assed away, and to think of the many happy interviews we
have held with them.

It is necessary for the scholar to improve his memory, that he may
retain what he learns; that it may be of use to him at some future
time; that he may receive the reward he has anxiously sought for. It
is pleasant to the aged to recall the scenes that have long since
slumbered in oblivion, and awaken from the hallowed precincts of the
dead, thoughts of friends with whom they were wont to associate in
their early days, and retrace the sports of their childhood, when
health and activity nerved their limbs, and happiness filled their
bosoms.

It is pleasant to look back upon past pleasures, to recall the
beautiful scenes we have once witnessed, the smile of friendship, the
tear of sympathy, the glance of affection, the tone of love, or to
listen again to the thrilling sounds of soul-enrapturing music, that
has once delighted us. But so varied is our pathway of life, that
a thorough retrospection must ever be fraught with sad as well as
pleasing reflection. Is memory thus faithful to her trust? Then how
necessary that we should improve each moment, as it glides along into
the unbounded ocean of eternity, that it may bear a good record to the
future hour. And, O, how necessary that we should so spend our lives,
that when we come to be laid upon our death-bed, in the last agonies
of expiring nature, if reason does not forsake her throne, and
memory still proves true to her trust, it may bring up the pleasing
recollection that life has been well spent.

The Song of the Weary One.

There is no music in my heart,--
No joy within my breast;
In scenes of mirth I have no part,--
In quiet scenes no rest.

Mine is a weariness of life,--
A sickness of the soul;
An ever constant struggling strife,
My feelings to control.

Oh, it was ever--ever thus,
From childhood's earliest hour;
My spirits ever were weighed down,
By some mysterious power.

There seemed some dark, unearthly fate,
Around my life to twine;
That which brings joy to other hearts,
Brings mournfulness to mine.

And yet I am too proud to weep,
I never could complain;
And so they deem my spirit feels
No weariness or pain.

They read not in my sunken eye,
And in my faded cheek.
A weight of wretchedness and woe,
That words could never speak.

Oh, 'tis a weary--weary lot,
To live when joy is