separable from vice, so men follow vice for the sake of pleasure, and fly from virtue, through an abhorrence of pain. Their minds, therefore, betimes should be formed and accustomed to receive pleasure and pain from proper objects, or, which is the same thing, to have their inclinations and aversions rightly placed. This, according to Plato and Aristotle, was the right education. And those, who, in their own minds, their health, or their fortunes, feel the cursed effects of a wrong one, would do well to consider, they cannot better make amends for what was amiss in themselves, than by preventing the same in posterity.

ON THE PROSPECT OF PLANTING ARTS AND LEARNING IN AMERICA.

Written by Bishop Berkeley during his residence in Newport.

THE muse, disgusted at an age and clime,

Barren of every glorious theme,

In distant lands now waits a better time,
Producing subjects worthy fame :

In happy climes, where from the genial sun
And virgin earth fresh scenes ensue,

The force of art by nature seems outdone,
And fancied beauties by the true :

In happy climes, the seat of innocence,
Where nature guides and virtue rules,
Where men shall not impose for truth and sense
The pedantry of courts and schools:

There shall be sung another golden age,
The rise of empire and of arts,

The good and great inspiring epic rage,
The wisest heads and noblest hearts.

Not such as Europe breeds in her decay;
Such as she bred when fresh and young,
When heavenly flame did animate the clay,
By future ages shall be sung.

Westward the course of empire takes its way;
The four first acts already past,

A fifth shall close the drama with the day;
Time's noblest offspring is the last.

1730.

THE TRAILING ARBUTUS.

BY SARAH H. WHITMAN.

THERE'S a flower that grows by the greenwood tree,

In its desolate beauty more dear to me,

Than all that bask in the noontide beam

Through the long, bright summer by fount and stream.
Like a pure hope nursed beneath sorrow's wing

Its timid buds from the cold moss spring,
Their delicate hues like the pink sea-shell,

Or the shaded blush of the hyacinth's bell,
Their breath more sweet than the faint perfume
That breathes from the bridal orange-bloom.

It is not found by the garden wall,

It wreaths no brow in the festive hall,

But dwells in the depths of the shadowy wood,
And shines like a star in the solitude.

Never did numbers its name prolong,

Ne'er hath it floated on wings of song,
Bard and minstrel have passed it by

And left it in silence and shade to die.
But with joy to its cradle the wild-bees come

And praise its beauty with drony hum,
And children love in the season of spring

To watch for its early blossoming.

In the dewy morn of an April day,

When the traveler lingers along the way,
When the sod is sprinkled with tender green
Where rivulets water the earth unseen,

When the floating fringe on the maple's crest
Rivals the tulip's crimson vest,

And the budding leaves of the birch-tree throw
A trembling shade on the turf below,
When my flower awakes from its dreamy rest
And yields its lips to the sweet south-west,
Then, in those beautiful days of spring,
With hearts as light as the wild-bird's wing,
Flinging their tasks and their toys aside,
Gay little groups through the wood-paths glide,
Peeping and peering among the trees

As they scent its breath on the passing breeze,
Hunting about among lichens grey

And the tangled mosses beside the way,
Till they catch the glance of its quiet eye
Like light that breaks through a cloudy sky.

For me, sweet blossom, thy tendrils cling
Still round my heart as in childhood's spring,
And thy breath, as it floats on the wandering air,
Wakes all the music of memory there.

Thou recallest the time when, a fearless child,
I roved all day through the wood-paths wild,
Seeking thy blossoms by bank and brae
Wherever the snow-drifts had melted away.

Now, as I linger mid crowds alone,

Haunted by echoes of music flown,

When the shadows deepen around my way
And the light of reason but leads astray,
When affections, nurtured with fondest care
By the trusting heart, become traitors there;
When weary of all that the world bestows
I turn to nature for calm repose,

How fain my spirit in some far glen

Would fold her wings mid thy flowers again!

THE LANGUAGE OF A FUTURE STATE.

BY ROWLAND G. HAZARD.

It is probable that in the future and more perfect state of existence, we shall possess a means of social intercourse free from ambiguity-that the pleasure of advancement will be increased by its. consequent acceleration-that when deprived of the material organs, words and signs will no longer be employed—in a word, that the language of ideality, which a partial improvement of our faculties has here exhibited, will then be so perfected, that terms will be entirely dispensed with, and thought be there communicated without the intervention of any medium to distort its meaning or sully its bright