SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF THE HON. NATHANIEL GREENE, who departed this life the 19th of June, 1786. Late MAJOR-GENERAL in the service of the United States, and commander of the army in the Southern Department. The United States in Congress assembled in honor of his patriotism, valor and ability, have erected this monument.” His relative and biographer very appropriately remarks—“More than sixty years have elapsed since the body of Greene was consigned to the tomb; and thus far, a medal for the Eutaws, two pieces of cannon for his general services, and a vote for a monument, _which has never been erected_, are the only tributes which the general government has ever paid to his memory. The spot in which his ashes repose has long been forgotten, and the chances of the preservation of the simple silver slab on which his name was engraved, are the only hopes which remain of ever distinguishing his bones from those, which during this long interval, have silently mouldered by their side. Not a statue, not a bust, not a portrait of him, adorns the halls of our national councils; and of the many objects of interest which command the admiration of the stranger at the seat of government, there is not one which recalls his memory.” General Greene had just completed his forty-fourth year, when he was thus suddenly taken from his friends and his country. Of all those who had distinguished themselves during the war of the Revolution, he was, next to Washington, the one who will ever hold the highest place in public esteem; and few men, if any, have ever built themselves a name upon purer or more durable foundations. From the governor to the humble citizen, General Greene was regarded as the object of every eye, the praise of every tongue, he closed a life of deep, pure, devoted patriotism to his country, and love and good-will to all mankind. * * * * * THE DYING STUDENT. BY D. ELLEN GOODMAN. I FEEL the fever’s hot breath flashing In deep and deadly strife, From my pale, parched lips slowly dashing The golden cup of life! Disease, with cold and icy fingers, Now creeps about my heart, And Death but for a moment lingers, To snap its chords apart!