wildly rush, with leap and shout and frantic joy, that still there's hope. But, oh! delusive hope! A moment more, and back they fall in sad dismay, and with as wild, despairing shriek as fallen angels gave when hurled to Hades' depths, they sank upon the ground to die!

Then came the triumph of the cross. In the midst of all this fierce uproar and strange confusion-the fast-dissolving mountains-the retiring sea-the melting elements-the shrieks, the groans, the wails of earth's teeming millions-calm and dignified, and with a smile of heavenly rapture on her countenance, all beauteous and lovely, clad in fine linen, pure and white, came forth the Church of Christ on earth, the heavenly Bride, beloved of the Lamb. Around her brow serene and fair was twined a wreath of everlasting joy, and in her hands she waved bright palms of victory and glory, and thus she hailed the shining cross, the herald of her coming Lord, ready now to dwell within that city whose foundations are forever sure, in which nor sun nor moon doth ever shine, for there the Lamb is all the light thereof-to which shall come the glory and the honor of the nations-where tears shall all be wiped from every eye, and sorrow and sighing be forevermore unknown.

In rapturous joy at such a blessed consummation, Annelli awoke. But from his memory fades not his dream, till he had transferred its strange realities, from the tablet of his soul, to the speaking, life-like

canvas.

Z.

COLERIDGE AND SHELLEY IN THE VALE OF CHAMONNY.

We have two poems of about the same length, written amid the inspiration of the same majestic scenery. Between the two authors, the task of assigning the preference in respect of native poetic talent were no less difficult than invidious. And yet between these two short poems, there is no room for comparison whatever. Shelley's is as inferior to Coleridge's as Campbell's Hohenlinden is to Byron's Waterloo. There is a magnificent march about the progress of Coleridge's Hymn as he sweeps on to the great truth of which every succeeding line appears to intensify the majesty. Shelley, on the contrary, sets before us a panorama of brilliant and imposing imagery; but it is the splendor of a cloud-castle, impressive while we gaze upon it, leaving no distinct conception upon the mind. He leads us to contemplate a most overwhelming manifestation of the power of the Most High. He tells us in burning words, of the deep emotions with which his soul responds to the voices of the contending elements. But when we would rise

Through Nature up to Nature's God,

when we would hear from his lyre fit strains wherewith to praise the great Architect, he sends us coldly away with dim and vapory imaginings of some unknown power,-poor compensation for communion with the Omnipotent!

But Coleridge has no thoughts to waste on idle creations of his own. He gives himself to an inspiration, prompted by the works of God. Before the immediate presence of Jehovah all inferior conceptions flit unheeded by, and his soul bows listening to the praises which nature render to her Lord. Whether or not Shelley intends to recognize the Author of nature, we will not pretend to say; but if so, it is a sort of spectral abstraction, and finds no sympathy in any breast but that of the poet. Here is Shelley:

All things that move and breathe with toil and sound,

Are born and die, revolve, subside and swell
Power dwells apart in its tranquillity,
Remote, serene and inaccessible.

*

The secret strength of things

Which governs thought, and to the infinite dome
Of Heaven is as a law, inhabits thee!

And here is Coleridge :

Motionless torrents! silent cataracts!

Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven
Beneath the full moon? Who bade the Sun
Clothe you with rainbows? Who with living flowers
Of loveliest hue spread garlands at your feet?
God let the torrents like a shout of nations
Answer; and let the ice-plains echo, God!
God! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice!
Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds!
And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow,

And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God!

Coleridge has no ethereal conception of a personified attribute with which to amuse us. He is not afraid of the simple and yet mysterious title by which the Deity is known at every fireside,-God! We ask, in the awful presence of Mont Blanc, for the Author of the scenes which surround us. Who reared the everlasting pillars of the temple and gilded its arches with rainbows, and filled its aisles with the swell and cadence of a thunder-organ? And we are referred to that name, the loveliness of which as much attracts the affections as its majesty impresses the imagination;-to the same Great Being whose name we learned to lisp in infancy,-whom we have been taught to address with humble confidence as the Common Father,-who guides our steps amid the dangers of the day, and guards our rest amid the silence of the night.

We confess there is no more interesting sight to us than genius consecrated to religion. It can indeed bring to the common altar of our Faith, no new evidences of a divine origin. The Author of Christianity has not sent it forth into the world, so poorly panoplied against its enemies as to depend for attestation of its truth on the favorable judgment of human intellects. It must stand upon its own merits. But we

love to contemplate the spectacle of sages and philosophers and poets devoting their best and highest energies to the praise of Christianity. Though a Heaven-descended Faith depends not upon so frail foundation for its support, it may yet receive honor from the offering. But we are not to pursue this theme. Our business at present is with the reflex influence upon the mind which presents the grandest monuments of its powers at the Altar of God. The majesty, the sublimity of the theme, the inspiring consciousness of worthily employing talents given for no meaner purpose, conspire in a glorious harmony within the soul and fill it with a loftiness of conception often amazing to itself. To go no farther than to Coleridge's Hymn before us; no one can fail to perceive the difference in power and pathos between the earlier portion, where there is no reference to Deity, and the latter, where there is. The instant the poet strikes upon the thought that the streams the avalanche and the thunder unite in one majestic anthem to the God of Nature, his lips seem touched as with a "live coal from off the Altar." Nor has the mechanical execution aught to do with the change. There was evidently as great outlay of care in composition on the earlier as on the latter verses of the poem. Nay, we confidently conjecture, from the smoothness of the rhythm and the pensive earnestness of the senti ments, that the first twenty-three verses cost the Author more labor than the whole of the remaining sixty-two. We do not, of course pretend that any portion of so noble a poem drags heavily. But when at the twenty-fourth line the writer becomes, as it were, not only a poet but a Christian, his soul seems so filled with his theme as to lack words to keep pace with the exuberance of his thoughts and emotions.

"Awake, my soul! not only passive praise

Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears,
Mute thanks, and secret ecstasy! Awake,

Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake!
Green vales and icy cliffs all join my hymn."

The one magnificent conception of a God in Nature is the animating spirit of the ensuing lines. If in the earlier verses the sentiments are not indebted to the expression, we are sure that in the latter, the expression is indebted to the sentiments.

Shelley, on the contrary, is devoid of a truth which is inspiration to Coleridge. Emotions are excited within him similar to those with which Coleridge commences. These emotions transmitted to us through one of the most spendid imaginations ever given to a Poet, startle and please, but they do not overpower the heart. Though as beautiful, they are as cold and cheerless as the ice palace of the Russian Czar. By the latter portion of Coleridge's Hymn, we may judge what might have been the poetry of Shelley as a Christian. By the height to which his theme exalts the former above the latter, we may judge what religion can do for the poet.*

* It will be observed that we have chosen, notwithstanding the recent discussions touching the piety of Coleridge, to suppose that he had met with a genuine change.

EDITORS' TABLE.

AT a meeting of the Class of '49, on the 25th of May, occasioned by the death of A. J. DOUGLASS, the following resolutions were unanimously adopted:

Whereas, it hath been the mysterious pleasure of an all-wise and gracious Providence to remove by sudden and untimely death from the bosom of an extensive circle of relations and friends at home, and from the centre of a band of fond associates at College, one endeared by his amiable character, his sterling worth and his manly, unaffected virtues; therefore,

Resolved, That we sincerely deplore the sad event which has deprived us of a classmate and a friend respected and beloved in life, honored and remembered in death. Resolved, That we deeply sympathize with the afflicted parents and relations of our deceased associate, and heartily lament the solemn occurrence which has taken from their midst a loved and affectionate son, a warm and generous friend.

Resolved, That we as a Class will wear the usual badge of mourning for the usual period.

Resolved, That a copy of these resolutions be transmitted to the parents and the friends of the deceased, and to the press for publication.

Hardly a fortnight had passed, when it was announced that A. J. WHEELER, of the same Class, had fallen. The following appropriate resolutions were adopted on the occasion :

Whereas, in the providence of God a member of our Class has been recently removed by death, therefore,

Resolved, That we deplore the deeply afflictive event that has deprived us of our esteemed classmate and friend, whom we respected for the dignity of his demeanor, his manliness of spirit, and his strength and acuteness of intellect, and whom we loved for the unblemished purity of his character, and for his genuine benevolence.

Resolved, That we heartily sympathize with his afflicted father and relatives, whose high and reasonable hopes have been buried in a premature grave.

Resolved, That as an expression of our respect we will wear a badge of mourning for the usual period.

Resolved, That a copy of these resolutions be transmitted to his friends, and to the press for publication.

And yet again the "Insatiable Archer" has demanded and taken a victim. On Thursday, June 1st, H. S. HAWLEY, of the Class of '48, submitted calmly and serenely to the summons of Death; or rather, of a merciful Father calling the sufferer to an everlasting rest. We knew him well-his fine mental qualifications, his eminently amiable disposition, and, above all, his earnest and yet unobtrusive piety. "Death loves a shining mark,” and we have seldom met a more striking example than was presented by our departed friend. We doubt if he ever incurred during his college course the dislike of a single member of his Class; which, to one acquainted with the numerous little bickerings often incident to college life, will appear no ordinary evidence of amiability. Until his last sickness fastened itself upon him, his vigorous frame and robust health gave us little reason to forbode so untimely a dissolution. The beautiful verse of Longfellow is peculiarly applicable to him:—

"He, the young and strong, who cherished

Noble longings for the strife,

By the wayside fell and perished,
Weary with the march of life."

His mind, too, as vigorous as the frame which it animated, gave noble promise of future eminence and usefulness. But in contemplating such a character as his, wo

may turn from all personal attractions, for which we valued him as a friend, to those higher and heaven-implanted qualities which led us to love and esteem him as a Christian. His life leaves valid ground for the belief, that he has been summoned "to go no more out for ever." The following resolutions were passed by his Class soon after the news of his death had reached us:

Whereas, in the providence of God one of our number, HENRY S. HAWLEY, of Bridgeport, has been removed by death,

Resolved, That we, his surviving classmates, are desirous of publicly expressing our heartfelt sorrow for his loss, and our sincere sympathy with his afflicted relatives and friends.

Resolved, That our grief for the loss of one whose manly character, thorough scholarship, and consistent, unobtrusive piety, had during almost four years of college life, constantly endeared him to us, finds its best consolation in the confident and wellgrounded belief, that he has only exchanged a life of opening usefulness here for the perfect happiness of heaven.

Resolved, That as a testimony of our respect and affection, we will wear the usual badge of mourning for thirty days, and that a copy of these resolutions be transmitted to the family of the deceased, and to the press for publication.

A number of his classmates attended his funeral at Bridgeport; and a vote has since been passed for the erection of an appropriate monument to his memory.

THE DEN, 12 O'CLOCK AT NIGHT.

if it

The Quintumvirate had just drained to the bottom a foaming quart of peanuts to the health of the lovely little Maga, on her 13th birth-night; in fact, the "Monk of the Middle Ages" was squeezing it in a last lingering embrace, and we were all in high spirits, when in rushed the devil with the astounding intelligence that the "boss" wanted several pages more immediately. In an instant, all was hubbub and confusion-all talkers-no listeners. "Confound it, fellows, what's to be done? Won't do to flunk now. Ah! I have it, I met with an idea in Macauley this morning," said the Monk of the Middle Ages, "on the Pope, and I would cheerfully". were not for my numerous other engagements," said the Father of the Bloody Second, "I could make some suggestions on the subject of Marks, which might save""the next Freshman Class," said the Statement of Facts-man, "ought to be cautioned against that contemptible Li"- -"stop!" said the Sexton, fiercely brandishing a spade, (not the ace,)" I remember that there is in the corner of the Coffin a poem that with some alterations might be worthy of"- -" damnation," growled Yaddle, "don't more than five talk at once."

Here the devil vanished through the keyhole to report progress, and if you wish to know how we got over the difficulty, follow him as he "unfolds his sad tail" to the "boss," as follows:

A CHAPTER ON MULES.

BY THE MONK OF THE MIDDLE AGES.

Once, upon a time, in our juvenile days, we essayed to ride a mule to a mill with a bag of corn. The mule was small and the bag of corn was heavy, and as the mule trotted nimbly along, the bag, slung across his shoulders, vibrated from one side to the other, playfully intimating its propensity to roll off, with little choice of sides.

Moreover a mule is not a camel, which is as much as to say, that it is not provided with a natural saddle, in which one could even sleep comfortably on a long journey. We defy any one to say he ever slept on a mule. Moreover, a mule furnishes a sple did instance of what Paley calls design and contrivance-since with a wise adaptation to the sphere in which it is intended to move, its back, unlike the wavy undulations of the aforesaid camel, slopes downward from the tail to the head, diverging more and more from a horizontal line, like a Freshman's chance of the Valedictory, from his first maiden rush to his senior rustication at Derby, furnishing clear proof