Where are the depths of the dark, billowy sea? Its peopling millions--its gigantic chain Of gorgeous, glittering waters--wild as free? Where the big-orbéd sun--the blue-veiled sky? And its magnificent, diamond-glittering mine Of ever-burning stars? Oh! can it be, (Thou fond idolater at every shrine Where beauty lingers,) can it be that thou Hast treasured up earth's glorious things, till now Thou deem'st it uselessness to turn. Some unfamiliar object to discern, And so Her loveliest features unregarded go? Away, vain thought! such phrenzy ne'er were thine! Since, in the humblest, homeliest flower that grows-- Thy very life-breath, as it comes and goes-- There are a thousand things, whose origin, Whose secret springs, and impulses divine, No human art nor wisdom can disclose! Stop, then, sad youth! for life is not _all_ care, But, hath its hours of rosy-lipped delight; While the cold grave hath little save despair, The weary, world-worn spirit to invite. Stop! I conjure thee! bid the muse away! Her fatal gifts relinquish or resign; Her haughty mandates heed not nor obey: E'en _now_ thy brow hath sorrow's pallid sign-- Thine eye, though bright, is like the flickering ray Of a 'stray sunbeam, o'er some ruin'd shrine,' Lighting up vestiges almost divine, In sad, yet, dimly-beautiful decay! Thy cheek is sunken, and the fickle play Of the faint smile that curls thy parted lip Hath something fearful in it, though so gay! A something treacherously calm, and deep, Such as on sunny waters seems to sleep, When hid beneath some passing shadows gray, The subtle storm-fiend watches for his prey. Stop! ere thine hour of dalliance be over; Ere Health abandon thee, and quench her light In the dark stream of death, (the faithless rover!) Ere Hope herself take flight Down to the depths of that dark-flowing river, Whose sombre shores are clothed in endless night; Ere thou be wrested from us--and for ever! Blotted, like some loved planet, from our sight! And, save the ties That not e'en Destiny itself can sever, A feeble reminiscence or a name Be all thou leav'st us of thee 'neath the skies-- Or some rude stone, perchance, to greet our eyes, And, with its speechless eloquence proclaim: 'Here lies Another victim to thy love, O Fame!' _Philadelphia_, 1837. J. S. D. S. WHO WOULD BE A SCHOLAR? 'A STRANGE question!' says one: let such a reader turn to the next article. 'And a pretty foolish one,' mutters a second: let him do likewise. _Who would be a scholar?_ 'Sure enough!' whispers one, in whom the question finds an echo, (and we know there are such;) him, and all of like sympathy, we invite to meditate a moment with us on the trials of the scholar.