No chronicles but theirs shall tell And in his fate forget his crimes. Mr. Sprague's ode, than which no better one may be printed for a century to come, closes with a holy aspiration of praise to the God of the pilgrims. JOSIAH QUINCY, L. L. D. WITHOUT acknowledging a belief in the doctrines of phrenology, we admit that nature sometimes labels her noblest workmanship with its inscriptions in which there are no mistakes-palpable indications of mental energy and intellectual power which stand out in bold developement in the expressive features. Mr. Quincy, the president of Harvard, has a countenance of the first order, which lights up with every emotion of his mind when it is excited; but it is his forehead that most distinguishes him and gives him no mean claim to be considered a model of intellectual statuary. Having lately witnessed the display of his eloquence before the thousands who stood before the centennial altar, we may be permitted to express our ardent wishes. that the ancient university over which he presides may catch something of his bold, energetic spirit; and learn, at least, that it is of nearly as much importance how as what is spoken in public addresses. There is no need that we follow the chain of his argument in an oration so widely distributed and celebrated as president Quincy's centennial; yet we may say, that when we heard his powerful sketch of the pilgrim character, and saw the mighty dead breathing and living again under the strong inspiration of the orator's genius, we felt as if no nation could boast a descent so illustrious as the American people, or better honor a noble descent than in thus recounting the deathless virtues of the fathers of religious and civil liberty in the western world. In president Quincy's own language we repeat:— Human happiness has no perfect security but freedom ;freedom none but virtue ;-virtue none but knowledge; and neither freedom, nor virtue, nor knowledge has any vigor, or immortal hope, except in the principles of the Christian faith, and in the sanction of the Christian religion. ALL IS VANITY. The proud world is fading, dear, Grandeur's star declines apace, All is vanity. Pleasure painted mountains green, Friends and lovers near thee now, Low in dust they soon shall bow- Wealth and home embowered with love, Shelter thee, a wounded dove; Fortune's sun now hides above All is vanity. Heaven, above the wrecks of time, Spans the universe sublime, Change nor storm are in its clime Blest eternity! PART OF AN ADDRESS, Delivered at Boston, April 7, 1828, before the Hibernian Relief Society. WHEREVER the feet of man may roam there is one delightful image present to his fancy. It penetrates beyond the region of the imagination, and takes deep hold on the heart. It is the love of country-not that selfish affection which pours itself out on individual inheritance-the parcelled glebe or amassed treasures; it takes a wider, holier range, and loves not only the mountains, the vales, the streams, the placid lakes, the soft fleecy clouds, the deep transparent skies-the loud storm, the tempest gloom even-but the image of intellectual beauty, above all the rest, enchants the soul of the wanderer. No nation has so low a place in the hearts of men, but that the mention of its name shall awaken an intellectual form of giant grandeur, of loveliness, of melancholy, of exalted patriotism; or of wild cruelty, and tyrannic perfidy. Here is in fact the tribunal of nations. In the loneliness of the human heart, the deep and quiet recesses of thought, the spectres of national character rise to receive applause or disapprobation; they come from the far off world beyond the flood; they burst from the catacombs of the Nile, they shake the marble ruins of the Acropolis, and rise from the tombs of Rome—and, pale or glorious, dark or lovely, await the decisions of posterity. Yet the image of one's own country comes to the soul with all the freshness of life. It is a mid-day dream, entrancing the soul at high noon. The sweet charm of memory combines the graces of moral beauty, the breathing forms of early friendship, the majesty of high patriotic example, and the tones of the minstrel bard, into such a vision of felicity, that it is to be cherished, loved-almost adored. The sons of some nations have before them the broad field of their country's renown, almost stainless, and far and wide reflecting the unpolluted splendors of national honor. Such have only to drink in the enthusiasm of their native air to be what their fathers were-worthy of the choicest honors of earth, and to wear the garlands that have been twined by the seraph hand of female loveliness. Such have only to read their country's history, to inhale their country's spirit. But what more than mortal meed of honors shall be awarded to those whose high designs, whose virtuous sympathies, brilliant genius, lofty daring, and sublime memorials, have thriven and been established in defiance of circumstances against the storms of fate, the thunders of power, and the undying bitterness of a causeless hatred? What green garland of immortality shall crown the brows that have been bared to the pitiless winds of misfortune, and were yet radiant with the light of intellect and the searching victories of mind?" There is a lovely island which is washed by the bright waves of the Atlantic; there is such a charm lingering around its classic ground that whoever has ever fixed his eyes upon its calm scenery can never-never forget IRELAND. So great is the antiquity of its institutions, that when the ruin lay like a thunder cloud on the horizon of the Roman Empire, and the Goths and Vandals rolled their barbarian hordes over the Campania, and swept Italy with the besom of destruction; the sweet Emerald Isle was a refuge for the learned and virtuous of other countries. The terror of a falling nation never reached this sequestered and beautiful island; the shrieks of the victims were lost in the wild passes and glens of the Alps, save when the demon |