There is no thing but time doth waste;
The heavens, the Earth consume at last.

But virtue sits triumphing still

Upon the throne of glorious fame:
Though spiteful death man's body kill,
Yet hurts he not his virtuous name:
By life or death whate'er betides,
The state of virtue never slides.

THE OCEAN BURIAL.

CAPT. WM. H. SAUNDERS (U. S. A.).

[My brother, Capt. Wm. H. Saunders, wrote "Bury me not in the deep sea" nearly forty years ago, published it in the "New Orleans Picayune," gave a copy to a lady; after his death (at least five or six years after) she, I think, claimed to be the authoress of it, but I had the original manuscript and knew it to be his own production.

LEESBURGH, VA., June 26th, '83.

66 'O, BURY me not in the deep, deep sea!"
These words came low and mournfully,
From the pallid lips of a youth, who lay
On his cabin couch, at the close of day.

H. SAUNDERS.]

He had wasted and pined, 'till o'er his brow

The death-shade had slowly pass'd; and now,

When the land and his fond-loved home were nigh,
They had gather'd around to see him die.

66

"O, bury me not in the deep, deep sea,

Where the billowy shroud will roll over me,

Where no light will break through the dark cold wave,
And no sunbeam rest upon my grave!

It matters not, I have oft been told,

Where the body shall lie when the heart is cold;
Yet grant ye, O, grant ye this one boon to me,

O, bury me not in the deep, deep sea!

For in fancy I've listen'd to the well-known words,
The free wild winds, and the songs of the birds;
I have thought of home, of cot and bower,
And of scenes that I loved in childhood's hour:
I have even hoped to be laid, when I died,
In the church-yard there, on the green hill-side;
By the bones of my fathers my grave should be:
O, bury me not in the deep, deep sea.

Let my death-slumbers be where a mother's prayer
And a sister's tear shall be mingled there:
O, 'twill be sweet, ere the heart's throb is o'er,
To know, when its fountains shall gush no more,
That those it so fondly hath yearn'd for will come
To plant the first wild flowers of Spring on my tomb;
Let me lie where those loved ones will weep o'er me :
O, bury me not in the deep, deep sea.

And there is another; her tears would be shed
For him who lay far in the deep ocean-bed:
In hours that it pains me to think of now,

She hath twined these locks and hath kiss'd this brow:
In the hair she hath wreathed shall the sea-snake hiss,
And the brow she hath press'd shall the cold wave kiss?
For the sake of the bright one that waiteth for me,
O, bury me not in the deep, deep sea.

She hath been in my dreams,"

his voice fail'd there.

They gave no heed to his dying prayer;

They lower'd him slow o'er the vessel's side;
Above him has closed the dark, cold tide,

Where to dip their light wings the sea-fowls rest,
Where the blue waves dance o'er the ocean's crest,
Where billows bound, and the winds sport free:
They have buried him there in the deep, deep sea.

THE GOOD SON.

R. H. DANA.

THERE is no virtue without a characteristic beauty to make it particularly loved of the good, and to make the bad ashamed of their neglect of it. To do what is right, argues superior taste as well as morals; and those whose practice is evil feel an inferiority of intellectual power and enjoyment, even where they take no concern for a principle. Doing well has something more in it than the fulfilling of a duty. It is a cause of a just sense of elevation of character; it clears and strengthens the spirits; it gives higher reaches of thought; it widens our benevolence, and makes the current of our peculiar affections swift and deep.

A sacrifice was never yet offered to a principle, that was not made up to us by self-approval, and the consideration of what our degradation would have been had we done otherwise. Certainly, it is a pleasant and a wise thing, then, to follow what is right, when we only go along with our affections, and take the easy way of the virtuous propensities of our nature.

The world is sensible of these truths, let it act as it may. It is not because of his integrity alone that it relies on an honest man; but it has more confidence in his judgment and wise conduct, in the long run, than in the schemes of those of greater intellect, who go at large without any landmarks of principle. So that virtue seems of a double nature, and to stand oftentimes in the place of what we call talent.

This reasoning, or rather feeling, of the world, is all right; for the honest man only falls in with the order of Nature, which is grounded in truth, and will endure along with it. And such a hold has a good man upon

the world, that, even where he has not been called upon to make a sacrifice to a principle, or to take a stand against wrong, but has merely avoided running into vices, and suffered himself to be borne along by the delightful and virtuous affections of private life, and has found his pleasure in practising the duties of home, he is looked up to with respect, as well as regarded with kindness. We attach certain notions of refinement to his thoughts, and of depth to his sentiment. The impression he makes on us is beautiful and peculiar. Other men in his presence, though we have nothing to object to them, and though they may be very well in their way, affect us as lacking something,-we can hardly tell what, — a certain sensitive delicacy of character and manner, without which they strike us as more or less vulgar.

No creature in the world has this character so finely marked in him as a respectful and affectionate son, particularly in his relation to his mother. Every little attention he pays her is not only an expression of filial attachment, and a grateful acknowledgment of past cares, but is an evidence of a tenderness of disposition which moves us the more, because not looked on so much as an essential property in a man's character, as an added grace, which is bestowed only upon a few. His regards do not appear like mere habits of duty, nor does his watchfulness of his mother's wishes seem like taught submission to her will. They are the native courtesies of a feeling mind, showing themselves amidst stern virtues and masculine energies, like gleams of light on points of rocks. They are delightful as evidences of power yielding voluntary homage to the delicacy of the soul. The armed knee is bent, and the heart of the mailed man laid bare.

Feelings that would seem to be at variance with each other meet together and harmonize in the breast of a son. Every call of the mother which he answers to, and every act of submission which he performs, are not only so many acknowledgments of her authority, but also so many instances of kindness and marks of protecting regard. The servant and defender, the child and guardian, are all mingled in him. The world looks on him in this way; and to draw upon a man the confidence, the respect, and the love of the world, it is enough to say of him, he is an excellent son.

THE WIDOW AND HER SON.

WASHINGTON IRVING."

DURING my residence in the country, I used frequently to attend at the old village church, which stood in a country filled with ancient families, and contained, within its cold and silent aisles, the congregated dust of many noble generations. Its shadowy aisles, its mouldering monuments, its dark oaken panelling, all reverend with the gloom of departed years, seemed to fit it for the haunt of solemn meditation. A Sunday, too, in the country, is so holy in its repose; such a pensive quiet reigns over the face of Nature, that every restless passion is charmed down, and we feel all the natural religion of the soul gently springing up within

us:

Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the Earth and Sky!

I do not pretend to be what is called a devout man: but there are feelings that visit me in a country church, amid the beautiful serenity of Nature, which I experi