ened the spring-time and summer of existence; and yet the world is full of it.

Journey where you will, and the bitterness of sorrow will meet you. You will find it alike amid the wildest natural beauty and the wildest desolation. And yet there is a certain class of travelers who would move on in their course, wrapped in the mantle of indifference and unnatural stoicism, careless of human suffering and wo. God save you, reader, from such companionship!

There are many who profess to dislike travel, on account of its loneliness. Ties are broken by the wanderer, it is true; and yet he will find many loving and true hearts in his pilgrimage, and no lack of sympathy, if he but show himself willing to receive and return it. I can not conceive how one's patriotism should suffer by travel; for as his native land recedes from his view, its image appears the brighter before him. In every land it is linked to him by memory; and he journeys on lightly, hoping again to meet it, rendered dearer by absence, lovelier by comparison.

He may pass many in the current of travel, whose light of life seems growing dim. In youth, perhaps, they may have garnered up within their hearts feelings and hopes that disease and suffering have rudely blighted. Oh! Traveler, turn not away from these; for you will find that oftentimes, during this twilight of life, the soul seems to enjoy more passionately the beauties and wonders of the material universe, finding therein, as it were, types of its own eternal and fast-approaching glory. To such as these, a wild flower, a strain of simple harmony, a gorgeous sunset, appear sources of pure, unearthly joy; for as the body wearied and worn out is gradually failing, the mind, the soul, seem to expand, to etherialize, until they appear to be nearer heaven than earth. In such society-and he will often find it-the traveler will feel that he is linked with better and holier beings than himself.

It has been asserted that the increased facilities for travel have a tendency to lessen its romance. I fear it would prove a damper to the' enthusiasm of the traveler, to find an hourly line of omnibuses running from the Piraeus to the Acropolis; or a railroad depot and its appendages occupying Mt. Aventine. A puffing high-pressure steamboat on the Rhine, is bad enough; but cross the Jordon in a horse boat, meet your tailor spending the hot season with his family at a fashionable watering place on the shores of the Dead Sea, or after a few years travel find the little milliner you flirted with at home, ogling un chere moustache on the Bridge of Sighs, or sucking a smasher at the half way house in the Desert, and you will have no small ground of complaint. Nevertheless, Reader, the romance of travel is not yet an empty sound; for even now, while I from my quiet study am holding converse with you, my mind is wandering to happy and romantic scenes of travel; and lo, above me hangs the Genius of those scenes, the Knapsack! There it hangs as in its glory; and from long acquaintance and habit of regarding, I have come to consider it as endowed with certain qualities of feeling and perception; for, when in the dull routine

of an every-day life, I long for other scenes and stranger contrasts, when I imagine I can see the Demon Dyspepsia, threatening and mocking me, then I fancy that it looks down kindly upon me, and I know that with it can be found a certain cure for the blue Devils, an antidote against care. It has pillowed my weary head at noonday, and on the greensward, at night time, when I dreamt of a happy land. We have wandered in close companionship over the wild, rough hills of New England; and Hope ever whispers that thus companioned I may breathe the soft air of Italy, may ascend above the clouds in the Alpland, may enjoy the noble scenery of Scotland.

Pardon me, Reader, if I now speak somewhat of myself; for while I write the image of the Past comes up so vividly before me, that I cannot but refer to it. Never seemed Life so pleasant, health and strength such gifts to be thankful for, as when in company with one whose true heart beat joyously as my own, I started on my first pilgrimage, a pedestrian. Oh, Jack, those were happy days! Existence we felt to be a glorious thing-this world, how beautiful! How fresh and sparkling were all the vicissitudes of travel. Fatigue unfelt, uncared for! The morning sun found us upon the roadside, when every grass-blade seemed jeweled by the dew drops; and often we walked where our footsteps crushed flowers, that would have shone brightly as gems, amid the dark locks of any maiden. The spreading oak by some cottage door, sheltered us from the noonday heat, and the bright eyes of many a "nut-brown lassie" shone kindly upon us, as with blushing cheek she placed the rich milk and sweet brown bread before us. And sometimes we walked at midnight, Jack, the quiet stars looking down softly upon us, as we journeyed on amid the deep hush of universal reposc-what quaint fancyings were there of the state and destinies of those stranger worlds, and ever and anon the sweet music of the waterfall, or the song of birds who had prolonged their notes beyond the nightfall, would break upon us. Sometimes we thought we could catch faint strains of that unearthly harmony, that the philosophers of olden time thought to fill the immensity of space-the music of the spheres. Such pleasant memories are there, Jack, between us; and, in after days, when the vigor of life has passed, and we may not taste of Romance, except such as that strange thinker Carlyle asserts to exist in Life itself, then, should we meet again, we will fill one bumper of the rarest wine that ever gave life to a thought, or color to a fancy, and with right hands joined, we will pledge anew the Knapsack.-Reader, such is the poetry of travel.

Thus, then, have I attempted, feebly at best, to set forth what I consider as requisites for the enjoyment of travel, and to show that there is still romance left in it. Let me add one thing more. The true traveler will be apt and skillful to trace the various workings of the hand of God. Whether he wanders over mountains or valleys, the desert or the ocean, still there is One that will never leave him. It is that awful Presence I would have him continually recognize. He should behold it in history; for time is but the scene of His providences. He should confess it in nature; for how tame will be his conceptions

of beauty and sublimity, if he see not therein the impress of Design! Holding communion daily with God, in a temple not made by handsleaning for support upon an invisible arm-he will learn to regard bodily suffering and danger as of little moment. Though tossed upon an angry ocean, or threatened by the avalanche, yet God has made him fearless-his cheek blanches not at the approach of death.

Then, traveler, wander not through the world alone; think not that all its beauty and throbbing life are the creations of accident; but Believe. See God in every thing. Bow before him in the whirlwind. Join in the many forest-anthems you will listen to. Pray to him in the soft hush of eventide. Then shall you

"Find tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in every thing."

THE SONG OF SIGHS.

DEDICATED TO THE TUTORS OF YALE.

Bubble, bubble-toil and trouble

Fire seethe, and chaldron bubble.-MACBETH.

ONE poor unfortunate

Sophomore wight,
Rash and importunate,
Gone to recite !

Fizzle him tenderly,

Bore him with care,
Fitted so slenderly-
Tutor, beware!

See his lip quivering,
See his limbs shivering,
While the sweat constantly
Falls on his clothing;
Question him patiently,
Loving, not loathing.

Frown not so scornfully-
Speak to him mournfully,

Not so reprovingly.
Mark that surprise of his,
See those sad eyes of his
Glancing so lovingly.

Make no deep scrutiny-
Stir up no mutiny,

Wild and unfortunate,

Hear his excuses,

His trembling excuses

Be not importunate.

Ha! that last slip of his

Makes him look tearfullySee that poor lip of his,

Bitten so fearfully!

Raise up his spirit,
Crushed by his fear,
His dark gloomy spirit;
While every wonders

How he came here.

Where is his father?
Where now his mother?
Has he a sister?
Has he a brother?

Or had he a dearer one,
Aye! and a nearer one
Once than all others?

Alas, for the rarity
Of tutoric charity

Under the sun.

We trust our readers will not fail to notice the resemblance which the foregoing effusion bears to The Bridge of Sighs—a poem unsurpassed by any late production in vividness and beauty of conception and expression. We are sure that its lamented author would have justified our strange perversion of the beautiful original, had he but experienced a tithe of those misfortunes, of which our College friends are daily cognizant. We are also sure that many of our readers will be overjoyed to find so fitting an expression of those woes and sorrows of which they have had so painful an experience; and will be led to say to us, in the language of an older bard,

ἔθιγες ψυχᾶς, ἔθιγες δε φρενῶν.

THE COMING AGE-BY LUZERNE RAY.

ANOTHER POET?

Yes, dear reader, you've guessed it. Old Time has added another grain of sand to the sea-shore, and throned another star in Heaven. One more combatant has spurred his Pegasus into the broad arena of Poesy, and lo! how the gravel flies beneath the iron heels of his courser. Another flower has bloomed in the dim forest of fancy, and the dew-drops of a single night are yet sparkling on its leaves. What a pity that so many wolves are abroad, ready to trample it in the dust! Another Critic?

True again, my dear Sir! Another Indian has grasped his tomahawk and scalping knife, to hunt the panther to his den, or follow the trail of the trembling fawn. Another Tiger has crouched in his jungle, ready to join his fangs in the throat of the careless traveler. One more woodman has borne his axe into the forest, to level the proud young trees to the earth. What a pity that his arm is weak and his axe is dull, and the oak, and the cedar, laugh at his puny might! But seriously

Well then, seriously, reader, let me introduce to your notice "The Coming Age; a Poem delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Yale College, by Luzerne Ray," and while you are making your obeisance, and shaking hands with the stranger, permit me to whisper in your ear my humble opinion of his merits.

To write a good Poem requires something more than a retentive memory, and a well selected library. Originality is the great test, the experimentum crucis" of an author's abilities. And justly too, for in an age of improvement, when Science and Literature are pushing their "advance guard" into the very encampments of Error and Ignorance, we require leaders who will summon us onward; not those who are lingering amid the traces of old battle-fields. And the Poet, who bears the banners and is surrounded by the sweet, but stirring music of the marching host, who sways a powerful sceptre over the hearts and feelings of the soldiery-the Poet, above all others, should lead the van, and not linger in the rear.

Mr. Ray marches with the rear-guard. He does not dare to move boldly forward in a new path, searching for fruit and flowers before unknown, but plods slowly along the beaten road, the dusty highway, over which thousands have passed before him. He seems to have conscientious scruples against anything in the shape of an original idea, and certainly though we condemn his scruples, we commend his consistency, for a week's labor amid the sands of his poem has not revealed to us a single diamond. Of the themes which he has condescended to crown with the "garland of poesie," all are common-place, and two are most wretchedly malapropos. The progress of Knowledge, the conflict of Light and Darkness, the student "in his lone chamber," the heroism and fortitude of the Christian Martyrs, all these are subjects which have become exceedingly trite, and as a consequence almost