And _this_ is Folly! Like a flaunting flower Her red lips part half wanton, half in scorn: Over the wreck of many a squandered hour This poor frail child of Pleasure well might mourn. But with the consciousness of beauty born, Exulting in her youth’s superior brightness— (Not yet the rose-leaves from her garland torn)— She moves along to scenes of festal lightness. The aged teacher’s solemn, sacred lesson Is a dead letter to her worldly spirit— The Word of Life—its Promise, and its Blessing, The world’s gay votary cares not to inherit! No claims upon a heritage divine— This lot, O Folly! this sad lot is thine. * * * * * THINKING OF MINNA. BY ELLIS MARTYN. What though my way unblissful care To weary solitudes incline! I feel thy beauty everywhere; Thy spirit brightens mine. On all the dewy leaves that crowd The moon-lit trees, I read thy name; From every crimson morning cloud, It flows through all my frame. And when the spiritual eve advances, To bathe the weary world in rest, Thou comest near, with loving glances, And leanest on my breast. In all the ages, young or olden, Was ever life so blest as mine! Where’er I go the clime is golden, And all the air divine! * * * * * THOMAS JOHNSON. THE LAST SURVIVOR OF THE CREW OF “THE BONHOMME RICHARD.” BY THOMAS WYATT, A. M. [Illustration] This venerable sailor is in the 92d year of his age; nearly sixty of which he has spent on the ocean, and thirty-five under the stars and stripes of his adopted country. Although almost helpless from age, his mind is clear and his memory retentive. He remembers distinctly many interesting incidents during his cruisings with that eccentric but intrepid officer, John Paul Jones, and narrates many of the daring exploits in which he was a participator under the direction of this extraordinary man.