Their rise has in general been marked by virtue; their decadence by vice, vanity, and licentiousness. Let us beware! I would not have the reader censure me for commencing this article as a traveller and ending it with an attempt to moralize. In reviewing in my mind the interesting scenes I have endeavored to describe, I have been led back to the thoughts that arose when I trode among the ruins of prostrate temples, and they were _connected_ in my mind; and I will venture again to say, that he is unworthy of the privilege of travelling who gleans not from the fields he visits some moral lesson or religious truth. T. C. STANZAS. WRITTEN AT BEVERLY, MASSACHUSETTS. BY REV. WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. I. In Beverly, the building I sought the other day, Where forty years ago my sire his infant gave away; I sought it, for I coveted where he had placed his foot, My honored, sainted father! mine in filial love to put. II. I entered it: most holy appeared the house of prayer; Yet more than common holiness its beauty seemed to wear; For there the waters bathed me, and solemn words were said, And Father, Son, and Paraclete invoked above my head. III. Of all the congregation who looked in reverence on, The elders and the blooming youth, each worshipper was gone; And he, with hairs of winter, whose office 'twas to lave My baby brow, and name my name, was hidden in the grave! IV. What years have passed of sorrow, that hour and this between! What moments of enjoyment in that interval I've seen! I wept that I had measured the half of being's track; I smiled that worlds were poor to bribe the weary pilgrim back. V. I sighed that in the journey where blessings are so few For even the most favored, I but scanty portion knew; And chiefly in the season of confidence and pride, My youth was forced the dangerous way, without my earthly guide. VI. Where is my sainted father, who took me in his arms, And held me to the minister, and kissed away alarms? I feel his presence near me! he blesses me once more! Ay, where he gave me up to GOD, just forty years before! THE QUOD CORRESPONDENCE. Harry Harson. CHAPTER XXII.