d on the wings of friendship, and impressed on all their seals with
sentiments which awakened hope. Youth and beauty hovered around him with
their unintermitted care, and Age sent up its fervent prayers to heaven.
Oh! who but the ungrateful would not love a life so filled with
blandishments and crowned with blessings? Who could see all these receding
without a sigh, or feel the pressure of that kiss of love as pure as if it
had its origin in Heaven? But with the finest organization of intellectual
mind, he had been accustomed to look at all things in the light of poetry.
For one so constituted the pleasures which are in store are as
inexhaustible as the works or mercies of his God. Not an hour which did
not present some new phase of undiscovered beauty. He revelled in the
beams of the morning; the rising sun was never a common object, nor its
grandeur ever lost upon a soul so conscious of the sublime. For all beauty
in nature he found a correspondent passion in the soul; and intoxicated
alike with the music of birds or the perfume of flowers, found no
weariness in a life whose current was like the living spring, pure,
perennial and delightful.

To be so susceptible of pleasure, I would be willing to encounter all the
keenness of pangs suffered by such natures. For such, the rational
delights of a year are crowded into a day, an hour; and the ignorant
reader of their obituary sighs mournfully, computing their lives by a
false reckoning. Yet after all, we have been disposed to regard the death
of the young as something unnatural; the violent rending asunder of soul
and body; the penalty enacted of a life artificial in its modes and
repugnant to nature. As Cicero has beautifully expressed it, it is like
the sudden quenching of a bright flame; but the death of the virtuous Old
is as expected, as free from terror as the sunset; it is the coming of a
gentle sleep after a long and weary day.

Travers was in the very gush and spring-tide of his youth; yet crowned as
he was with blessings, and every attribute for their most perfect
enjoyment, the true secret of his too fond desire to live, was that _he
loved_:

'He loved but one,
And that loved one, alas! could ne'er be his.'

In her the poetry of his life centred; and as a river is swollen by divers
rills, and tributary streams, so all the thoughts and passions of his soul
hurried with a pure and rapid tide to mingle and be lost in one. But
illness,