The relative importance of these great productions should cause them to be placed in a commanding position at our great schools. This has already been effected in England. A taste for this branch of study is fostered by the rank which it is made to hold in the university examinations. Porson's noted prize is awarded annually to the best translation into Greek verse of a given passage of Shakspeare. In the Cambridge examinations, the three great objects of competition in classical literature, are the University Scholarships—the Classical Tripos, and the Chancellor's Medal. Among other exercises demanded of candidates, they are expected to translate into _English verse_ any given portions of the three tragedians, as well as of Aristophanes. A passage, usually from Shakspeare or Milton, is assigned, to be translated into _Greek verse_. The metre is generally Tragic Iambic; sometimes Tragic Trochaic; sometimes Anapæstic; rarely Heroic, and still more seldom Comic Iambic. The obvious tendency of such measures, is to excite the most intense emulation in the whole literary corps, and to keep before the mind of the learned the highest models. Familiarity with these amazing conflicts of passion is not merely a literary luxury; it is a great preparative for those real scenes in which the statesman, the advocate and the orator, are called upon to reach the hidden springs of human action, to sway the motives, and wield “at will the fierce democraty.” The American student therefore who is awake to his own interest, will not deem it beneath his notice to work in this mine, and will say with Milton, Sometimes let gorgeous Tragedy In sceptered pall come sweeping by, {554} Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line, Or the Tale of Troy divine; Or what (though rare) of later age Ennobled hath the buskined stage. BOREALIS. _N. Jersey._ SACRED SONG. BY W. MAXWELL. Oh strike the Harp. Oh! strike the harp, while yet there lies In Music's breath the power to please; And if the tears should fill mine eyes, They can but give my bosom ease. But hush the notes of Love and Mirth, Too welcome to my heart before; For now those airs that breathe of earth Can charm my pensive soul no more. Yes, I have loved the world too well, And roved in Pleasure's train too long; And I have felt her sweetest spell In Beauty's smile, and Passion's song. But now my soul would break her chains, While yet perhaps the grace is given; Then strike the Harp in Zion's strains, And she shall soar at once to heaven. A TOUR TO THE ISTHMUS: _Filled in from the Pencillings of an English Artist,_ BY A YANKEE DAUBER. Painting is welcome;— The painting is almost the natural man; For since dishonor traffics with man's nature, He is but outside. These pencilled figures are Even such as they give out. _Timon of Athens._ I.