credible, but too true. I can show you the paper.

Dear reader, I beg your pardon for repeating such things. I know most conversations reported in books are altogether above such trivial details, but folly will come up at every table as surely as purslain and chickweed and sorrel will come up in gardens. This young fellow ought to have talked philosophy, I know perfectly well; but he didn'the made jokes.)

I am willing,—I said,—to exercise your ingenuity in a rational and contemplative manner.--No, I do not proscribe certain forms of philosophical speculacion which involve an approach to the absurd or the ludicrous, such as you may find, for example, in the folio of the Reverend Father Thomas Sanchez, in his famous Disputations, “ De Sancto Matrimonio." I will therefore turn this levity of yours to profit by eading you a rhymed problem, wrought out by my Friend the Professor.

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