THE VOYAGE OF THE PHILOSOPHERS.

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anger. One portion set off in one direction, another portion in the opposite direction, while a large number, unable to make up their minds amid such contending views, furled their sails and left their vessels to drift with the tide.

The two squadrons stretched away, the one east, the other west, and, so long as they kept in sight of each other, their activity seemed stimulated by a desire to be as far from each other, as possible. After sailing for many days, in an easterly course, and having encountered innumerable dangers and hardships, one of the squadrons approached the happy isle. A lovelier light than that of summer shone over it, and sweeter landscapes than those of Arabia spread along its coast. The inhabitants received them with the kindest welcome, and such happiness thrilled in the bosoms of the philosophers, that all feelings but those of benevolence subsided, and, forgetting their anger, they wished that their antagonists might be partakers of their joy. Scarcely had they expressed these feelings, when in the eastern horizon they discovered the other squadron under full sail coming down upon the island in a direction opposite to that by which they had arrived. They soon reached the shore, and the philosophers who had parted in malice, now met in wonder, but in peace. How strange it is, said they to each other, that going east and going west, should finally lead to the same point?

Having spent some time at the happy isle, they entered their ships, and bidding a reluctant adieu to the place, returned to Tyre. On being required by the king to tell him the shape of the island, the grand object of the expedition, the philosophers looked at each other, and appeared to be abashed. The king was

angry, and imperiously commanded them to answer his question. They then confessed that they had forgotten to ask about the shape of the island. "Let me have no more quarrels, then," said the king, "about idle questions of belief; let your arrogance and dogmatism be humbled by the recollection, that opposite courses have led to the same point; and remember, that matters of speculation, which are wrought into consequence by contention, sink into insignificance in the light of truth."

THE DOG AND SHADOW.

A FABLE.

A Doc, crossing a little rivulet, with a piece of flesh in his mouth, saw his own shadow represented in the clear mirror of the limpid stream; and believing it to be another dog, who was carrying another piece of

flesh, he could not forbear catching at it; but was so far from getting any thing by his greedy design, that he dropped the piece he had in his mouth, which immediately sank to the bottom and was irrevocably lost. This should teach us, not to let go the substance, to catch at a shadow.

DAYS OF MY YOUTH.

There is no part of life so happy as youth; the following lines, written by a celebrated man, now living in England, show with what regret he looks back to the pleasant days of his boyhood.

OH! when I was a tiny boy,

My days and nights were full of joy,
My mates were blithe and kind!
No wonder that I sometimes sigh,
And dash the tear-drop from my eye,
To cast a look behind.

A hoop was an eternal round

Of pleasure. In those days I found
A top a joyous thing;

But now those past delights I drop;
My head, alas! is all my top,

And careful thoughts the string!

My marbles-once my bag was stored-
Now I must play with Elgin's lord,
With Theseus for a taw!

My playful horse has slipped his string,
Forgotten all his capering,

And harnessed to the law!

My kite-how fast and far it flew ;
Whilst I, a sort of Franklin, drew
My pleasure from the sky!

'T was papered o'er with studious themes, The tasks I wrote-my present dreams Will never soar so high.

My joys are wingless all, and dead;
My dumps are made of more than lead;
My flights soon find a fall:

My fears prevail, my fancies droop,
Joy never cometh with a whoop,
And seldom with a call!

My football's laid upon the shelf;-
I am a shuttlecock myself,

The world knocks to and fro.
My archery is all unlearned,
And grief against myself has turned
My arrows and my bow.

No more in noontide sun I bask;
My authorship 's an endless task;
My head 's ne'er out of school.
My heart is pained with scorn and slight,
I have too many foes to fight,

And friends grow strangely cool!

The very chum, that shared my cake,
Holds out so cold a hand to shake,

It makes me shrink and sigh-
On this I will not dwell and hang,
The changeling would not feel a pang
Though these should meet his eye.

DAYS OF MY YOUTH.

No skies so blue, or so serene

As then; no leaves look half so green

As clothed the play-ground tree!

All things I loved are altered so,
Nor does it ease my heart to know
That change resides in me!

Oh, for the garb that marked the boy-
The trowsers made of corduroy,

Well ink'd with black and red ;-
The crownless hat-ne'er deemed an ill,—
It only let the sunshine still

Repose upon my head!

Oh, for the riband round the neck!

The careless dogs' ears apt to deck
My book and collar both!

How can this formal man be styled
Merely an Alexandrine child,
A boy of larger growth?

Oh, for that small beer anew?

And (Heaven's own type) that mild sky blue
That washed my sweet meals down ;

The master even-and that small Turk
That fagged me!-worse is now my work;
A fag for all the town!

Oh, for the lessons learned by heart!
Ay, though the very birch's smart

Should mark those hours again;
I'd "kiss the rod," and be resigned
Beneath the stroke-and even find
Some sugar in the cane!

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