THE ACADEMIC ASl'IRANT.

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No more her dulcet voice (by passion taught),To her young soul shall whisper dreamy love,And make her startle even at herself.Love and its light are now evanishing ;Life and its bliss do tremble at the ShadeThat stands before him. He beholds it not—See, in its sallow hand is held a wreathOf laurel leaves, so fresh, they seem to mockThat withering grasp. A smile is on his cheek—His eye looks dark with thought—his dreams are ofThe coming time—and Hope is bright within—Slowly the wreath now falls—the hand of DeathHath placed the fadeless verdure on his brow,And he is not of life.

J.J. L.