steadily under the guidance of religious principle, the dross will be gradually purged away, and the pure gold alone remain.
But let us now turn to the contemplation of another grand source of youthful joys,—one, that may be said to divide with Hope the sovereignty of the young heart—Love. This fair flower is one, truly, transplanted from Eden,—one, that the poor exiles from Paradise were mercifully allowed to bring away with them; and though, indeed, much faded, bruised, and defiled by the rough change, yet it still lives, to afford blest balm to man's heart, in this his fallen state. Who is able to describe the delights of youthful love? We should fear to attempt the task: and it is not needed: the world is full of such descriptions, in prose and in verse, on the canvas and in marble,—in every form in which the sentiments of the heart are sought to be rendered visible, or intelligible by outward expression: this universal and absorbing passion has been the theme of poets and of artists, since the world began. But for a still stronger reason is such description unnecessary—namely, that the sentiment itself is known to all by a more certain information than the most eloquent description could supply—experience. Who has not felt the rapture, which this master-passion is capable of exciting in the heart? Who has not yielded himself to the sweet day-dreams that are wont at such times to hang around the spirit, and lure it away into fairy realms of imagined bliss? Or who, in dreams by night, has not beheld the image of the fair enchantress of his soul, and heard her voice speaking tender words, which alas! were dissipated by the morning-light, when
