OCR Rendition - approximate

I 166 might introduce prophets and high priests of civilization into the world, as surely as we cann propagate idiots by mating cretins. Men and women of the present day are, to those we might hope to bring into existence, what the' pariah dogs of the streets of an Eastern town are to our own highly-bred varieties. The feeble nations of the world arc necessarily giving way before the nobler var;eties of mankind; and even the best of these, so far as we know them, seem unequal to their work. The average culture of mankind is become so much higher than it was, and the branches oŁ knowledge and history so various and extended, that, few are capable even of TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE. Translations from Horace. comprehending the exigencies of our modern civilization ; much less of fulfilling` them. We are living in a sort of intellectual anarchy, for the want of master minds. The general intellectual capacity of our leaders requires to be raised, and also to be differentiated. We want abler commanders, statesmen, thinkers, inventors, and artists. The natural qualifications of our race are no greater than they used to be in semibarbarous times, though the conditions amid which we are born are vastly more complex than of old. The foremost minds of the present day seem to stagger and halt under an intellectual load too he4vy for their powers. To be continued. OD. 111. 21. 1 ~~ o NATA MECUM." My good contemporary cask, whatever thou dost keep Stored up in thee,--smiles, tears, wild loves, mad brawls, or easy sleep ; Whate'er thy grape was charged withal, thy day is cdme, descend Corvinus bids ; my mellowest wine must greet my best-loved friend. Sage and Socratic though he be, the juice he will not spurn, That many a, time made glow, they say, old Cato's virtue stern. There's not a heart so hard but thou beneath its guard canst steal ; There's not a soul so close but thou its secret canst reveal. There's no despair but thou canst cheer,-no wretch's lot so low, But thou canst raise, and bid him brave the tyrant. and the foe. Please Bacchus, and the Queen of Love, and the linkt Graces three, Till lamps shall fail and stars grow pale, we'll make a night with thee. On. 1. 11. « TU NE QUAi8IERIs." Mr sweet Leuconoc, seek no more To learn thy own, thy lover's date Put by thy dark Clialdaran lore, For Heaven has closed the book of fate. Are merry winters yet' to come For thee and me 7 Is this, whose blast Shivers the blustering waves to foam On yon bluff rocks, to be our last 7 WVe know not, and we can but bow In blindness to the Power Divine That shapes the lot of all below 11icn broach you flask of mellow wine. ii