So live, that when thy summons comes to join, The innumerable caravan which moves, To that mysterious realm where each shall take, His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged by his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed, By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch, About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

It is said to be the manner of hypochondriacs to change often their physician.

Look on this beautiful world, and read the truth in her fair page.

Autumn, the year's last, loveliest smile.

The journalist should be on his guard against publishing what is false in taste or exceptionable in morals.

The rose that lives its little hour Is prized beyone the sculpted flower.

Ah! never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of her brave -