The scene was soon changed. Having disposed of that subject most deeply impressed on his heart, his keen, penetrating eye lost its expression, his powerful mind gave way, and his fading imagination began to wander amid scenes and with friends that he had left behind. In two hours the spirit took its flight, and all that was mortal of John Randolph of Roanoke was hushed in death. At a quarter before twelve o’clock, on the twenty-fourth day of June, 1833, aged sixty years, he breathed his last, in a chamber of the City Hotel, Philadelphia. From the very necessities of the nature of an Eccentric, John Randolph could not be in harmony with the time in which he lived. But this difference was intensified into enmity by the irritable nature of his mind and the diseased condition of his body; nay, by his very virtues and genius. To increase the enmity and his own misfortune, he threw himself with ardor upon the losing side of an irrepressible conflict in government. I think posterity is better prepared to do him justice than were his contemporaries, for we have passed a settlement of the political conflict, and from pitying hearts can make full allowance for Randolph’s unhappy nature and unfortunate lot, while recognizing the purity, honesty and heroism of his character. Which of us would have been a better man in his situation? THE STORK. Translated from the Swedish, for THE CHAUTAUQUAN.[K] An isle there is in airy distance Where rise green forests, grim and tall, Its name eludes one with persistence, But occupied with genie small; The dewy air is dawn’s fresh greeting, And drowsy waves the reeds are beating, There poppies grow, and lilies rare, These only really thriving there, But crimson-booted stork there feedeth, To earthly mothers children leadeth. In poppy scent with lilies vieing, He gently flaps at water’s brink, To capture chubby genie trying, And begs them not to fear or shrink. The bantlings, in whose souls are blended Fragrance from both flowers expended, Which makes the tender sense appear In these both slumbering and clear, Around the snowy stork would rally, And ventured not, but wished to dally. “Come here, come here,” a voice then crying, The stork soon ruffles up his frill, He sees two tiny urchins flying So near as to be touched at will. But oh, what wings, now waving lightly! And feathers too, these shifting brightly In green, as light as young birch leaves When spring its bath of dew receives, In red, as pale a hue revealing, As streak at dawn, the mist concealing!