The men of future times will careless tread
  And read my name upon the sculptured stone;
  Nor will the sound, familiar with their ears,
  Recall my vanished memory.  I had hoped
  For better things; I hoped I should not leave
  This earth without a vestige.  Fate decrees
  It shall be otherwise, and I submit. 
  Henceforth, oh, world! no more of thy desires,
  No more of hope, that wanton vagrant hope;
  Now higher cares engross me, and my tired soul,
  With emulative haste, looks to its God,
  And prunes its wings for heaven.

  —­KIRKE WHITE.

AN EMBARKATION SCENE.

A short time since, I found among other papers, one containing an account of the embarkation of a few detachments to join their respective regiments, then engaged in the Burmese war, in India.  It was written almost verbatim, from the description by one, who was not only an eye witness, but who took an active part in the proceedings of the morning.  As so very many similar and trying scenes are occurring at the present time, among our devoted countrymen, leaving for the Crimea, it may not be wholly uninteresting now; as it is founded on facts, which alas, must be far, very far, out-numbered by parallel facts and circumstances.

Having business at Gravesend, I arrived there late at night, and took a bed at an Inn in one of the thoroughfares of that place; I retired early to rest, and was awakened in the morning by the sound of martial music; and ever delighting in the “soul-stirring fife and drum,” I jumped out of bed and found it was troops, about to sail for India; I therefore, dressed myself and strolled down to the beach to witness what, to me, was quite a novel sight, the embarkation.

It was a clear bright morning in June, and the sun was shining in full splendor, while the calm bosom of the beautiful Thames reflected back all its dazzling effulgence.  The river was studded with shipping, and to add to the beauty of the scene, two or three East Indiamen had just anchored there, and as I viewed them majestically riding, I could easily fancy the various feelings their arrival would create, not only in the breasts of those who were in these stately barks, but of the hundreds of expectant friends, who were anxiously awaiting their return.  With how many momentous meetings was that day to be filled.  How many a fond and anxious mother, who had, perhaps, for years, nightly closed her eyes in praying for a beloved son, was in a few hours to clasp him to the maternal breast.  Here, too, might be pictured, the husband and father returning, not as he left his wife and children, in the vigour of health and manhood, but with his cheeks pallid and his constitution enfeebled by hard service in a tropical climate.  Some few had, doubtless, realized those gorgeous dreams of affluence and greatness which first tempted them to leave their native land.  I once knew one myself, whose hardy sinews had for nearly sixty years, braved