The departed, the departed The good, the brave, the beautiful, In the cities of the dead! I look around, and feel the awe I start to hear the stirring sounds For the voice of the departed That solemn voice! it mingles with Can never be so dear to me As their remember'd words. I sometimes dream their pleasant smilee "HOW CHEERY ARE THE MARINERS!" How cheery are the mariners,— Those lovers of the sea! Their hearts are like its yesty waves, As bounding and as free. They whistle when the storm-bird wheels In circles round the mast; And sing when deep in foam the ship Ploughs onward to the blast. What care the mariners for gales? When wide the berth along the lee, Let billows toss to mountain-heights, The vessel stout will ride it out, With streamers down and canvass furl'd, A silken-tassell'd boat: God keep those cheery mariners! That sweep against the rocky coast Safe in the hollow of His hand, SPORT. To see a fellow of a summer's morning, For well I know that, when he's out of town, And undestructive sleep till game and light are flown. PRESS ON. Press on! there's no such word as fail! Press on! surmount the rocky steeps, He wins, who dares the hero's march. Be thou a hero! let thy might Press on! if Fortune play thee false Makes up for follies past and gone,- Press on what though upon the ground The sweetest, which is born of pain. Therefore, press on! and reach the goal, Come wealth and honor and renown. Thy mind from sloth, thy heart from soil; THE SEXTON. Nigh to a grave that was newly made, A relic of bygone days was he, And his locks were white as the foamy sea,And these words came from his lips so thin: "I gather them in! I gather them in! "I gather them in! for, man and boy, Come they from cottage or come they from hall,— Let them loiter in pleasure or toilfully spin,- "I gather them in,-and their final rest, Is here, down here in the earth's dark breast ;”- A LIFE OF LETTERED EASE. A life of letter'd ease! what joy to lead Could mar the murmurous music of his dream. ROBERT T. CONRAD, 1809-1858, ROBERT T. CONRAD, the son of John Conrad, who was for many years an extensive bookseller and publisher in Philadelphia, was born in that city on the 10th of June, 1809. He studied law with his uncle, Thomas Kittera, an eminent jurist, and was admitted to practice in 1830. While a student, he wrote his first tragedy, Conrad of Naples, which was quite successful, and is regarded by many as the best of his poems. Shortly after he was admitted to the bar, he connected himself with the press, and shared the editorial duties of some of the leading journals of the city; but, the labor proving too much for his health, he resumed the practice of his profession in 1834. On the 15th of July, 1836, he was appointed by Governor Ritner Recorder of the Recorder's Court; and on the 27th of March, 1838, with the unanimous recommendation of the bar, he was commissioned by the same Governor to be a Judge of the Court of Criminal Sessions for the city and county of Philadelphia,-being a higher and more extended jurisdiction. Upon the union of the several municipalities of Philadelphia into one great "consolidated" city in 1854, he was elected Mayor by a large majority. On the resignation of Judge Kelley in 1856, he was appointed by Governor Pollock, on the 30th of November of that year, to fill the vacancy in the Court of Common Pleas and Quarter Sessions. But he did not live long to discharge the duties of this responsible post, as he died on Sunday, June 27, 1858. In 1852, Judge Conrad published Aylmere, or the Bondman of Kent; and other Poems. The tragedy of Aylmere is his principal production, and its merits as an acting play are said to be great. The hero, who assumes the name of Aylmere, is Jack Cade, the celebrated leader of the English peasantry in the insurrection of 1450. The other principal poems of our author are,-The Sons of the Wilderness, a meditative poem on the aborigines of our land; and a series of Sonnets on the Lord's Prayer, marked by great vigor as well as beauty and pathos. THE PRIDE OF WORTH. There is a joy in worth, A high, mysterious, soul-pervading charm; It makes the proud and lofty soul its throne: No fear to shake, no memory to upbraid, There is no evil to the virtuous brave; Worshipp'd or scorn'd, alone or 'mid the throng, Power and wealth and fame Are but as weeds upon life's troubled tide: A brow unshrinking, and a soul of flame, The joy of conscious worth, its courage and its pride! SONNET.-THY KINGDOM COME! Thy kingdom come! Speed, angel wings, that time! For not a slave; the cells o'er which Despair |