Were it not blissful, when from earth we sever, To know that we shall leave, with bard and sage, A name enrolled on fame's bright page forever-- A wonder, and a theme to after age! Talk not of love! I know how, wasted, broken, The trusting heart learns its sad lesson o'er-- Counting the roses Passion's lips have spoken, Amid the thorns that pierce it to the core. Oh, heart of mine! that when life's summer hour For thee with love's bright blossoms hung the bough, Too quickly found an asp beneath the flower-- And is naught left thee but ambition now? Alas! alas! this brow its pride forsaking, Would give the glory of its laurel crown For one fond breast whereas to still its aching-- For one true heart that I might call mine own! * * * * * [FROM THE NATIONAL ERA.] ELDORADO: ADVENTURES IN THE PATH OF EMPIRE.[2] BY J.G. WHITTIER. With something of the grateful feeling which prompted the memorable exclamation of Sancho Panza, "Blessings on the man who first invented sleep!" we have laid down these pleasant volumes. Blessings on the man who invented books of travel for the benefit of home idlers! the Marco Polos, the Sir John Mandevilles, and the Ibn Batutas of old time, and their modern disciples and imitators! Nothing in the shape of travel and gossip, by the way, comes amiss to us, from Cook's voyages round the earth to Count De Maistre's journey round his chamber. When the cark and care of daily life and homely duties, and the weary routine of sight and sound, oppress us, what a comfort and refreshing is it to open the charmed pages of the traveler! Our narrow, monotonous horizon breaks away all about us; five minutes suffice to take us quite out of the commonplace and familiar regions of our experience: we are in the Court of the Great Khan, we are pitching tents under the shadows of the ruined temples of Tadmor, we are sitting on a fallen block of the Pyramids, or a fragment of the broken nose of the Sphynx, dickering with Arab Shieks, opposing Yankee shrewdness to Ishmaelitish greed and cunning: we are shooting crocodiles on the white Nile, unearthing the winged lions of Ezekiel's vision on the Tigris--watching the night-dance of the Devil-worshipers on their mountains, negotiating with the shrewd penny-turning patriarch of Armenia for a sample from his holy-oil manufactory at Erivan, drinking coffee at Damascus, and sherbet at Constantinople, lunching in the vale of Chaumorng, taking part in a holy _fête_ at Rome, and a merry Christmas at Berlin. We look into the happiness of traveling through the eyes of others, and, for the miseries of it, we enjoy _them_ exceedingly. Very cool and comfortable are we while reading the poor author's account of his mishaps, hair-breadth escapes, hunger, cold, and nakedness. We take a deal of satisfaction in his moscheto persecutions and night-long battles with sanguinary fleas. The discomforts and grievances of his