of hearing them. Very little remains of all the powerful displays of Patrick Henry, except the meager sketch of a speech or two preserved by his biographer. How many brilliant effusions we have all heard from Prentiss, of which there is no permanent record, and which must pass away with the memories of those who listened to them. Permit me to allude to one occasion which many of you may remember, and which illustrates this remark. Some years ago a public meeting was called at Dr. Clapp's Church, with a view to raise a subscription to procure a statue of Franklin, to be executed by the great American artist, Hiram Powers. The occasion called forth all the eloquence and stores of erudition of Richard Henry Wilde, then fresh from the classic scenes of Italian art. It happened that Prentiss had just arrived in the city, without any knowledge of such a meeting. He was dragged into the church by some of his friends, and, to took his seat in a side aisle. Wilde had closed, there was a Prentiss ! He came forward, obviously surprised and embarrassed, but, warming with the theme as he advanced, proceeded to pour forth to an enchanted audience one of the most brilliant and re

avoid observation, As soon as Mr. cry for Prentiss,

markable bursts of eloquence, which, I venture to assert, ever fell from any individual so suddenly and unexpectedly called on. A stranger would have supposed that he had done nothing during his life, but study the poets and the fine arts, and was familiar with the best models. He exhibited on that occasion an extraordinary familiarity with the poets and the arts, and no one would have supposed he had ever read a law book in his life. And yet, of that speech there remains not the slightest vestige. It could not, indeed, have been well reported. To have caught up its brilliant scintillations would have been as difficult as to sketch the meteors that shoot through the sky. Indeed, I may say that if all the great and brilliant thoughts that fell from Prentiss in popular and deliberative assemblies, in courts of justice, at convivial parties, and in his social intercourse, could have been faithfully reported by a stenographer, it would form a work truly Shaksperean. There would be found beautifully blended the broad humor and even ribaldry of Falstaff, the keen wit of Mercutio, the subtlety of Hamlet, and the overwhelming pathos of Lear.

But, alas! the wand of Prospero is broken.

We shall no more hear the eloquent tones of his voice, nor admire the specious miracles produced by the inspiration of his genius: for he possessed the only inspiration vouchsafed to man in these latter days. We shall no longer be permitted to laugh over his mirth-provoking wit, nor be melted by his touches of true feeling-nor admire those rich gems which he threw out with such profusion from the exhaustless stores of his imagination. Such is the destiny of earthly things—

"The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples-the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this unsubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind."

SPIRIT OF EARTHQUAKE.

BY JOHN G. DUNN, ESQ.

'Twas the noon of a winter night, dreary and dark; The winds were bewailing the dead d;

In icy cold fetters the forest was stark,
And the torrent was chained in his bed.

High o'er the wild ravines, 'mid snow mantled pines, A Brigand looked forth from his lair;

But naught met his gaze, save the sky-cutting lines Of the turreted crags in the air.

That day he had battled! That day he had slain !
And the crimson was still on his hand;
But afar he had left, on the desolate plain,
The bravest and best of his band.

He startled! A sound echoed up from the gorge!
A voice like a spirit in wail !

Still nearer and hoarser thro' ravine and rock
It swept on the sorrowing gale!

The pines were alive with a sorrow of moans, And the owl from his ragged home screamed; The night far beneath him was peopled with groans, Like the depths of a horrible dream.

Huge clouds swept the mount with their billows of black,

Enshrouding his lair in their night;

And the wind kept howling through crevice and crack, Like a spirit of murder and blight.

But these he had heard, and these he had seen,
And his steely soul heeded them not;
But, oh! that death-tone, with its wailings all keen-
A chill to his stern spirit brought.

Dark, wizard-like shapes, from the night vapors scowled ;

Strange outlines whirled up the wild mass; Still louder the fearful winds gibbered and howled New sorrows thro' cavern and pass;

When up from the ravine an image all dread
Thro' vapor and midnight was borne ;

Deep thunder awoke at his horrible tread,
And his breath was a terror of storms!

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