rly
years. There are no regrets or repinings when I look back now; it must be
that it has all been for the best, that every thing is for the best, and I
am at peace. The recollection of madness and folly, of a life useless, of
energies wasted, do not disturb the calmness of my soul. The error has
been great, but I feel it; and in the next state of existence I shall be
wiser and more active. If I have wantonly and recklessly turned away from
the offered happiness of society and of the world, it has, in the end,
been better for me, for I have found another, a purer and more lasting.

Thus I look cheerfully on, and see the sands of my life run out. They fall
faster and faster, as their number is diminished, and time flies by me
with constantly accelerating speed. 'Oh, my days are swifter than a
weaver's shuttle!'--the _last one_ I see but a little distance before me;
it will soon be here; and I shall step forth with a joyful, courageous
heart, into the indistinct, dimly-revealed future!

TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS.

BY REV. GEORGE W. BETHUNE.

Suffenus, whom we both have known so well,
No other man in manners can excel;
Facetious, courteous, affable, urbane.
The world's approval he is sure to gain.
But, would you think it? he has now essayed
To be a bard, and countless verses made;
Perhaps ten thousand, perhaps ten times more,
For none but he could ever count them o'er;
Not scribbled down on scraps, as one does when
In careless rhymes we only try our pen,
But in a gilt-edged book, all richly bound,
The writing ornate with a care profound,
Rich silken cords to mark each favorite part,
The cover, ev'n, a monument of art.
Yet as you read, Suffenus, who till then
Seemed the most pleasant of all gentlemen,
Becomes offensive as the country boor,
Who milks rank goats beside his cottage door,
Or digs foul ditches: such a change is wrought
By rhymes with neither sense nor music fraught.
So crazed is he with this same wretched rhyme,
That never does he know so blest a time
As when he writes away, and fondly deems
He rivals Homer's god-enraptured dreams;
And wonders in his pride, himself to see,
The very pattern-pink of poesy.
Alas! Suffenus, while I laugh at thee,
The world, for aught I know, may laugh at me.
It is the madness of each one to pride
Himself on that 'twere better far to hide;
Nor know the faults in that peculiar sack
Which AEsop says