He told his wife the manner in which he should probably die, and endeavored to prepare her mind for it. He had distressing turns of suffocation, so that they were obliged to open all the windows and doors for the benefit of the air, and he long expected every turn would be the last.

A few days before his death, his aged mother and a sister visited him. He conversed with them cheerfully upon the arrangements of his funeral; told them he was ready to be offered, and should meet the appointment as cheerfully as ever he met any in his life. He consulted them about the propriety of the hour of the funeral, and some other things in connection with the coming event, as he would were he making preparations for a journey. When the aged mother pressed the hand of her son for the last time on earth, she said with a smile,

"I can only wish the presence of your Saviour, to go with you, and lighten the 'dark valley of the shadow of death.'"

He looked fondly in her face, while a smile of ineffable sweetness beamed upon his countenance. "You could not wish me a better wish, mother."

"I shall soon follow you, my son; I do not think I shall live the winter out," said the mother, as she unclasped her hand from the son's, that she had taken, for the last time.

That mother's hand had been extended, to guide him through the wayward paths of childhood and youth, to strengthen and comfort him, and smooth many rough places in the pathway of manhood; but now it was withdrawn upon the brink of the grave—it could not assist, could not support him; but she committed him to that arm that is mighty to save.

It was a mild day in early autumn, when the pale messenger came to beckon him away. He had tasted of the early autumnal fruits, had drank the delicious juice from her purple grape, and watched the early symptoms of decay that were visible in some withering flower or fading leaf, and felt that "passing away" was legibly written on all earthly things. Once, and once only, he had prayed, "O, my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me, but thy will be done."

He failed fast the last few hours of his life, losing all appetite for nourishment, and having more frequent turns of suffocation, and a sister was sent for. Scarcely had she arrived, when he remarked to his wife that he felt very easy; but as it was time, he would take his medicine. He took out the quantity upon the point of his knife, and after taking it, lay back upon his pillow, apparently asleep. He started suddenly, looked wildly up, and told them he was choking to death. They raised his head, and used their accustomed means to relieve him, but all to no avail. The death dew stood in large drops upon his forehead, and the film gathered over the sparkling eye and shut out the light of earth forever. He stretched out one hand and placed it upon the head of his son, who came hurriedly to his bedside, crying out, in piteous accents,

"O, father, father," and stood sobbing beside him.

This was his only recognition of any one. But the struggle was soon over, and the spirit had burst the barriers that held it to its clay tenement and passed away to a brighter world.

His sun set at noon; but his memory has left a sweet fragrance behind it, grateful to the surviving friends, who are called upon to follow his pious example.

He was borne to the Cemetery, and buried in a spot, which he had selected a few weeks before, in company with his aged mother, by a long train of weeping friends, for he had been very dear to us, and nature would have her tribute, and it filled our hearts with sadness, when we realized that we should see that loved form on earth no more. Yet we rejoiced that he had died in the glorious hope of a blessed immortality, and that we could say, in the impressive language of the text that was chosen for his funeral sermon, "Our friend Lazarus sleepeth." Sweet be thy sleep, dear brother, during the night of death; but the morning will come—the glorious morning of the resurrection—and unlock the portals of the tomb, and the dead shall come forth, the righteous clothed in eternal youth, shall never die, the wicked sinking into the second death that has no end.

Sober autumn perfected his work of decay, and dreary winter spread his snowy shroud over the barren globe, when the aged mother laid down upon the bed of death. Her infant had passed away, in the very dawn of its existence. Her son had sunk down, while his meridian sun was shining in its noonday splendor; but she had lived till the winter of life had scattered its snows upon her head, and was now falling, like a shock of corn, fully ripe. She was ready to be bidden suddenly away, for she was ever watching for the coming of the bridegroom. Consumption had long been preying upon her form, and paving her way to the tomb; but she could look calmly upon the prospect, and contemplate the struggle of death without shrinking from it.

She had long been an humble follower of the meek and lowly Jesus, and his religion diffused its divine light over the most trifling incidents of her life. She ever looked upon the fashions of this world as passing away, and never conformed to them, or the manners of the world; but taking the holy word of God for her example, endeavored to imbibe its precepts, and practice its requirements. In profession of her faith, she united with the Congregational Church, at the early age of nineteen, and at the age of seventy-six years, could look back upon a life spent to the honor and glory of him who had redeemed her with his precious blood. She offered up her children upon the altar of her heart's purest affections, consecrating them to God, by having them publicly dedicated, thus performing what she felt to be an important duty of a Christian mother.

Many an adverse wind had she encountered—that weary voyager on life's troubled sea; but Christ had long been her pilot, and now he was about to moor her frail bark into the haven of peace, and the tumultuous waves were hushed, while the loving Saviour whispered, "Peace, be still."

She could converse but little, and was with difficulty understood; but every word breathed of faith and hope. On the afternoon before her death, she repeated these beautiful lines, and, apparently, felt their import:

"Jesus can make a dying bed Feel soft as downy pillows are, While on his breast I lean my head, And breathe my life out sweetly there."

She wished to have her robe and cap prepared so that she might see them before her death. She expressed anxiety for her aged companion, to whom she had been united fifty-five years, and who was dangerously sick at the time, and thought he would never recover; but would soon drop into a deep stupor, occasioned by ossification of the brain.

During the night her feet and hands grew cold, and the worn spirit seemed struggling to depart.

She would frequently arouse from her stupor, and speak a word or two to her attendants, saying to one,

"You did not expect me to be found alone now, did you?"

She repeated, "In my Father's house are many mansions; if it were not so I would have told you; I go to prepare a place for you."

She lingered till about ten o'clock in the fore-noon, then calling for the absent members of the family, she desired to be raised up. Her son supported her in his arms, the feeble lamp of life flickered a moment in its socket, there was a little struggle, and that pure breast lay free from the care or burden of life. Those loving eyes had looked their last upon her dear children, that stood weeping by her bedside, and the toil worn hands were laid cold and pulseless upon her peaceful bosom, and she was now at rest with her Saviour, "in the house of many mansions." Those dear hands that had been so active, administering to the necessities of her family, had now ceased their labor, and lay inactive, in their marble whiteness.

How many thoughts come surging up, from the wellspring of memory, as we looked upon her in her last repose, and glanced retrospectively upon her useful and exemplary life. Again we heard the rich instruction that had fallen from those pale lips, and a new-purpose sprung up in the heart—a new desire to be more entirely consecrated to God, that our path might be the path of the just, that "grows brighter and brighter to the perfect day."

Her coffin was carried to the bedside of her husband, who was unable to rise, and too sick to realize the extent of his sorrow, and so he looked for the last time upon the countenance of that dear wife, who had been the partaker in his joys and sorrows, through their long journey together. It was fifty-five years since their union, and now the bond was broken. One was an angel of light, the other was left to drift awhile upon the ocean of life, ere his frail bark sails over death's sluggish stream.

She, too, was conveyed to the Cemetery, and laid beside her dear son, who had been deposited there a few month's previous. And they followed her, slowly and sadly, along the same road she had passed over half a century before, when she was borne into the neighborhood, a young and joyous bride, and passed the house that was then built for the reception of the young mistress.

Here she commenced her first experience in the trials and duties of house-keeping; and here were opened the deep fountains of a mother's love. This had been for many years the theatre of her life, where she had acted a conspicuous part in its changeful drama, and where still linger many footprints time will never efface, for true it is, the influence still lives, and will be transmitted to succeeding generations. The scenes that were so familiar to her eyes, were now hid from her sight, and she rested in the Cemetery, within a few feet of the land that was once contained in their own farm.

One son, the eldest of the family, after being absent from home many years, died in a land of strangers, and little was ever known of his death or burial. The dear babe was left, far away, and the mother and son slept side by side, in the Cemetery, waiting the time when other dear friends shall come and, lay down by their sides in that quiet resting place.

The tall trees stand waving in the wind, and seem beckoning the weary ones of earth, to lay down beneath their cooling shades.

The silvery stream dances on, making sweet music in its winding course, ever murmuring a sweet requiem to the dead. Birds warble their matin songs in the branches, and the night dew water the graves with their tears, while the winds sigh over the grassy mounds; and all on earth must make their bed with them, and every step we take in the journey of life, is a step towards the tomb, whatever other duty may be performed. Solemn is the reflection that there is an open grave before every one that lives, and were we so situated that we could define our progress, and notice each day's approach to its confines, we should feel sensibly that we were hastening on to join the pale nations of the dead, and fill our respective places in the land of darkness and shadow of death.

But we will leave the dear infant, the brother, and the mother, to that rest that remains for the people of God; they have fallen victims to consumption, with the vast multitudes that have fallen a prey to the ruthless destroyer.

Memory brings up, upon her retentive tablet, the recollection of a family that fell before its withering blight, ere the elasticity of youth had passed away.

The first that died was a young wife and mother. She faded like the early spring flowers, and soon her brothers and sisters younger than she were laid by her side in the silent chambers of death, all in the vigor and beauty of youth. The rose faded suddenly upon their cheeks, and they fell before thee, thou ruthless destroyer of the generations of men.

The infant of a few days laid down its young life, and joined the multitude in the place of graves.

One young man just verging upon manhood, was cut suddenly down with but little warning. He apparently had a slow fever, and had been confined a few days at the house of a friend, but had so far recovered as to anticipate a visit to his family on horseback, as the distance was short, and the doctor had recommended that exercise. But on the appointed day, while his horse stood saddled at the door, he came in from a short walk, and asked a niece to help him off with his coat, as he wished to lay down. As she did so she perceived the blood was settled under his nails. He flung himself on the bed; concealing his hands under his back; his breathing became difficult, and death soon claimed him for his own.

Sorrow filled the afflicted household when the intelligence reached them. The father saw the messenger approaching, and informed the family the son was coming.

A younger sister and brother were lingering in the last stages of consumption. They were now filled with eager expectancy. The father soon discovered the horse, but not the rider they were expecting, and waited the issue with fearful forebodings.

Loud was the burst of grief that rung the air when the stricken family heard of the death of the absent one in so unexpected a moment; thus crushing out forever the hope that had sprung up in so many hearts of returning health and usefulness.

Upon a post mortem examination, it was discovered that the rupture of a blood vessel was the cause of his death. His lungs were found to be in a bad condition, betraying that the foe of the family had been holding secret revel there.

A day or two later, and the sable plumed angel returned again, and hovered over the gentle sister, casting his shadow upon her brow, and chilling her with his icy breath. His snowy fingers rested upon her fluttering pulses; she cast one fond gaze upon the dear brother that was soon to follow her, bade farewell to her earthly friends, and went with the angel to the spirit land.

The brother lingered till the remains of his sister were laid in the grave, then he followed her, to add another to the long row of headstones that marked the resting place of that stricken family. They sleep together, side by side, ten in number, the oldest one scarce twenty-two years old. As we stand by the spot and read the melancholy tale, we can but exclaim with Ossian, "The flower lifts its green head to the sun. Why dost thou awake me, O gale," it seems to say, "I am wet with the dews of heaven." "The time of my fading is near, and the blast that shall scatter my leaves." "To-morrow shall the traveler come; he that saw me in my glory shall come; his eye shall search the field for me but shall not find me."

A youth of great promise next presents; his mother had many years since fallen a prey to the fatal disease, and although he inherited from her the fearful malady, "the young disease that must subdue at length," had not as yet developed itself. Buoyant with hope and expectation, he was preparing to enter the gospel ministry, having consecrated himself to God and his service. He had entered the institution at North Yarmouth, and by his assiduous attention, almost finished his education. He was expecting soon to launch out upon the broad ocean of public usefulness, but his heavenly Father bid him "come up higher," and he passed on into the more expansive ocean of eternity. The seeds of an inherent disease sprung up and bore early fruit, and deposited this young man in his grave, far from the home and the friends of his childhood. The eye of the stranger rests upon it, the foot of the stranger visits it.

A younger sister too, fell by the same powerful agent far from home, and is buried in a land of strangers. A brother sleeps by his mother's side in the family burial ground.

In another family the mother was called first from a family of little children. She wept in the agonies of death, as she contemplated their bereavement. She pressed to her heart the infant of a few days, and prayed fervently to that God that heareth prayer, to be the God of her dear children, to protect them in their tender age, and lead them in the narrow way that leads to eternal life. After the sands of life had ebbed out, and her loving heart had ceased to feel, the tear-drops that had fallen for her children still lingered upon her cheeks.

A lovely daughter followed her at the early age of sixteen, another ere she reached the meridian of life, leaving seven children. Another daughter passed away just as her sun was verging toward the western hemisphere, leaving a son and daughter. The son soon followed her and was laid by the side of his mother and grandmother.

The crimson spot upon the daughter's cheek, accompanied by the hacking cough, seem to denote that the tardy messenger will soon bear another victim to the mansions of death. Another daughter too is lingering upon the confines of the grave, while the fatal seeds are taking deep root in the constitutions of two of the sons, and heralding by unmistakable evidence the approach of death.

But why particularize? Many, very many who have walked with us side by side, in the sweet associations of life, are mingled with the long train that are buried beneath the "clods of the valley," while there is a long train of living victims marching before the fearful blight to the open tomb.

No monarch sways his despotic sceptre over so numerous a population as this fell destroyer, in his unseen lurking places, "drinking up the very fountains of human life." But when will the sons of men learn to think? with all the blight of death around, cutting one down upon the right hand and another upon the left, the thoughtless crowd pass on, little seeming to heed their own mortality. They look into the open grave, or watch the passing funeral perhaps with a momentary sadness, and turns lightly again to the active concerns of life, mingling in its gaities and dissipation, dancing on to the very whirlpool that is soon to engulf their frail bark, and bear it away where hope can never come.

Happy they who receive instruction from the revelations of God's holy word, and imbibe its precepts into their heart; who, cleansed in a Saviour's blood, are made recipients of his rich grace, and are thus prepared to enter that "land where death comes not."



To Mrs. A—— B——,

On the Death of Her Child.

"Are they not all ministering spirits?"

"Mother, do not weep for me, Shining angels guide my way; And oft they lead me back to thee, Through realms of everlasting day.

I may not burst the spirit's tie, Or lift the dim, mysterious screen, That hides me from thy mortal eye; But I may visit thee unseen.

Night comes not here; no evening shade Ere gathers round the throne of God; And when your setting sunbeams fade, I visit then your lone abode.

The twilight hour was dear to me, With murmur'd tone of evening prayer; When with hands clasp'd upon your knee, And learned to lisp "Our Father" there.

There I first caught the notes of praise, Flowing from a mother's tongue. Which through eternity shall raise A holy, high, angelic song.

And then your thoughts are all of me, So softly nestling by your side; I wait to hear those trembling tones, In which you sang the day I died.

Your patient watch beside my couch, You fain my ev'ry woe beguil'd; For anxiously, and tenderly, You ever watch'd your dying child.

But all your efforts were in vain,— Friends or physicians could not save; For ghastly death his mandate gave, To lay me in the silent grave.

And scarce had rosy finger'd morn Unrolled her earliest tints of gray, To usher in the peaceful dawn Of that delightful Sabbath day,—

When, silently, the angel came, With upraised eye, and beck'ning hand, And gently folding in his arms, Bore me to the spirit land.

Where sweet transporting voices stole On my enraptur'd eye and ear, That spoke the Sabbath of the soul. Ceaseless as the eternal year.

Here angel and arch-angel bow In worship round the great white throne; And ceaseless hallelujahs rise, To the Almighty, Three and One.

Each has a mission to perform, As swift through ambient air they fly; 'Tis mine to minister to thee, And gently woo thee to the sky.

Mother, there are jewels bright Graven on your deathless soul, And brighter shall their radiance glow, While everlasting ages roll.

Mother, they are pure thoughts of heaven, Murmur'd oft upon your ear, Which God to me had kindly given, Your solitary way to cheer.

Mother, these are memories sweet, Deeply treasur'd in your heart, Which time, with his restless change, May never dare to bid depart.

Sometimes across your lap I lie, And breathe that evening prayer again, And looking in your tearful eye, Again repeat that sweet amen.

Then mother, leave your child of earth To moulder back to kindred dust, And trace my new and heav'nly birth, A ransom'd spirit with the just.

And weep not o'er the casket laid Beneath this little heaped up mound. The deathless jewel cannot fade,— A diamond in a Saviour's crown.



An Evening in Our Village.

Why should we wander in the fields of fiction, to cull fancy's flowers to feast a morbid imagination, when there are so many thrilling incidents in the pathway of human life, calculated to awaken the most refined emotions, and stir the deepest currents of the human soul? Would the painter, as he raised his brush to give the last finishing touch to his picture, draw his colors from fancy? Would he not rather imitate the color of the natural rose, copy the forest green, the azure of the sky, or the brilliant hues of the rainbow, as it spans the heavens with its bow of promise?

Fiction may weave her intricate labyrinths and enchain the fancy by wandering in mazy circuits, and weaving her mystic web; but truth will stand in all its primitive lustre, when the foundations of this earth have passed away. Then let me record the truth in preference to fiction.

The clouds hung in heavy dense masses, during the day, while a damp chilly wind from the north-east betokened an uncomfortable winter rain. It was winter, although the bridge of ice that had been formed over the Blackstone was broken up, and floated on its surface in huge masses, as it hurried rapidly along, to empty them into the waters of the Narragansett Bay, reminding the thoughtful observer of the stream of time, bearing away its vast multitudes to the ocean of eternity.

Here, where now stands our beautiful village, a few short years since stood the dense forest—the growth of centuries. Here the rude Indian roamed, in native wildness, hunted his prey, built his council fire, or smoked his pipe of peace. Here, where now stands the temple of the living God, with its heaven directed spire, perchance smoked the blood of some poor victim, as it was offered upon the altar of savage brutality; or the rude wigwam stood.

But all these things have passed, as a tale that is told. They have floated down the current of time, even like the broken masses of ice that are borne so rapidly down our river, and have passed into the broad ocean of eternity.

On the banks of that stream, where the pale face first crossed to hold a council with his red brethren, stands a flourishing village, reared by the hand of civilization, and offering many facilities to the industry of its virtuous and well disposed inhabitants. It would be pleasant to tell a tale of the times of old, of the deeds of the days of other years, of the Indian that paddled his light canoe upon our river; but this is not the purport of the story.

It is to scan the different scenes as they lay spread out before us, upon the map of busy life. The day had closed, dark, dreary and cheerless. The rain and sleet were driven furiously before the wind, and the child of want shrank from the biting blast, as stern necessity drove him forth to meet the peltings of the winter storm.

There was a social gathering at a large, elegantly finished and furnished hall, splendidly illuminated with its brilliant gas lights, diffusing a lustre upon gorgeous trappings with which they were surmounted.

The streets resounded with the rattling wheels of omnibusses, cabs and various vehicles, as they bore the gay and fashionable part of the village to the splendid hall.

Soft music charmed the ear, and floated in sweet melody through the apartment. Beauty was there, with rosy cheek and brilliant eye. Fashion displayed her most tasteful arrangements, and each one seemed vieing with the other in elegance of costume. All looked like the enchanting scenes pictured in fairy tales, and one might almost suppose Alladin's wonderful lamp was still extant, performing its mysterious spells, and casting a supernatural lustre over the gay group that assembled, to dissipate the cheerless gloom that reigned without, by mirth and hilarity. And they joined in the mazy dance, and spent the hours of night in joyous revelry. A sumptuous entertainment was prepared, and everything provided to satisfy the votaries of pleasure.

But as the lively music sounded from that splendid hall, it stole upon the

"Cold, dull ear of death,"

for, but a few rods distant, lay a female, little passed the meridian of life (who had lived in the same village, and trod in the pathway of life with them many years), wrapped in the shroud of death, and next day to be borne away to the tomb, and shut out forever from all the scenes where she had once been an actress. But now she would look out upon the world no more. Her eyes were closed in death, and her ear heard not the wild music that was stealing through her otherwise silent chamber.

All of earth had passed from her vision. Life, with its stern, cold realities, or its light toned revelry, could awaken no response in her inanimate form.

A brother had been summoned from a distant village to attend her funeral. He had travelled, notwithstanding the inclemency of the weather, and when the shades of twilight fell over the earth, he stood by that dearly loved form. Memory brought back the past. That cold, pulseless one was a child again, sporting by his side, prattling upon his knee, and winning attention by the ten thousand witcheries of childhood.

Then, with the rapidity of thought, blooming youth succeeded this age, and she stood, blushing in maiden modesty, the gay young sister of other days; and his heart was filled with sadness as he gazed upon her stiff in the icy arms of death, and felt that she could no more return his affection. He was an aged man, and knew much of the sorrow and the trials of life; he turned, with a tear in his eye, from his loved sister and passed into the street.

The storm was increasing, but he heeded not the peltings of the wintry wind, or the wild music that mingled with its mournful wail, as he passed the luxurious hall, where

"Fashion's gay tapers were lighted."

Other thoughts occupied his mind.

He soon stood by the bedside of a dear daughter, who was passing away from earth, while yet in the bloom and the beauty of youth. She was a wife, and a mother of two sweet children, whose tender age required a mother's watchfulness—a mother's care. But with childlike trust, she had given them back to that God, who had given them to her. Her trust was in him, and now she was ready to follow her dear Saviour into the cold dark grave, with the assurance that she should have a part in the first resurrection. Melancholy sounded the music from that distant ball room, as it stole upon the wings of the winter wind, into the chamber of the dying one. Her ear was listening to catch the notes of angel harps before the throne of God, and her passing spirit was attuned to their melodies. The beauties of the upper world transfixed her rapt vision, and no earthly object stood between her soul and God. And so she passed away, and left to her earthly friends but the frail casket, while the priceless jewel had soared to brighter regions, to glitter in a Saviour's crown.

The father had come just in time to take the last look of his living child, to hear her last words, to witness her last struggle, as the pure spirit departed from earth, to join her sainted mother in the spirit land. He was taking another portion from the cup of affliction, which however bitter to the taste, often sweetens the journey of human life, preparing the recipient better to perform its duties, and bear its trials.

As the stricken father retired to bed, the sound of revelry fell heavily upon an almost bursting heart.

And the dear children, could they listen to its glad strain? O, no; they had seen death cast his marble paleness upon their mother's face; had felt the icy coldness of her pulseness limbs; had called her by the endearing name of mother, and her pale lips answered not, and they had retired with eyes red with weeping; they as yet knew nothing of the extent of their bereavement. The husband, too, had lost the companion of his youth, the mother of his children, and although he possessed like precious faith with her, and kissed the rod with pious resignation; still they were a grief-stricken household, and presented a striking contrast to the gay group that were dancing thoughtlessly away the hours of that solemn night, while the recording angel was taking note of all that was passing beneath his all-seeing eye, in that book that shall be opened when we shall all stand before God, to be judged according to the deeds done in the body.

The music floated on and reached the ear of a poor maniac as he sat by his comfortable fire, listening to the monotonous roar of the distant water fall, and the howling of the wintry winds, as it came surging on, waving the leafless tree and pelting the falling rain against the windows.

"Hark!" said he, springing up, "the bees are swarming; I shall be stung to death," and out he rushed, with a brighter fire in his eye and a more intense one in his brain. Descending the hill, he watched the sylph like forms as they floated on in the mazy dance, declaring the bees were in terrible commotion, and he should be stung to death. With difficulty he was prevailed upon to return to his house, and ever and anon, as the sound of the music reached his ear, he would start and affirm that the bees surely were swarming.

Such is man, the noblest work of God, when bereft of reason to guide and direct him.

Still farther on were young parents keeping anxious watch over a sick infant, whose feeble thread of life seemed trembling upon a very hair. The doctor had said there was no hope; kind, sympathizing friends, as they looked on the sufferings of the dear babe with tearful eyes, had said, there is no hope; and the agonized hearts of the parents echoed back, no hope. But still they did hope. The breath came heavily from the heaving chest, and the blue orbs looked dimly from their half closed lids, while the little sufferer, with burning hand and parched lip, seemed struggling for that life that it had enjoyed but for so brief a space. The parents were young in years and unacquainted with sorrow, and very dear to their loving hearts was the sick infant. They felt they could not part with the dear one. Carefully they nursed the flickering lamp of life: through that dreary winter night, lest some ruder blast should extinguish it forever. Wished they to join the thoughtless throng in the tinselled hall of fashion? O, no, they had rather count the fluttering pulses of their dear boy, cool his fevered brow, and administer the reviving cordial through the weary hours of the night, than to listen to sweetest strains of Orpheus' harp, or thread the winding mazes of the giddy dance.

And so with them the night wore away, the long dark night of suffering to the babe, and watchful anxiety to the parents. But the angel of death that had hovered so long over the darling babe, unfurled his sable pinions and flew away in search of another victim, and he is spared yet a little longer.

Pursuing the way a little farther in another direction, you find another weary watcher by the midnight lamp. An aged woman, who has lived her three score years and ten, sits bolstered up in her chair, toiling for her little remaining sum of existence, which nature seems unwilling to relinquish, although subsisting now upon borrowed time. From an adjoining room comes a frequent hollow cough, and the sunken eye and emaciated frame of the poor girl betray the secret foe, lurking in the hidden springs of life.

Death is no stranger beneath this roof. He has borne away one after another from this numerous household, and laid them down side by side in the silent grave. And now his darts seem aimed at the two only ones of that household, the mother and her daughter. The sons are married and have families of their own, but the mother and this daughter live alone in the home of her youth, the very place, perchance, where she was brought a gay and expecting bride by that husband she is expecting now to follow so soon to the spirit world. Could the pleasures or the gaities of the world cast one cheering beam upon their lonely home? O, no, the religion of Jesus alone can illuminate their benighted hearts, and in "this light they see light," and feel prepared to go when the summons comes.

Following the street, you pass the door of a daughter who is weeping for the recent loss of a mother, who passes suddenly away without a moment's warning, and a widow who mourns a husband, cut off by lingering disease.

A few steps and we reach a cottage, where other parents were watching over a little son of five years, who is wasting away with consumption. His attenuated limbs bear his little frame but feebly, and he often talks of death, for he has recently seen a little sister younger than himself fall a prey to the fearful malady. A burning fever is raging in his veins, and lights up his eye with unwonted brilliancy, as he tossed restlessly from side to side upon his pillow. His silken hair of beautiful brown is brushed smoothly back from his high, marble forehead, while gentle hands apply the cooling bath, to still if possible, its tumultuous throbbings, and he murmurs of sweet sister and of heaven. Soft words of love are whispered in his ear, and he is told of the Lamb of God that bids little children to come unto him.

And thought not these weary watchers of that lonely night, of the revellers in that distant hall? Methinks their hearts went up in fervent prayer to God that he would spare them yet a little longer, for there were immortal souls there, for whom he labored and prayed, who entered the sanctuary and heard the word of God as it fell from his lips, Sabbath after Sabbath, and he felt sensibly that the midnight revel would not prepare the heart to seek God, or make the necessary preparation for death. Towards morning the eyes of the little sufferer closed in uneasy slumber, and the parents too, were refreshed by a short interval of sleep.

Passing yet in another direction was a tall youth, with a subdued expression of countenance, hurrying on, in spite of wind and rain, to the doctor's office, to procure assistance for a sick mother, who was tossing in all the agony of brain fever. The doctor had been called away to visit a little child that had a sudden attack of the croup, that fearful disease that bears so many children to the tomb. He returned again with a sorrowing heart. Heeded he the sweet tones of music that fell upon his youthful ear? wished he to join the gay group as they flitted before the brilliantly lighted, window, and the fairy forms of the fashionable, and the pleasure-seeking met his eye? O, no; there was sorrow in his young heart, and sorrow brooded over the household. Towards midnight the doctor came, and a young daughter, younger than many who graced the festive ball, following his directions, alleviated the sufferings of a sick mother, and wore the weary night away in anxious watchings.

Not till another day dawned, did the rumbling of the carriages cease, that were conveying home the sons and daughters of dissipation. And thus passed the night, leaving no trace upon earth, for the waves of time have obliterated all its footprints. But its record is on high, and it will never be forgotten by the Eternal One, whose eye slumbereth not.

Such is human life, and such is the race of man. Although we are all bound together by one common brotherhood, the song of the gay is ever the funeral dirge to the sorrowing.

Perchance that night might have disclosed still darker pictures in the hidden recesses of our village, for, oh, there are dens of foul pollution, that send their infectious taint over the pure air of our community, calling the blush of shame to the cheek of conscious virtue, and creating an ardent desire in the breast of the philanthropist, to go forth and labor in the vineyard of the Lord, that these foul spots may be washed in his precious blood, and made clean.

O, could all the misery that was extant in the village have been presented to the thoughtless revellers, could they have danced on? Would not the tear of sympathy have moistened the cheek, and the still small voice whispered of a solemn time that must come to them? O, it is wise to receive the admonition, "Be ye also ready, for in such an hour as ye think not, the Son of Man cometh."

Faint, indeed, are the delineations from Memory's tablet, upon this little map, but enough, perchance, to lead the contemplative mind to reflect upon the vicissitudes and changes of its little day, and teach us to prepare for a better world, "where change comes not."



Contemplations in a Grave Yard.

'Twas on one pensive even tide, When restless toil and day had fled; I laid all airy scenes aside, To wander o'er the silent dead.

The rising moon from eastern sky, O'er the lone heath shed languid light, And boding owls with fearful cry Heightened the solemn gloom of night.

With pensive steps I reach'd the pile, Where well wrought limbs return to clay; And tow'ring marble's pompous style Points out the great, the rich, the gay.

But where's ambition's piercing eye, His restless look, his haughty air? They're vanish'd all, and near him lie Frames that once fed on black despair.

What though the marble's rais'd o'er one, To tell his former wealth or worth, While a green turf, or mossy stone, Denote the man of humbler birth.

Yet all in silence mould'ring lie In the cold grave where vapors glide, The beggar here's as fair as he Who rolled in wealth, or swam in pride.

'Neath a green mound there slept a youth, Whose form in life in beauty bloom'd: His manner sweet, his speech was truth, But nought could save him from the tomb.

At little distance from his side, A wild rose shed a pearly tear O'er her who would have been his bride, Had not dread death been thus severe.

I mus'd in silence on their fate, And watch'd the graves where low they lie, Reflecting on their altered state. From nuptial bliss to mould'ring clay,

And such, methinks, the lot of all; We picture joys with eager eye, 'Till death's damp curtains round us fall, And silent in his arms we lie.

Beneath a verdant, grassy mound, Where gemmed with dew the daisy weeps; In death's cold slumber wrapped profound, A gentle mother peaceful sleeps.

No storied urn bespeaks her worth. No epitaph or stone is near; But the wild flow'rs that strew the earth, Are watered oft by many a tear.

And oh, such tribute is more dear— Warm gushing from affection's eye, Than the cold marble's senseless praise, That sheds no tear—that heaves no sigh.

A little path is closely worn, Where prattling children often stray, And o'er their sainted mother mourn, To shield her memory from decay.

And hoary age has sunk to rest, Deep buried 'neath the crumbling sod; No anxious cares disturb his breast,— His ransom'd soul has flown to God.

Weary and sad, he struggled on Life's rugged pathway, till its close; And then, in death, lay calmly down, To slumber in its deep repose.

I turn'd to view a little grave, Where infant sweetness silent slept; There the tall myrtle mournful way'd,— The willow there in sorrow slept.

"Sleep on," I cried, "thy little breast Ne'er knew the heartfelt woes of men; No pain or care disturb thy rest, Or jarring scenes obstruct thy ken.

"Happy, like thee, might I resign This life in Virtue's purest ray, And spring to life and joy divine, Free from this cumbrous load of clay.

But hark! I hear the boding owl, With fearful screams at distance cry; The evening breezes mournful howl, And bats their nightly circles ply.

Thick, sombre clouds obscur'd the sky, And hid the moon's refulgent light— No sparkling star shed cheerful ray. To light the lonely shades of night.

I grop'd my way with careful tread, To shun the cold, unconscious urn, And left the mansions of the dead, Where soon or late I must return.

For I must sleep with ages past, And ages yet to come, Till the last trump of God shall wake Each tenant of the tomb.



A Scene on the Kennebec River.

It was a beautiful morning in early June, and nature was dressed in her beautiful robes of pale green, as the leaves had not yet assumed that deeper hue that the mature rays of a summer sun impart to them. No cloud floated over the blue vault of heaven. The golden sun diffused a radiant light, and shed a sparkling lustre upon the deep, black water of the mighty river, that rolled on in gentle undulating waves, as it was tossed lightly by the sighing breeze that floated over its surface.

Far as the eye could scan were seen the snowy sails, as the mariners pursued their way over the black bosom of the waters to enter the briny Atlantic, that received the waters of the rolling river and mingled them with its own foaming wave. The smaller sail boats were flying before the wind, while innumerable ships lay at rest in the harbor, with snowy sails unfurled, while the rough cry of the sailors broke boisterously upon the morning air.

At the wharf, before the flourishing village that lay reposing on the banks of the river, lay a ferry-boat, impatient to launch away upon the restless waters.

There was hurry and bustle as the time for the boat's departure had arrive, and many wished to be borne to the opposite shore.

Among the rest came a gay group of laughing school girls. Their joyous faces were lit up with bright smiles, and they were chatting gaily of the afternoon's party, and the anticipated evening's walk, heedless of the care worn man of business that shuffled in by their side, or prudent ladies who looked upon the gay party as pert or presuming. They were, many of them, the children of wealth, and waved in their hands rich boquets of beautiful and rare exotics, while others were equally satisfied with more simple flowers. They advanced to the head of the boat, and stood with their hands placed upon its edge, looking over into the deep waters. One beautiful form attracted the attention of all who looked upon her. Her form was slight and delicate. Her complexion was transparent, but a slight tinge of pink rested upon her cheek. Her azure eyes beamed with a sweet expression from their soul-lit depths, while her dark brown hair floated in heavy masses of glossy curls over her ivory neck and shoulders, waving gently in the morning breeze, as it floated lightly around her. She was dressed in a simple white robe, and in her hand held the richest boquet. Her snowy arms were bare almost to the shoulder, and as she stood looking out upon the far off sail, or watching the entrance of her fellow passengers, as they took their respective places in the boat; no eye that looked upon her but lingered in its gaze to admire her beauty.

Then came a rich man and his lady, and there must be room in the boat for their splendid equipage, and so his gay horse stood champing his bitts and curbing his proud head, as his fiery eyes glanced over the glassy surface of the restless waters.

All was ready, the signal was given, and the boat ploughed her way like a thing of life, leaving a long path of white foam in her wake.

Men talked of business, of the prospect of the advancing season, the pressure in the money market, or the perfidy of the opposing political party.

Women talked about their cross children, unfaithful servants, and various domestic trials.

The young girls talked of their school, their boquets, and the many little events in which they were interested, while a group of school boys, who had entered last, and were obliged to stand in the rear of the boat, declared they had never seen the fair queen of that party looking so lovely.

But suddenly there was a jar, a scream, a plunge, and that fairy form was precipitated into the foaming waters beneath, and the boat was gliding on with such rapidity that no arm could reach her. She sank slowly from sight, as her spreading robe buoyed her up for a moment on the waves. Her long curls lay spread out, tossing upon the surface by the motion of the waves, then as they sank slowly from sight, one snowy hand was raised, clutching the boquet with a tenacity so proverbial to the drowning. She then sank to sleep beneath the surging waves that danced lightly on over her death cold bosom.

None could tell exactly how the accident happened. The horse, unused to that mode of conveyance, became restive, and in his plungings to liberate himself precipitated the unfortunate girl, with all her gay dreams of life and pleasure, into a watery grave.

The tide was going out, and she fell into the rapid current, and when her body was recovered no traces of beauty rested upon her marble features, and none who looked upon the black, bloated face and lips of the poor girl could recognize the bright beauty of that joyous morning. The withered boquet was covered with green slime, and like the hand that held it, bore no resemblance to its former self. "Surely in the midst of life we are in death."



To Miss H—— B——,

These Lines Are Affectionately Dedicated By ——.

Maiden, for thee I'd tune the lyre; Might minstrelsy my song inspire; Could I a gifted offering bring, I'd boldly sweep each silken string, And wake a sweet and thrilling strain, Thy heart would echo back again.

But though so feebly sings my muse, I trust her song thou'lt not refuse; But all unaided by the Nine, Accept the boon from friendship's shrine. Youth round thee her garland weaves, Of varied flow'rs and verdant leaves, And leads thee forth in gardens fair, To cull exotics rich and rare. And knowledge bids thy youthful mind, Wisdom, in her choice fruits to find. But sober age holds stern control O'er the deep currents of my soul; I may not pause to cull the flow'rs, That bloom in fancy's fairy bow'rs, But onward press, from day to day, In duty's stern and rugged way; Yet ever upward may I rise, To yon bright world beyond the skies.

Your cheek is ting'd with youthful bloom, While mine is faded for the tomb, And blended time with anxious care, Have left their deep impressions there.

In graceful curls your ringlets stray, While mingle mine with mournful gray. Hope spreads gay roses in your way, And points to many a future day,— And flinging wild her scented flow'rs, Beckons to her rosy bow'rs; But I have seen such hopes decay, And each fair promise fade away; Have seen the syren beckon on:— And spread new charms when one had flown, Till ev'ry blooming flow'ret died, And wither'd leaves hung by my side.

Then, maiden, do not cling to earth, Whose hopes are of so little worth, But now in youth thy heart be given, In childlike confidence, to heav'n; Then hope within your breast shall rise, Ever to bloom in paradise; And you, an angel bright, shall stand, To sing and shine at God's right hand.

Maiden, this is my prayer for thee— Far reaching to eternity; And when, like mine, your setting sun Proclaims life's journey almost run, O, may his last—his sinking ray, Beam on a brighter, happier day. Forgive, dear maid, my truthful strain— Say not, such reas'ning is in vain; Say not that age is ever blind, And disappointment sours the mind; But, oh! the voice of warning heed— And quickly to the Saviour speed; For Jesus tells you "there is room," And to the weary soul says, "Come;" Then lean your head upon his breast. And you shall have the promised rest.

When you shall touch your gifted lyre, Glowing with sweet, seraphic fire, O then, remember me again, And wake for me one pleasing strain.



Lines, Written in an Album.

"Then Jesus said unto her, Mary."

"Mary," the ris'n Saviour said, In accents sweet and low; "Mary:" she rais'd her drooping head, The form she sought to know.

Mary had lingered by the cross, To see her Saviour die; Had seen him wrapp'd in linen fine, In Joseph's tomb to lie.

Now she had come at early dawn, Laden with rich perfume, To shed her tears beside his form— Her fragrance round his tomb.

But, lo! he lives; O, glad surprise! Has ris'n from the grave; And now, before her ravish'd eyes, Proclaims his power to save.

May you, who bear that gentle name, This Saviour's call obey; And he will lead you by his grace, To realms of endless day.

Mary had followed to the cross— Had sought him at the tomb; So may you follow, seek and find; He calls—"there still is room."



A Long Night in the Eighteenth Century.

The hardy and enterprising inhabitants, who first penetrated the eastern forests, to fell their hardy oaks, and build up settlements, in the then remote east, had many difficulties to encounter, which later generations know nothing of. In the latter part of the eighteenth century, two families lived in their log cabins, in the interior of the forest. They had each a small cleared spot of land, that amply repaid their labor, by its rich productions. The morning sun, as he shed his rising beams over the long range of forest trees, glanced smilingly upon their little cultivated spot,

"That bloomed like Eden, in the world's first spring;"

and they were contented and happy. The dense forest trees, waving in the blast, or gently bowing their lofty heads before the milder breeze, made music not unlike the dash of Ocean on his winding shore.

They were far from the abodes of men. The fashions, the vanities and the pleasures of life, held no despotic sway in their breasts. They pursued "the even tenor of their ways," rising before the sun, and retiring almost with his sinking beams.

The cows and sheep went forth to crop the green herbage and luxurious grass, heralding their approach by tinkling bells.

No roads were made, and the citizens pursued their way by trees, stripped of little pieces of bark, by friendly Indians, who went as guides to the pale faces, that had come into their territories, purchased their lands, and distributed the deadly fire-water among them, thus adding fury to their already ferocious natures.

The men were both house carpenters, and one of them a wheelwright; so they were frequently called upon to leave their homes, and go to some distant part, where a new settlement was springing up, to fill the place of the forest trees, that had fallen before the woodman's axe.

In the spring of 1773, the settlement upon the banks of the Kennebec river, now called Gardiner (but then bearing the Indian name of Cobbessy), was progressing rapidly. A saw mill was to be erected upon this rapid stream, that had rolled on for centuries, through the towering forest, only bearing the Indian's light canoe, as it floated over its glassy surface, and the dipping of the paddle, in the dark rolling stream, awoke an answering echo in her wild forest haunts.

And so these men, Mr. Fuller and Capt. Somers, shouldered their tools, and pursued their way by the spotted trees, to the far off settlement, leaving their families in the bosom of the forest, unprotected and alone. Not infrequently did the crackling brush denote the near approach of the sulky bear, or some other wild beast that had heretofore roamed the woods at large, undisturbed, save by the swift-winged arrow of the Indian, as he pursued his prey over the dense forest, but little tamer than the hunted beast. A discharge of the rifle, which they were ever obliged to carry with them, soon caused the enemy to retreat, and leave them to pursue their solitary walk unmolested.

Often would the Indians come along in droves, their small dogs indicating their approach. The chief of one tribe was called Sousup. His wife was a woman of pleasant countenance, and was usually very neatly dressed, having her blanket of snowy whiteness, while her moccasins were of the nicest material. She was covered with wampum, and wore large jewels in her ears and nose, and large silver brooches on different parts of her dress. She never drank the fire-water, and used to trade with the pale faces, as she was so gentle in her manners that she easily won her way into their houses and hearts.

It was sunset, when Mrs. Fuller had milked her cows, and performed the domestic duties that devolved upon her during her husband's absence. She had laid her sleeping infant from her arms, and her other children were placed snugly in bed, when she was startled by seeing an Indian's dog emerging from a clump of bushes that stood a few yards from the house, and come bounding towards the door.

Her heart palpitated violently, for frequent reports reached their ears, of whole families falling a fearful prey to savage brutality. Soon she heard the Indian dialect vociferated in loud voices, while occasionally a loud savage yell rang fearfully through the air, blending a wild chorus with the strains of the warbling birds, as they carolled their vesper hymns upon the neighboring branches, before retiring to their nests. Hastily she closed her doors, and skulked away in a secret corner, hoping they would pass on, and not disturb her. She soon became aware, by their fierce words, that there were many of them in a state of intoxication.

The heart of the lonely woman almost died within her, as she heard their heavy tramp before the door. She had taken the precaution to draw in the leather string that was attached to the wooden latch, to raise it, thus betraying her own secret. After pounding upon the door for some time, and threatening to break it down if it was not opened, the storm subsided, and she hoped, by the sound of retreating footsteps, they were pursuing their journey.

She was soon undeceived, by hearing her own name called, by the gentle voice of Sousup's wife, or "squaw," as he called her.

She stepped forward and opened the door, and discovered a large horde of red men, wrapped in dirty blankets, reeling under the influence of the fire-water. The squaws were in a squalid condition, and equally drunk with the men, while the papooses, that were placed in sacks upon their backs, peeping up, with their bare heads and dirty faces, added to the wretchedness of the scene, and the sight of them blanched the cheek of the poor woman, as she tremblingly looked upon them.

Dove Eye marked her fear, and informed her, in broken English, that the Penobscot tribe had joined with them, and they were going towards the rising sun, to hunt moose and deer, and make mats and baskets, to carry to Boston.

"But," added she, "Sousup drink fire-water and git much drunk; me feel bad, but Dove Eye no help it."

She told her they were going to have a pow-wow, and wished to go into a little cleared spot, in the edge of the forest, near her dwelling. Mrs. Fuller dared not refuse, and so she tremblingly consented.

She told her tribe the result of their confab, and they came forward, to a man, and laid down their rifles, tomahawks and scalping knives at her feet, saying,

"Me no hurt white squaw."

They collected a large pile of brush, kindled their fire, lit their pipes, and prepared their evening meal, after which they commenced their savage revelry.

They daubed their faces with red paint, while their greasy black hair hung in dishevelled masses down their backs, and waved to and fro as they jumped or ran, and performed the various evolutions of their mazy dance.

Mrs. Fuller lit no candle during that fearful night. She watched their dusky forms, as they flitted by, dimly seen through the trees, by the glaring blaze of the fire, that crackled up, throwing a flickering light upon the majestic forest trees that waved in solemn grandeur above their heads, and sighed mournfully as the night winds floated among their branches. The Indians formed a circle round the fire, by joining hands, and their frantic gestures were teriffic to behold, and their wild shrieks rent the air. Twice, and twice only, the fearful war-whoop resounded, filling the heart of that lonely watcher with indescribable fear.

It was past midnight; the moon had passed her zenith in the sky, and the swarthy band seemed frantic with their wild orgies and intoxication.

Many had fallen, beastly drunk, while others swayed like the forest trees, rocked by the wintry whirlwind.

Dove Eye sat on a mossy rock looking upon the scene with a melancholy expression of countenance. Near her lay stretched upon the bare ground, Eagle Eye, the wife of the swarthy chief, who had joined their tribe in their hunting excursions.

Suddenly a furious din arose, and it was evident that anger was added to the other debasing passions that were holding control over their benighted souls. Furious was the strife of words, and fearful menaces and threats fell from brutal, savage lips.

Suddenly the stranger chief seized a burning torch, and accompanied by a fierce looking companion, strode hastily toward the house. Dove Eye saw their movements and sprang hurriedly to their side, endeavoring to stop their progress; but they pushed her aside and proceeded. Mrs. Fuller, too, saw them through the small pane of glass that was placed in her board window, and hope almost forsook her. They passed on: the light gleamed through the pane and flickered upon the face of her sleeping infant. She heard distinctly their voices in low, guttural tones, and their heavy tread fell painfully upon her ear. They passed round the corner of the house, and she lost sight and sound of them. She opened the door into an adjoining apartment, and the light burst upon her with such intense brightness that she thought at first they had fired the house. Upon approaching the window, she again discovered them by the wood pile searching for the axe, which they soon raised, and cutting several sticks of wood, bore it away to replenish their fire.

In a short time their dusky forms wrapped in their dirty blankets, were stretched upon the damp ground, with their greasy heads turned towards the fire, and sleep descended upon their weary lids, and silence once more reigned round that forest home.

Dove Eye still reclined upon the rock, watching the moon as it hid its silver beams behind a dark mountain, whose eternal summit lay stretched along the western horizon.

Mrs. Fuller, too, kept anxious watch. She knew from many of them she had nothing to fear; they had often warmed themselves by her fire, had eaten of her bread, and in many ways been partakers of her hospitality, and she knew the Indian never forgets a kindness.

She gently hushed the feeble wailings of her infant, lest it should awaken them to savage rage. She almost resolved to take her children and leave the house while that savage band were weighed down by sleep and intoxication. But she feared it might exasperate them if they found her gone, and so she waited the event, lifting her heart to God in prayer, for he was the refuge of that christian woman, in every hour of trial.

The sun came up at length, and shed his glorious beams over the face of rejoicing nature. The birds sang their matin hymns of praise. The dew drops glittered upon the green grass and tender herbage, and the restless cows lowed, impatient to wander forth at their accustomed hour. The children arose, refreshed by their slumber, and as they looked out upon the dusky sons of the forest, their hearts quaked within them, and stealing silently into a corner, they awaited their fate with pale faces.

Dove Eye stole quietly from the rock, and kindling the almost extinguished fire, hastily prepared their simple morning meal. She took from a deer skin knapsack, which she carried upon her back, a neat white cloth, and repaired to the house of Mrs. Fuller, wishing to exchange some nice dried moose meat for some new milk. Mrs. Fuller hastily milked, and filling a large pail, Dove Eye bore it to their place of rendezvous, and the cows went forth to crop the dewy grass.

She then awoke her husband, and soon the dusky group were partaking of their morning repast, with evident satisfaction, after which they made preparations to depart. They came, one after another, to get their hunting utensils and their implements of war, from Mrs. Fuller, telling her,

"Me no forget white squaw—me bring moose meat for white squaw."

Soon they marched away, in Indian file, and as their dusky forms disappeared, one after another, behind the forest trees, her heart rose in thanksgiving to God, for her preservation. Dove Eye lingered till the rest of her tribe vanished from sight; there was sadness in her countenance, and sadness in her voice, as she said,

"Dove Eye see white squaw no more. Dove Eye go toward the rising sun, but Dove Eye come no more."

Mrs. Fuller pressed her hand affectionately, and commending her to the Great Spirit, she departed to overtake her companions. The children emerged from their hiding places, a cheerful fire burned upon the hearth, and the weary mother prepared the morning meal for herself and her children, with a grateful heart.

When the wandering tribe returned again towards the setting sun, Dove Eye was not with them—she had "gone to the land where her fathers had gone."

Years passed on—years of trial, of anxiety, and of change. The tall forest trees gave place to cultivated fields and blooming orchards.

Roads traversed the vast country in every direction. Numerous villages rose up, on the flourishing banks of the winding Kennebec, and its proud waters bore many a whitened sail upon its surface.

The red men of the forest have passed away, like the withered leaves before the autumnal gale, and the wild bear and deer are now strangers in their secluded haunts.

The young wife and mother passed from the sober matron to mature age, and there were deep furrows upon her cheek, and the frosts of many winters whitened her hair; but when she related the events of that night to her grand-children, or great-grand-children, she ever spoke with trembling voice, and called it the "long fearful night."



On Hearing a Bird Sing,

December, 1826.

Cease, little warbler, cease thy lay, For summer, with her sunny day, Far to the south has fled away; And autumn's chilly finger Has touch'd the leaf on ev'ry tree,— And blighted everything we see; Then, warbler, do not linger.

Fly where groves of citron bloom, And orange orchards shed perfume, And birds of ev'ry varied plume With music charm thee: Fly, little warbler, quickly fly, Far, far away to southern sky, Where nought can harm thee.

For, oh, it is no careless voice— That bids thee fly and seek for joys, And shun the rushing whirlwind's noise, That soon will pass before thee. But one, whose bosom knows full well, The heartless scene, the winter spell, That soon will hover o'er thee.



Variety.

Variety is sweet to me As many blossoms to the bee; And I will roam from flower to flower, Sipping honey ev'ry hour; I will wander with the bee, And drink thy sweets, variety.

But if I idly flit away, All my sunny summer day, Dancing round from flow'r to flow'r; What shall grace my winter bow'r? No, I'll not wander with the bee, So tempt me not, variety.

But I will prune my myrtle tree, That in winter green will be, When other flow'rs are pale and dead: Their color gone, their beauty fled, No, I'll not wander with the bee; So away, variety.

My myrtle then shall be my care, That's green and fragrant all the year; I will not spend the fleeting hours Flitting round more fragrant flow'rs. I'll not wander with the bee, So begone, variety.

This in youth should be our care, To improve for future years; For if we flit from toy to toy, Chasing the painted bubble, joy, No real substance shall we find To nourish or improve the mind. Then I'll not wander with the bee Since it leads to misery.

And youth's fair morn will vanish soon, And the bright sun grow dim at noon; Trials will rise along the way, To cloud the dreary winter day; Then I'll not wander with the bee, So farewell, variety.



Henriette Clinton;

Or,

Reverses of Fortune.

At the foot of the Alleghany Mountains stands the flourishing village of Hollidaysburg. On the banks of the blue Juniata, that winds on till it buries its waters in the rolling Susquehannah, stood the elegant mansion of Esquire Clinton, the village lawyer. He had lost his young wife many years since, and Henriette, his only child, shared largely in the affection of her father. Her every wish was gratified, and she was educated in the fashionable etiquette of the place. She was the guiding star in the fashionable circle in which she moved, and a general favorite.

But there came a change. The father was seized with sudden illness, and in a few short hours was no more. The grief-stricken Henriette had watched with an agonized heart the progress of the disease, had attended to his wants, and supplied his necessities with her own hands. A skillful physician had done all that medical aid could do, but nothing could avail. The grim messenger lingered not, and the beautiful Henriette was left sole mistress of the splendid mansion.

But Frederic Clinton had made preparation for that event, and his lamp was trimmed and burning when the Master came.

Henriette, too, had given her heart to God, while the freshness of youth was yet upon it, and now he supported her in her hour of trial. Her father was borne to the grave, with all the splendor of wealth, a long train of sympathizing friends following in the procession, and showing every attention to the bereaved orphan, who was the only mourner.

Henriette returned with an aching heart, to the home of her childhood, and seated herself in her father's library, overwhelmed with grief.

It was a cheerless autumn day, and nature seemed sympathizing in her sorrow. The fitful gusts of wind came sighing down the mountains, and sweeping over the usually placid waters of the Juniata, tossed its waves into tumultuous motion, and drove it more rapidly on in its serpentine course. The beautiful magnolia that stood before the window, was filled with its second crop of yellow flowers, that were faded and ready to pass away, and the surging blasts swept them unceremoniously from the branches, as it came sighing down the mountains, and sweeping along the valley. The sun had long since hid himself behind the summit of the eternal hills, that she had loved to watch with her father, from that window, while learning lessons from his lips, of the grandeur and sublimity of God, who spake that stupendous chain of mountains into existence. And her thought was turned to that God, who has promised to be "the father of the fatherless." To him she knelt—to him she prayed. Soothed and comforted, she arose and entered the parlor. Sympathizing domestics awaited her pleasure, and obeyed her commands.

Proper measures were taken for an investigation of Mr. Clinton's affairs, and the estate was pronounced insolvent, and all was offered for sale. At first Henriette could scarcely believe the assertion, but when she became convinced of its truth, she nerved her mind to meet the trial, relying upon that God "who tempers the wind to the shorn lamb."

She immediately dismissed her domestics, who had been faithful so long to the family, watching over their young mistress, during her childhood and early youth, and now they felt grieved to leave her. She gave each one a present from her own treasures, procured good places for them, retaining only the dear old nurse in her service, for a few days, till the auction had taken place.

Henriette had never been accustomed to labor, and old Mary was surprised upon seeing her enter the dining room, with her glossy brown hair parted neatly over her high marble forehead, clad in a simple gingham, which she had prepared for a morning dress, with a brown linen apron, to assist her in making the necessary arrangements for her removal and the coming sale.

The rooms were put in the best possible order, and the luxurious furniture arranged with great care, that everything might show to the best advantage. She selected a few choice volumes from the library, and placed them in a large trunk, which was to contain her own wardrobe, and which she had decided upon keeping, if circumstances would permit.

This had been her favorite room; one window looked out upon the mountains, that lifted their heads in majestic grandeur, and seemed supporting the very clouds upon their lofty summits, while their jagged sides looked as though they would drop upon the valley below. But they had stood for ages the same, braving the fury of the wintry storm as its surging blasts swept over them, or parched by the burning rays of the noonday sun, as he poured his fierce scorching beams upon them. She had looked upon them too in the twilight hour, when the coming darkness would present strange, mysterious shadows, and the craggy rocks would assume the forms of men, and fancy would conjure up a lawless band of midnight plunderers emerging from their dark caves, upon the mountain side.

But now she was looking out of that window perhaps for the last time, and the unbidden tear would spring to her eye. The books were nicely dusted, the comfortable stuffed rocking chair stood in its usual place where her father used to love to sit so well, and a splendid ottoman stood before it, which was usually her seat. Her elegant little chair covered with crimson velvet, stood by the window, where she ever loved to linger to look out upon the mountains, always finding some new trace of beauty, as she gazed upon their cloud capped summits. But now she must linger no longer; the rich covering was placed exactly square upon the elegant little table, and every particle of dust was banished from the room, and there were duties elsewhere that demanded her attention. As she turned to leave the room, she raised her eyes to the portraits of her parents that hung suspended on the wall opposite her, in heavy gilt frames. The likenesses were very natural, and now seemed smiling upon her with life-like affection. At this time the man entered with whom she had procured board, and who had kindly offered to assist in removing any articles she might wish to convey to his house. The dear resemblances of her idolized parents were removed from the spot they had occupied so many years, to be carried to a stranger's home. Henriette felt less regret at parting from the place now those loved faces were removed. There were many little treasures associated with dear memories she would gladly have taken, but a strict sense of honor forbade her. She turned away, locking the door, but leaving the key in it, to be turned next by a stranger's hand. She drew up her music stool, and seating herself upon it touched the keys of her piano with a skillful hand, and sang with a trembling voice,

"Farewell, farewell, is a lonely sound."

She closed the instrument as she finished the pieced saying,

"It is the last time."

There was one hour before the auction, and already were curious eyes peering round the premises. Every thing being arranged to their minds, Henriette dismissed the dear old nurse with many tears and a generous reward. She would live near by and would see her every day, and this was a source of great comfort to both.

Henriette now ran down the beautiful terraced walk, through her father's garden, till she reached a beautiful arbor on the brink of the river, where she had spent so many happy hours. Here was her guitar, her father's flute, and the book they had last read together. She seated herself upon the richly cushioned seat, and looked upon the winding waters that seemed mocking her sad heart as they danced sparkling on beneath the mellow rays of the autumnal sun, its bosom ruffled by the autumnal breeze. At the foot of the terrace her fairy skiff lay moored, which used to dance upon the wave by moonlight, while she and her father made the air resound with the melody of their music; but there was little time to linger here.

She put the little arbor in order, and repaired next to her conservatory, filled with rich and rare exotics, took a hasty glance, moving the choice plants into the position that best suited her good taste, and wiping the dust from its polished shelves. Her father's chair occupied its place by his favorite window that looked out upon the Juniata that was indistinctly seen, peeping its little spots of blue through the thick leaves of the plants that almost hid it from view. She took a last look, passing on to the aviary, where a choice collection of birds filled the ear with their melody. Old nurse had attended to this department, and she caressed her pets, and smoothed their feathers, and breathing a sad adieu, turned to take a last look at her favorite Sullensifadda, as she had named her noble steed. She patted his neck, told him coaxingly he would never again climb the mountain pass with her upon his back; took a last look of her father's splendid saddle horse of dapple grey, and his jet black span of carriage horses, and passed round through the richly cultivated grounds, and gardens where every thing that wealth could procure lay spread out before the eye. She took a hasty look, a hasty leave of all and felt that sense of desolation known to almost every human heart, when called upon to part from dear familiar objects. She looked at her elegant gold watch, and finding her time had expired, returned to the house. Already there had many arrived who wished to attend the auction. Henriette entered a small apartment, seated herself upon a low stool, and wept as she heard the unfeeling remarks and low jests, as the vulgar crowd pulled about the furniture, turning it from side to side, declaring they had no idea Esq. Clinton's mansion was so meanly furnished. But we will not dwell upon this painful scene.

Mr. Charles Norcross purchased the house with all its appurtenances. The furniture was distributed about here and there among the wealthy citizens, who wished to add some article of luxury to their establishment. And all was gone. Sold for less than half its value, and poor Henriette had the mortification of hearing that the debts were not cancelled. So she disposed of her gold watch and pencil, her father's watch, a box of rich jewelry, and every available article in her possession to contribute her mite to keep dishonor from resting upon her father's name. She then went forth penniless upon the world. But there was a light in her eye and firmness in her step that told of a "will to do, a soul to dare." She had been educated in the customs of the village, and had been an aristocrat. Now she had another lesson to learn, a sad lesson speaking of the depravity of the human heart, and now she must learn all the cold heartlessness of that world that had heretofore shone so brightly upon her pathway. She did not once think in her grief that her change in fortune would make any change in friendship's tone, but alas! the society in which she had moved was very, very exclusive, and to labor with the hands was to bar the door of that society forever against one.

Henriette at first did not realize this, and when she met her former gay companions, was surprised when they passed her with an averted eye, or a slight nod of recognition. Frequently was she called upon to meet that sudden death chill that falls so often upon the human heart, when the fond affections of many years gush warmly up to the eye and lip, as we meet some long cherished friend who passes us by with a cold, scornful glance. O this is poverty's bitterest curse, and this too must be met. Those who might have removed many a sharp thorn from the pathway of the lonely Henriette, but added sharpness to their point, and made her feel and deeply feel,

"Man's inhumanity to man, Makes countless thousands mourn."

The poor girl felt there was no time to sit still, for she was a destitute orphan, and she must try to help herself, and so she repaired to Mrs. Cobb, the most fashionable dress maker in the village, to see if she could learn her trade.

Matters were satisfactorily arranged, and she commenced immediately. A willing hand and active mind made the task easier than she had anticipated. It was soon a matter of conversation through all the village, when it became known that the haughty Henriette Clinton was going to be a dress maker, and many were the remarks that were made upon her everlasting gingham dress, for her nice sense of propriety prevented her from wearing the rich articles of apparel contained in her wardrobe; and at present she could procure no other. She formed the resolution sometimes of disposing of some of her costly garments to relieve her present necessity, but they had been selected by her dear father, and were all that remained to her as a link of her past intercourse with him, and so she clung to them as dear remembrances of the past, the happy past.

She sat through the long weary hours with her eyes bent upon her work, and made rapid proficiency in the art she was acquiring.

Mr. Norcross, who purchased the Clinton estate, was a man of a low sordid mind not at all calculated to appreciate the elegance of his domicile. He was a merchant, and had rapidly come into possession of great wealth, and wishing to climb a little higher upon the ladder of aristocracy, he thought a purchase of the lawyer's splendid establishment would forward his progress. Therefore, selling his own place at a very high price, and purchasing that at an equally low one, did not much diminish his hoarded gold. But after all they were not the Clintons. It was only Mr. Norcross the store-keeper, and they had many steps to climb before they could reach that position in society they were so desirous of attaining. They bowed to one, scraped to another, parties were made, and many means devised, all of which were accompanied with disappointment, as the least desired would come, and those for whom the party was made would just as surely stay away.

Mrs. Norcross was a large coarse woman, with red hair, light blue eyes, and freckled face, but with a good humored expression of countenance. Her two daughters, Araminta and Clarinda, were not very refined in their manners, owing to a deficiency in their education, but were good hearted, cheerful girls. Araminta was much pleased with Henriette's horse, but did not appreciate the name, and declared he should be called Selim, for she knew she had read of some great man who had a horse by that name, and who ever heard of one named Sullensifadda, ugly name. She mounted him one day, gaily caparisoned, but he being equally unaccostomed to his new name and rider, soon convinced her he had a light pair of heels.

Henriette sat busily at work by the window, when the clatter of the well known hoofs sounded upon her ear, and she raised her eyes just in time to see her well remembered steed flying toward the mountain pass with the speed of lightning, while the frightened Araminta was clinging to his mane to prevent falling to the ground, her long riding dress and veil were streaming behind her their full length in the wind, which was blowing pretty briskly, and her small riding-cap was drawn a little farther upon one side than the rules of gentility seemed to require. Henriette pitied the poor girl, but she could not help smiling at her ludicrous appearance. She turned pale when she saw the horse turn suddenly down a narrow path that led to the river, plunge into its dashing waves, and swimming round a circuitous route, spring back upon the shore, and setting his face towards home, bore back the mortified girl all wet and dripping through the streets at too rapid a rate for any one to interfere with his arrangements, arriving at home apparently well satisfied with his performance.

Months passed away, such months as Henriette had never known before. She could have borne her toil, her simple fare, and the ten thousand deprivations she was subjected to, had this been all; but the averted looks of her friends were more than all these. She used to sit a little while in the twilight hour upon her parents' graves, and recall their loved forms and tender words, and people her imagination with by-gone scenes, and then, as she contrasted the present, her cherished text would come to illuminate her mind and calm her troubled spirit, "all things work together for good to them that fear God," and she was comforted and strengthened to go on her weary way, for this took in life with all its little incidents, its every day trials, and she returned to the active duties of life, realizing that "this is not our home."

Ere the spring returned she had accomplished her wish, and entered into many families as dress maker where she used to be admitted as an equal, if not superior. She maintained her dignity of deportment, for now she well knew poverty did not deteriorate from worth, a lesson perhaps she too might have been slow to learn under some circumstances, but which now had been taught her by stern necessity, and her rigid lessons are never soon forgotten.

She had taken the rich trimming from some of her plainest dresses, and wore them when she could not possibly avoid it. She did her work with great neatness and dispatch, and was supplied with all she could possibly do, so that she remunerated the kind hearted woman who had boarded her through her apprenticeship, and been very attentive to her in many ways, for she truly pitied the poor orphan.

In the spring Mr. Clinton's vacant office was again occupied by a young lawyer, who came into the village, from New York, named Henry Lorton, and half the young ladies' heads were turned, by the beauty and elegance of the young northerner. Parties were formed, walks projected up the mountains, moonlight sails upon the silvery bosom of the Juniata, and every means devised to draw the young lawyer into company, and love with the southern beauties; but they declared his heart was as cold as the region he came from.

All these things Henriette heard, as she sat plying her needle, or stood fitting a dress to the forms of some of her gay companions; but now her interests were separate from theirs, and she toiled on, through the weary day. There were some who appreciated her motives, and spoke kindly to the poor orphan, and the sweet consciousness of well doing sweetened her cup of toil.

Henry Lorton was educated upon liberal New England principles, and his mother was a dress-maker before her marriage with his father, and besides, he had ever been taught to respect the industrious part of the community, and his high minded principles revolted from the overbearing aristocracy of the place, and therefore, he appeared reserved to those with whom he associated.

Henriette felt grieved as she visited her father's grave; there was no monument erected at his head, while at her mother's stood an elegant polished marble one, of great value, having a female bearing an infant in her arms, chiselled upon it, and this one thought occupied her mind; she would rise early and eat the bread of carefulness, might she but erect a monument to her father's grave; and often she burned the midnight lamp, and rose before the stars had faded from the sky, to accomplish her holy purpose.

A young lady, who was married about that time, saw and wished to purchase an elegantly trimmed satin dress, and Henriette assented, thinking the value of it would be more sacred to her eyes, in her father's monument, than elsewhere. The young lady paid her the full value of this and several other articles of clothing, and she soon had the pleasure of seeing the splendid monument reared over her father's grave.

Ellen Horton had ever met Henriette with a cordial greeting, and she did not feel the same shrinking when she was requested to spend a few days at the residence of the wealthy Edward Horton that she did in going to many other places, and she went with a cheerful heart to prepare the splendid bridal dress for Ellen.

Next day, Charles Hunter, the future bridegroom, arrived from Providence, the future home of the fair Ellen, and the young ladies and gentlemen of the place were invited to spend the evening.

Mr. Horton was formerly from Philadelphia, and an intimate friend of Charles Hunter's father, who was a sea captain, and being shipwrecked during one of his voyages, was conveyed in a pitiful condition to the house of Mr. Horton, and thus commenced an ardent friendship, to be ended only by death.

The nuptials of Charles and Ellen were looked forward to with great interest, by both families. Especially, was Mrs. Hunter, much pleased, as she was an invalid, and had no daughter.

But evening came—bright, beautiful evening, and with it came bright, beautiful eyes—bright, beautiful faces, and all was gaiety and joyousness, In the brilliantly illuminated parlors of Mr. Horton. Henriette, yielding to the wishes of Ellen and her mother, and the express commands of Mr. Horton, consented to join the party. She entered the room with the dignity of a queen; but the scornful toss of many a young head, and the averted gaze of many a familiar eye, brought the deep blush of wounded feelings to her cheek, ere she reached her seat. As she raised her eyes she met those of Henry Lorton fixed upon her, with an expression that her woman's intuitive sense easily read.

They had frequently met before, but had never formed any acquaintance.

Each one was winning a name. Henry Lorton had made rapid advancement in his profession, and stood high in the estimation of his fellow men, for honesty and integrity of principle.

Many a match-making mother would gladly have entrapped him for her daughter, and many a daughter, perchance, might have accepted his hand, had it been offered, but it was not. No one could elicit anything beyond politeness from him.

He turned to a dark-eyed beauty, who sat beside him, asking her if she was acquainted with Miss Clinton.

She blushed, stammered,

"Why, no; I am not now—that is, I used to be when she went into society, that is before her father's death—before she was a dress-maker."

Henry turned away, disgusted with this indefinite intelligence. For a moment a slight smile of scorn rested upon his lip, and a darker expression shaded his countenance; but it lingered not. The usual happy smile returned again, and holy charity came back to his heart.

The evening passed sadly to Henriette. She was with her dear schoolmates—the friends of her early days, and her heart yearned for the dear familiar tones that then fell upon her ear, and in spite of her every effort, the tear trickled down her cheek. She turned to the window, and looked out upon the blue waters and the grey sides of the lofty mountain, that seemed looking down upon her in sympathy, like the Mighty Power that created it.

She was roused from her reverie by the voice of Ellen, who presented Mr. Lorton, he having earnestly solicited an introduction. They conversed pleasantly upon the beauties of the surrounding scenery, and before the party broke up he requested permission to visit her at her boarding house, the next evening.

There were some sly glances, but it was the independent Henry Lorton, and little was said.

The next evening he visited Henriette, offered her his heart and hand, and was accepted. They appointed an early day for the wedding. Henry adding,

"We will give the people an agreeable surprise."

She finished Ellen's work. The happy pair were united, and started for Providence. Henriette declined taking any more work, as she affirmed she must take a few stitches in her own wardrobe.

Great was the consternation when the banns of marriage between Henry Lorton and Henriette Clinton were published, the Sabbath preceding their wedding. Many a deep flush darted over the youthful cheek, and many a head was tossed scornfully, and a sea of eyes were turned towards the humble seat Henriette usually occupied.

Arrayed in a simple robe of India muslin, Henry led the blushing Henriette to the altar of Hymen. They were acquainted with each other's characters, in the abstract.

After a pleasant tour north, they returned again to the village, and Henriette was surprised when they arrived there, to find the carriage stop at the home of her childhood.

Mr. Norcross, failing from his former premises, to reach the station he wished in society, was about returning to Philadelphia, and Henry Lorton, who in reality was a very wealthy man, had purchased it, unbeknown to any one.

The dear familiar faces of her parents were again hung in the old familiar places, upon the library walls, beaming upon her with looks of fond affection, and shedding the sweet smile of earlier days upon her. The books were neatly arranged on the polished shelves, and as she again resumed her accustomed seat by the window, and looked out upon the summit of the lofty mountains, they seemed like old familiar friends, welcoming her return, and assumed the strange, mysterious shapes, that so attracted her childish gaze; and the trees that stood nodding in the pure winds of heaven, seemed beckoning her to their cooling shades, and she felt that the sunlight of her early home was again shedding its glad beams around her, and enjoyed that subdued happiness, that only can be learned by an acquaintance with sorrow.

Often as she thus sat in the pensive twilight hour, listening to the murmur of the evening breeze, the voices of her dear parents would seem stealing upon her ear in well remembered tones, whispering of happiness and heaven; and she felt a sweet and holy calm steal over her spirits, and felt that "angels indeed ministered" unto her.

Henry invited her to ride with him, and her beautiful Sullensifadda stood pawing at the door, richly caparisoned, while the groom held her father's dapple grey by the bridle for Henry. As they galloped slowly up the mountain pass, the monuments of her dear parents glittering in the sun admonished her that connubial bliss cannot shield from death, for her mother had fallen a victim when she was a young and happy bride, and her young heart had just felt the dawnings of a mother's love. She raised her thoughts to God in fervent supplication, that He still would be the Father of the fatherless.

It was painful to Henriette to witness the cringing servility of many who formerly treated her with contempt; but she had learned many useful lessons in poverty, that affluence never would have taught her, and she ever endeavored to throw the sweet garb of charity over the frailties of her fellow men, and especially did the destitute orphan ever find sympathy and assistance from her generous aid. Fleeting years have borne away many of the actors in this little drama, and the grass grows green upon their graves. Other eyes have learned to look upon the mountains, and trace ideal imagery upon their shadowy sides. Little feet imprint the terraced walk to the winding banks of the blue Juniata, and watch the bubbles that float upon the stream. No change had passed upon the silver bosom of the waters.

Henriette is happy in the dear old home. Her old nurse is the nurse of her children. A manly form is by her side; tender words are spoken in a deep-toned voice; but it is the husband of her youth instead of the father of her childhood. Happy in the affections of her husband and children, and in the faithful performance of those sweet duties that devolve upon her as a wife and mother, Henriette spends her useful life in the exercise of those virtues she only learned from reverses in fortune. Henry too is happy. Disgusted with flattering attentions paid to wealth, he had won him a name and a bride, while his circumstances were unknown. He had watched unobserved the patient endurance and unwavering industry of Henriette Clinton, and resolved they should not go unrewarded.

The smile of heaven rests upon the happy household, and it is invoked by the voice of ardent prayer, and the family kneel together around the family altar, and the rich, deep-toned voice of Henry offers up the morning and evening sacrifice, rendering praise and thanksgiving to the giver of every good and perfect gift.



The Child.

Laughing child of the noble brow, Whither, say, whither comest thou? I've been wandering long in sunlit bow'rs, Chasing butterflies and flow'rs; And this bright garland round my hair, Is one that I've been twining there.

Happy child of the garland gay, Whither wanderest thou to play? I've been floating bubbles on silver streams: Printing the sand with golden dreams; I've wandered widely all the day, And feel much wearied with my play.

Gentle child of the languid brow, What is this comes o'er thee now? My wearied limbs are filled with pain, A scorching fever burns my brain; Hope dances not before my eyes, But only points beyond the skies.

Wasted child of the marble brow, Mysterious death steals o'er thee now. How pale and ghastly is thy cheek, Thy quiv'ring lips refuse to speak; Fluttering and pausing comes thy breath:— It ceases now, thou 'rt cold in death.

There hangs the wreath which yesterday, Like thee, was blooming bright and gay; Emblem still, its leaves are dead, Their colors gone, their beauty fled; But withered roses shed perfume, That live beyond the mould'ring tomb.

Happy child of the angel brow, Brighter wreaths entwine thee now; Thy paths are spread thro' fairer bow'rs, Adorned with amaranthine flow'rs, And ever happy thou wilt be, Thro' a blest eternity.

But I must bid thee farewell now, Beautiful child of the death cold brow.



Lines, Written on the Death of Ellen A—— B——.

Could infant grace and beauty's bloom Turn fate's decrees aside, Death had not borne her to the tomb,— Thy Ellen had not died.

But God, in mercy, from his throne Looks down, on earth below, And plucks from thence, to be his own, The fairest flowers that grow.

What once was clay, suff'ring, distress'd, Subject to pain and ire,— A happy spirit, with the bless'd, Now tunes a seraph's lyre.

One little lock of silken hair Is all that's to thee given;— The rest lies buried deep in earth,— The soul with God in heaven.

The night winds sigh around her grave, The night dews there descend; And there the tears of anguish lave Thy pallid cheeks, my friend.

But, oh! forbear, nor let thy tears, Drop on this mould'ring sod;— Reflect, 'tis dust that slumbers here, The spirit's with its God.

For ere her fragile life had closed, What blissful hopes were given;— Those parted lips and beaming eyes Spake less of earth than heaven,

And soon thy dream of life will close,— Its hopes and joys be o'er; In death's cold arms thy limbs repose,— Thy soul to glory soar.

And then, perhaps, this cherub form, From sin so soon set free, May, with a daughter's greeting warm, Be first to welcome thee.

Perhaps, the joys on earth denied, In full fruition given, May more abundant be supplied, For rip'ning thus, in heaven.

Perhaps, 'mid splendor spread around, Which thou shalt see, and hear, Mother, may be the sweetest sound That strikes thy ravished ear.

Then do not mourn those early called To yonder blissful sky,— They drink full draughts of living bliss, From founts that never dry.



The Order of Nature.

The strictest harmony and order pervade nature in all her works. She is governed by laws and regulations which the nicest art may attempt in vain to imitate. If we contemplate the azure sky, with all its glittering host of golden stars, and watch them as they run their nightly course through the boundless fields of ether, we shall readily perceive they are led by a systematic hand.