are the powerful weapons with which bad and ambitions men have in all countries finally succeeded in overturning all that was valuable and good—all that was wise and beneficent; and unless the people of these States shall in time become sufficiently enlightened, to distinguish the _qualities_ of things from their _names_, we shall assuredly ere long add another to that gloomy procession of republics, WHICH HAVE VANISHED FOREVER FROM THE EARTH. H. THE CITY OF SIN. BY E. A. POE. Lo! Death hath rear'd himself a throne In a strange city, all alone, Far down within the dim west— Where the good, and the bad, and the worst, and the best, Have gone to their eternal rest. There shrines, and palaces, and towers Are—not like any thing of ours— Oh no!—O no!—_ours_ never loom To heaven with that ungodly gloom! Time-eaten towers that tremble not! Around, by lifting winds forgot, Resignedly beneath the sky The melancholy waters lie. No holy rays from heaven come down On the long night-time of that town, But light from out the lurid sea Streams up the turrets silently— Up thrones—up long-forgotten bowers Of sculptur'd ivy and stone flowers— Up domes—up spires—up kingly halls— Up fanes—up Babylon-like walls— Up many a melancholy shrine Whose entablatures intertwine The mask—the viol—and the vine. There open temples—open graves Are on a level with the waves— But not the riches there that lie In each idol's diamond eye, Not the gaily-jewell'd dead Tempt the waters from their bed: For no ripples curl, alas! Along that wilderness of glass— No swellings hint that winds may be Upon a far-off happier sea: So blend the turrets and shadows there That all seem pendulous in air, While from the high towers of the town Death looks gigantically down. But lo! a stir is in the air! The wave—there is a ripple there! As if the towers had thrown aside, In slightly sinking, the dull tide— As if the turret-tops had given A vacuum in the filmy heaven. The waves have now a redder glow— The very hours are breathing low— And when, amid no earthly moans, Down, down, that town shall settle hence, All Hades, from a thousand thrones, Shall do it reverence, And Death to some more happy clime Shall give his undivided time. A HINT, TOUCHING THE GREEK DRAMA. While there is an active literary faction in America, who decry the study of the ancient classics, it is still pleasing to observe, upon a comprehensive survey, that these consecrated remains are assuming in public esteem the place which they deserve. I hope therefore to meet with some indulgence when I offer a few desultory remarks, not in behalf of classic lore in general, so much as in commendation of a single branch. The observations which follow are meant to shew some reasons why our scholars should devote special attention to the _Greek Tragedies_.