Who loved to watch thine infant glee, And shared thy childish sports with thee,— He, too, from earthly scenes has fled, And joined the numbers of the dead.

Brothers and sisters, a happy band, Await thee in the spirit land; Bright amaranthine crowns they wear; They long to greet their Ella there.

Prepare thee for that better land,— Prepare to stand at God's right hand; Soon may the fatal summons come, To call thy waiting spirit home.

Oh, then slight not the Saviour's call,— Into the arms of Jesus fall; Sweetly resign to him thy soul, Yield all thy powers to his control.



Happiness.

Say, what is Happiness?—a gem That glitters in the diadem That decks the monarch's brow? Or does this gem, of form divine, Gild fortune's gay and jewell'd shrine, Where heartless flatterers bow?

Or dwells it in the sparkling eye,— Or hides it 'neath the witchery Of beauty's loveliness? Or comes it with refreshing power, Like dewdrops to the fainting flower, The miser's heart to bless?

No, seek it not in Monarchs' hall, Nor yet beneath the glittering pall, That hides Ambition's fane; Nor yet with Beauty does it dwell: It is not charm'd by magic spell, Nor bound by golden chain,

But they whose hearts with love are fill'd, "Whose words like heav'nly dew distill'd," Are ever just and kind; Who seek God's favor to obtain, Rather than praise of man to gain, This gem will surely find.



A Picture of Human Life.

It was morning. Rosy fingered Aurora lifted the gorgeous curtains of the east, and unlocked the golden gates of light, ushering in the young king of day. The glad earth, bathed with the dews of night, and redolent with flowers, lay blushing and rejoicing beneath his radiant beams, and blooming nature strode forth, clad in his most beautiful garments, while the murmurs of the waterfall, the sigh of the breeze, the carol of the birds, and the hum of busy life—all fell upon the ear, making enchanting melody—music that touched the soul.

Cradled in its downy bed, beneath a window closely curtained, to obstruct the light, lay a sleeping infant, whose dawn of life had just begun. Its very helplessness demanded our love and pity. It smiled and wept, but knew not why; but succeeding days added strength and vigor to his frame, and he came forth in all the sportiveness and beauty of infant loveliness.

It was noon; the sun had gained his zenith in the heavens, and shed down his scorching rays upon the parched earth, that lay drooping beneath his noon-day beams. Scarce a leaf was seen to move, the birds sat silent with folded wing, in the leafy branches, the flowers hung fainting upon their stems, and nature shrank from the oppressive heat.

The cradled infant had passed from infancy to childhood, from childhood to youth, from youth to manhood, through the various changes that mark each successive period, and he now stood in the meridian of life,

"With all his blushing honors thick upon him."

His brow was marked by care and anxiety, and he seemed ambitious to win a name. "Fear first assailed the child, and he trembled and screamed; but at a frown, with youth came love, torturing the hapless bosom, where fierce flames of rage, resentment, jealousy contend. Disturbed ambition presented next, to bid him grasp the moon and waste his days in angry sighs, add deep rivalry for shadows, till to conclude the wretched catalogue, appears pale avarice, straining delusive counters to his breast, e'en in the hour of death." Such are human passions.

It was evening; the curtains of the west were tinged with the varied dyes of sunset, and nature seemed revived by the cool, fresh evening breeze, and smiled complacently beneath the sun's last ray. The full orbed moon arose in the east, and the crystal streams reflected myriads of diamonds beneath her silver beams, and the stars, those golden lamps of night, shone bright in the blue chambers of the sky. An aged man was leaning on his staff, the vigor of life had departed, his locks were thin and scattered, his palsied limbs would scarce perform their office. His eye was dim—no longer beaming with intelligence, and he muttered to himself, as he groped his way along, worn out with the cares, sorrows and perplexities of a busy life, deep furrows were upon his cheeks, and his whole appearance bespoke a weary, way-worn child of earth. He took his solitary way, down a retired path, thickly shaded with fir, holly and yew, through whose thick foliage the struggling moonbeam scarce could penetrate, and the air was filled with humid vapors, gloomy silence as of the tomb reigned around, but exhausted nature sank, and the aged man pillowed his head upon the bosom of earth, and closed his weary eyes to rest, for he was a homeless wanderer.

It was deep, solemn midnight; a dense cloud had obscured the sky, and hid the refulgent light of the moon; the wind howled in fitful murmurs, the thunder rolled in the distance, lightnings glared, and nature wrapped herself in the sable shroud of midnight, and seemed shrieking a death-wail in her many voices.

Beside the gray haired man stood a pale visitant from the spirit land, to summons him away; he laid his icy hand upon his waning pulse, and chilled the current of his struggling breath. No friend was nigh, but his spirit passed gently away, leaving his countenance placid and serene in death.

Such is the end of human life. A little mound of heaped up earth marks the spot, where the weary pilgrim is at rest. All who tread in the path way of life, must lie down too, "with the pale nations of the dead," mingle with common dust, and become the sport of the winds.



Flowers.

Flowers are emblems of our youth, Emblems of innocence and truth, For though their freshness must decay, Their fragrance will not pass away. So, youthful beauty soon must fail; The eye grow dim, the cheek grow pale; The brow that now is pure and fair, May soon be shaded o'er by care.

But if within the trusting heart Goodness and innocence have part; If we God's holy law fulfil, And bow submissive to his will, Then shall the heart, like some sweet flow'r, That's lightly pluck'd from beauty's bow'r, And rudely crush'd beneath the feet, Yield fragrance far more pure and sweet Than when in sunshine and the dew, A fair and beauteous flow'r it grew,



The Old Castle.

In olden times, so legends tell, In lordly castle there did dwell A lady fair, of noble birth, Of beauty rare and matchless worth.

And she was flattered and caressed,— The poor her generous bounty blessed; Princes and lords, a gorgeous crowd, Before her peerless beauty bow'd.

Lady and courtiers passed away, This ivyed tower, these ruins gray Are all that's left to tell the story, Of grandeur, pomp, and former glory.

Thus, Time moves on, with ceaseless tread, Still adding to the silent dead; Nor power, nor splendor can withstand The touch of its effacing hand.



The Myrtle.

This Myrtle wreath will never fade, In sunshine or in gloom, When wintry storms sweep o'er the glade, Its flow'rs will brighter bloom, So Virtue's lamp will brighter be, 'Mid storms of dark adversity.



Death.

Thou pale visitant of the spirit land, why dost thou hover ever round the shades of time, and ever ply thy bark on yonder sluggish stream, whose oozy waters bear thee on its bosom? Why dost thou ever bear away a victim that returns not with thee? As we look for thy returning bark "through the vista, long and dark it comes with thee alone." Thou mysterious messenger, where dost bear those whom thou dost convey away?—but hark! that voice! husky, hollow, but impressive, the spirit shall return unto God who gave it. But now I see thee more distinctly, thou grisly monster; I know thy form, thou conqueror of conquerors, and thou king of kings. But yesterday I saw a smiling infant in its fond mother's arms; a thousand dimpling smiles played around its beautiful features, and its eyes beamed with brilliancy; thou didst approach, and lay thy icy hand upon its fluttering pulses, and all was still. The parted lips had closed with the passing smile yet upon them, the eye had ceased to roll, that little form was cold and motionless as the clods of the valley, life had ebbed away, the mysterious link that bound the soul to the body was broken; the spirit had departed; many witnessed the expiring struggle, but none saw the spirit as it took its flight from its clay tenement; yet it had gone with thee over yon dark stream.

Again I entered the chamber where a father lay, upon whom a numerous family were dependant. Thou wast there; thy icy breath was upon him; thy agonizing throes were depicted on his pallid countenance; his expansive chest heaved laboriously; his shortening breath came up convulsively, and his eyes seemed starting from their sockets. He had been called suddenly—unexpectedly to meet thee. A tearful wife and children gathered around the bed, formed an interesting group, and strove in vain to allay the agony of the husband and father. But a sterner blow, and that wife was a widow, those children fatherless. Thou hadst taken that father to "that undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveler e'er returns." That weeping wife and those children "were cast abandoned on the world's wide stage, doomed in scanty poverty to roam." But still I followed thee, thou fell destroyer of the human race, determined to portray thy doings.

A gentle mother next received thy visitation, falling a prey to thy relentless hand. Five darling children shared her maternal love, as day by day she ministered to their necessities. The rose had long since faded from her cheek; an unwonted lustre lit up her eye, and her step became more and more feeble, 'till thou didst summon her away, leaving a void in the hearts of those children that can never be filled. Sad, sickening was the sight as I followed in thy train, and saw father, mother, sister, brother, and all the endearing relations of life, fall before thy sway. But thou art coeval with the race; there lives not a man who will not bow before thy sceptre; all must drink from thy cup. The crowned monarch and the beggar sleep side by side, and their mingled dust is the sport of the winds of the heavens. Then may we

"So live, that when our summons comes to join The innumerable caravan, that moves To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take His chambers in the silent halls of death, We go not like the quarry slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon; but sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach our graves Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams."



The Home of Childhood.

Home of my childhood, once again, With fond delight, I turn to thee; Here, in this green and silent glen, I'll sit beneath the o'ershadowing tree; While memory, with its magic power, Summons to my enraptured mind, Scenes, which, till this mysterious hour, Had been to Lethean waves consign'd.

Sweet visions rise before my gaze, All dim and meagre, like ruins old; Which seen beneath the moon's pale rays, Scarce can their real form be told. Yet, beautiful and fair they seem,— Those shadowy visions of the past; And to my soul they bring a dream Of happines, too bright to last.

Soft eyes are gazing on my own,— Sweet voices fall upon my ear,— I feel that I am not alone, For spirits of the loved are near; And joyfully my soul goes forth, Mingling with theirs in blissful love, Linked in the bonds of union sweet— Through the past scenes of life we rove.

And once again, they spring to life,— The hopes and joys of other years; Fresh as before the world's rude strife Had changed their fount to bitter tears, Smiles, looks and words that long had been Erased from memory's tablet leaves, Come thronging o'er my soul again, Bright as the spell which Fancy weaves.

Oh, could the dream forever last,— Could those loved forms forever stay; But no, e'en now the visions past,— Like rainbow hues they fade away. And I am left to muse alone, As one by one, those forms depart: The chill wind blows with hollow moan, And sadness broodeth o'er my heart.

Well, I must nerve my spirit up, To meet life's trials, stern and dark; I'll shrink not from the bitter cup, For fear, though storms assail my bark. But I will trust in him, whose power Curbs the proud billows in their might, Whose presence cheers the darkest hour, And guides the wanderer's bark aright.



The Happy Land.

There is a land beyond the sky, Where all is fair and bright, No tear there dims the sparkling eye, No cloud obscures the light.

There, in those bright elysian fields, Bloom flow'rs that never fade; And seraphs tune their golden harps, In spotless robes arrayed.



Devotion.

Tempted, my cottage home to leave, I wandered forth one dewy eve, When all was hushed and still; Save the low music of the breeze, That murmur'd through the leafy trees, And gushing of the rill.

An unfrequented path I took, That led to a sequester'd nook— That 'neath the moon's pale beams, Seemed like some spirit-haunted dell, Where those light, airy phantoms dwell, That visit us in dreams.

The sweet flowers, bathed in pearly dew, Half veil'd their glowing charms from view And drooped their lowly heads; While out, upon the evening air, A grateful incense, rich and rare, Stole up from their low beds.

The green trees seemed to tower on high, And mingle with the deep blue sky; While in the moon's soft light, The noiseless shadows came and went, Waver'd and glanced, and graceful bent, Like champions in fight.

There was a little, fragrant bower, That nature, in some sportive hour, Had gracefully arrayed; And overgrown with creeping vines, Their tendrils with the green bows twined, Formed an imperious shade.

As near this fairy bower I drew, An object met my startled view, Entrancing all my powers; A fair young girl was kneeling there, Her white hands clasped in fervent prayer,— Her dark hair wreathed with flowers.

Meekly her eyes to heav'n were turned, While in her trusting heart there burned The fire of holy love; So fair, so heavenly, looked her face, Less seemed she one of mortal race, Than angel from above.

It was a lovely, starry night, And softly in the silver light, Did flickering shadows fall; And bright the flowers that blossomed there; But the incense of that maiden's prayer, Was purer, far, than all.

The sweetest sight below the skies,— And sweetest in holy angels' eyes, Is the young heart, when given, With all its hopes and fears,— Its sunny smiles and gushing tears, An offering unto Heaven.



To a Friend

Oh, wherefore ask a song of me; Romance within my heart is dead; Hush'd is my spirit's minstrelsy, Youth's golden visions all have fled.

Life's rainbow hues have pass'd away, With clearer vision now I see; And I more deeply feel each day, That life's a stern reality.

It is no dream, or fairy tale, Or minstrel's strain of music rare; But ever foremost in its train, Walk duty stern, and weary care.

We may not linger by the way, To pluck the lily or the rose, Too soon will pass the summer day, And evening shadows round us close.

Yet there's within each heart a chord That vibrates with a music tone; Duty performed brings its reward, We live not for ourselves alone.

Life has a higher, nobler aim, A destiny beyond earth's toys; A richer heritage we claim, A title to celestial joys.

Then upward look, with firm resolve, Thy spirit's precious plume to rise; What though thine earthly house dissolve; Thou hast a mansion in the skies.



Lines, Written upon the Death of Two Sisters.

What heav'nly music greets mine ear! What seraph's voice is that I hear, Breathing in numbers soft and low? Methinks th' angelic strains I know.

Dearest sister, come away, There's nought on earth that's worth thy stay; Then, sister, linger not, but haste The joys of paradise to taste.

The songs of praise we utter here, Have ne'er been heard by mortal ear; Nor mortal eye hath ever seen "The fields array'd in living green."

The gates of precious stone unfold, The streets are paved with shining gold; Pure crystal streams of water flow, And trees of fadeless verdure grow.

There is no sighing here, nor tears, No guilty thoughts, no doubts or fears; But love is pure and never dies, And songs of endless praise arise.

Then sister, linger not, but come, Angels await to guard thee home; Here, in the mansions of the blest, Here shall thy weary soul find rest.

Sister, I come, thy cheering voice Bids my whole heart and soul rejoice; Fain would my ling'ring spirit rise On wings of Faith beyond the skies.

I linger but a little space, To gaze upon my husband's face; My gentle infant's lips to press, And fold my first born to my breast.

My mother's voice once more to hear,— Once more to see a brother dear, A sister's parting kiss receive,— Then, dearest sister, I will leave.

E'en now my clouded senses feel A heav'nly transport o'er them steal; My sight grows dim, thick comes my breath; Sister, I come, for this is death.



To I——.

My long neglected lyre I'll take, And seek its echoes to awake; But it hath lain untuned so long, Scarce can I hope to frame a song.

Yet, when I sweep the trembling strings, A low sad wail of music rings; Encouraged by that gentle strain, I'll touch the silken cords again.

I wish thee happiness, my friend,— Such as on virtue doth attend; And pray that grief's dark funeral pall May ne'er upon thy young heart fall.

O may an interest in Christ's blood,— Thy soul, bathed in that crimson flood, Shall be from guilt's dark stain set free, Thy sins no more imputed thee.

I wish a friend, faithful and kind, Noble, sincere, pure and refined, Whose sympathy with thine shall blend, And to life's duties sweetness lend.

Loving and loved, thy bark shall glide Smoothly along life's rapid tide, Until 'tis launched upon the sea Of infinite eternity.



Lines, Written for a Friend upon the 20th Anniversary of Her Birthday.

Would some kind Muse my heart inspire, With the poetic heaven-born fire, That did in olden times belong To gifted bards, of ancient song.

Then could I wake a thrilling strain That would with mystic power enchain, But now, alas! my untaught lyre Can to no lofty themes aspire.

How many scenes of joy and grief, Trac'd o'er life's ever-varying leaf, Have pass'd since first thy mother smiled On thee, a little helpless child.

Though few thy years on earth have been, In the past view, dark clouds are seen; The cup prepared for thee to drain, Has not been all unmix'd with pain,

The future now before thee lies, Still unreveal'd to human eyes; But to imagination's view, Bright visions gleam the vista through.

The future, who would dare to look Into that still unopened book? What mortal would presume to read The hidden mysteries there decreed.

Oh, Ellen, let it be thy prayer, What e'er of ill is written there, That thou may'st ever bear thy part, With humble and submissive heart.

But if its pages should unfold Thy destiny, inscribed in gold, If radiant joy, with pinions bright, Should round thy path shed rosy light,

Oh, then forget not those whom God Has chasten'd with a heavy rod, Let the poor stricken mourner find In thee, a friend sincere and kind.

And when old Time, with sly embrace, Steals the bright rose-tint from thy face, Still keep thy heart in love and truth, Guileless as in thy early youth.

As you review each closing year, May no grim phantoms there appear Casting dark shadows in the scene, Thy view and happiness between.

But in their stead may sweet content, A consciousness of life well spent,— A trusting heart to thee be given, And last of all a crown in heav'n.



Human Thought

Oh, how deep and unfathomable is human thought. It descends into the lowest depths of the ocean, and into the mines, caverns and inmost recesses of the earth, or is borne aloft upon the soaring pinions of imagination, to the vaulted, star-lit sky above our heads; we can trace the azure canopy, and wander from star to star, or contemplate the silvery moon, in all her full-orbed glory, or trace the golden sun, as he runs his journey through the heavens, and hides behind the crimson curtains of the west, in majestic splendor. And though the body be confined to the restless, feverish couch of pain, thought flies untrammelled through the circuit of the globe, far—far to the frigid regions of the north, where almost eternal winter reigns, and we view the hardy inhabitant of that sterile clime, wrapped in his furs, drawn by the swift-footed reindeer, across the barren glebe.

But, sudden as the lightning's flash, thought wings us across intervening space, to the sultry, arid plains of India, where seated upon the huge elephant, the inhabitants screen themselves from the burning rays of the vertical sun, and all nature seems fainting beneath the oppressive heat; there the deluded mother tosses her struggling infant into the serpentine Granges, and bowing before her idol, thinks she has appeased her God; we at a glance visit Afric's billowy strand, her vast sandy deserts, spotted here and there with an oasis, where the toil-worn traveller stops to refresh himself; and then turning to America—our own happy America, the land of freedom, we there see thousands of Afric's sable sons groaning beneath the galling bondage of slavery.

But after thought thus visits every portion of the globe, and sits down to contemplate what is the conclusion of the whole matter, is not "passing away" legibly written upon the whole earth, and upon each succeeding generation of man, for "one generation passeth away and another generation cometh," and death conquers all. Happy are they, whose thoughts, enriched by the promises of the gospel, "can soar beyond the narrow bounds of time, and fix their hopes of happiness on heaven."



Lines, Written on the Departure of a Brother.

Dear brother, is it even so? And are we doomed to part?— We who have been through weal and woe United, hand and heart.

Ah, would that I could share thy fate, Upon Life's stormy sea; I'd deem no sacrifice too great, That I might make for thee.

But no, it may not—cannot be,— The world before thee lies; And fairer lands are spread for thee, Beneath more genial skies.

There's many a spot, of which we're told, In legend and romance, Where plumed knights were wont of old To meet with sword and lance.

And there's a charm that lingers round Each ruined tower and shrine;— Full well I know its magic power, On such a heart as thine.

Then go; I would not seek to chain Thy spirit bold and free; Although I feel when thou art gone, How lonely I shall be.

I know thee noble; have I not From childhood's earliest hour Witnessed thy spirit's mastery O'er dark temptation's power.

Go, and ambition's heights explore,— Seek Honor, Wealth and Fame; But prize than gold or jewels more A pure, untarnished name.

But when far o'er the deep blue sea, In other lands you roam, Forget not those who prayed with thee, In thy sunny childhood's home,

Forget not, when you mingle with The beautiful and gay, And yield your heart to pleasure's charms, A sister far away.

Though rosy lips may on you smile, And bright eyes turn to thine, Dear brother, thou wilt never find One truer heart than mine.



Lines, on the Death of a Friend.

Mournfully, tearfully, twine we a wreath, To the memory of one who sleeps with the dead; Calmly she slumbers the cold sod beneath, While the wind chants a requiem over her bed.

Early she drank of the fountain of sorrow. Cold press'd the hand of grief on her heart; No gleam from the sunshine of hope could she borrow, In earthly enjoyments her soul had no part.

She pass'd from the earth like a beautiful vision; Pale grew her cheek, and sunken her eye, Yet her spirit evinc'd a noble decision, Still strong in affection and fearless to die.

Her husband and child had pass'd on before her, Through the dark valley and shadow of death; Her Saviour, she hop'd, to their love would restore her. Then she fear'd not the summons to yield up her breath.

To rest near the spot where those lov'd ones were sleeping, Was the last earthly wish of her desolate heart; And she pray'd whilst disease to her vitals was creeping, That God would his grace and protection impart.

The tears of fond sisters, the love of a brother, From that hallow'd spot could not tempt her to stay; Though dear to her heart, the love of another Still o'er her spirit held mightier sway.

She left the dear spot of her childhood's affection, For her own belov'd home in the far distant west; Her fond heart still clung to the sweet recollection Of hours she had pass'd there, contented and bless'd.

But now all her trials and sorrows are ended, Clos'd are her eyes in "death's dreamless sleep;" Her spirit, we trust, has to glory ascended, Hope whispers sweet peace while in sadness we weep.



The Power of Custom.

Custom is a despotic tyrant, wielding an iron sceptre over man, before whose unbounded sway unnumbered millions hourly bend. We are controlled by its influence from earliest infancy to latest age, even from the making of an infant's frock to the shroud. In early youth we must go to this school, or that lecture, or to that resort of fashionable amusement, because others go, and it is the custom.

It seems strange that custom should hold such a dominion over us—we, the people of this enlightened age, be bound to such a tyrant! it seems almost impossible, but so it is. We see it in the professional man, the man of business, and men in all grades of society, and from the lady at her toilet to the factory operative. We must have our clothing cut after such a style, and wear it after such a manner; and why? O, it is the custom. It is too much the custom for people to look with contempt upon those who have not quite so good advantages, or more especially, those who have not so much wealth, without regard to intellect or education.

Custom has introduced into society vices of all descriptions. Not long since it was the custom to pass the social glass, and it has been the means of making a great many inebriates, and making beggars of a great many families; thus we see the effects of that custom. The custom of revelry, balls, parties, and gay assemblies, tend to dissipate the minds of youth, and lead them into the paths of vice. The custom of card-playing has led to the gaming-table, and been the ruin of thousands.

"The suns of riot flow down the loose stream, Of false and tainted joy on the rankled soul, The gaming fury falls, till in one gulf Of total ruin; honor, virtue, peace, Friends, families, and fortune Headlong sink."



Annie Howard.

It was a chill, dreary day in November. The autumn winds swept with a dirge-like sound through the tops of the tall old trees that overshadowed a stately mansion, where a group of sorrowing friends had collected, to pay the last sad rite, to one of earth's fairest, loveliest flowers. All without wore an air of gloom and melancholy. Ever and anon a sere and yellow leaf would fall with a faint rustling sound, speaking in mournful language to the heart, that all things earthly must decay; and well did the scene accord with the sadness and sorrow that reigned in the hearts of those who had assembled on that mournful occasion.

The deceased was one whom we had all known and loved, for she was one of those sweet angelic beings, whom it is impossible not to love. Her presence, like sunshine, seemed to diffuse light and cheerfullness upon all who came within the magic circle of her influence.

Her glad laugh fell like music upon the ear. Her large dark eyes beamed with the light of intelligence and affection. The softest rose tint tinged her alabaster cheek, and the tones of her voice were like the melody of an Aeolian harp, when touched by the wandering zephyrs.

But youth, beauty, and goodness could not shield her from the cruel shafts of the destroyer. The hand of disease fell heavily upon her, and her fragile form sank beneath the blow, and faded like a blighted flower. There sat her parents bowed down by grief, for the being whom they most loved on earth, the light of their home, the joy, the hope, the pride of their hearts, had been taken from them, and they were indeed left desolate.

One ray of light alone illumined the darkness that overshadowed them like a pall. But one star shone out upon the dim horizon of the future, the hope of being reunited with their beloved child in that better land, where tears shall be wiped from all eyes—where love never dies, and parting scenes are never known.

The funeral services were performed in a solemn and impressive manner. The coffin was then opened, and one by one we approached to take the last fond look of its frail tenant. Oh, could it be that that form, so cold and motionless, clad in the white habiliments of the grave, was that of the once lovely and fascinating Annie Howard? Were those lips that were wont to entrance with their melody forever sealed in death? Would those eyes never again beam with the light of affection, or kindle with the glow of enthusiasm? Oh, how forcibly were we reminded that "passing away" is written upon all things here below, and that the fairest forms that walk the earth, in all the pride of beauty, must go down to the dark, cold grave, to be food for the loathesome worm. With slow and faltering steps, and with tear-suffused eyes, we followed the remains to the narrow house, appointed for all the living; and then mournfully returned to our homes, to muse upon the uncertainty, and the perishable nature of all earthly joys.

Annie Howard was one of my earliest and dearest friends, and thinking that, perhaps, her history might be interesting to some who may chance to peruse these pages, I have endeavored, although but imperfectly, to give a brief sketch of her life.

She was the only child of wealthy and highly respectable parents. Possessed of refined and cultivated minds, they were anxious that their daughter should be educated in all the more solid branches, which would render her a useful member of society, as well as the lighter graces and accomplishments which, too often, in the present day, supercede the cultivation of the mind. Endowed with a brilliant intellect, she excelled in whatever she attempted, and the fond anticipations of her friends were more than realized. The acquirement of literature was to her a source of exquisite delight. Her thirsty soul drank at the fountain of knowledge, with as much avidity as the weary traveller slakes his thirst at the fountain of cool waters, that bubbles up in the midst of the sandy desert. Her inquiring mind was never weary of exploring the deep mysteries of science or poring over the pages of ancient lore. Music, painting and poetry seemed to form the etherial essence of her mind. She played with exquisite skill and taste, and sang with surpassing sweetness and melody.

Her brilliant powers of mind, the beauty of her person, her graceful, winning manners, the sweetness of her disposition, and the unaffected goodness of her heart, rendered her a universal favorite in the circle in which she moved.

Yet, was she ever modest and unassuming. She was far from that vain haughtiness that is the common characteristic of narrow and superficial minds, and which, too often, displays itself in persons of cultivated intellect, where there is not a corresponding goodness of heart. It seemed to be her aim to render those with whom she associated, pleased with themselves rather than to impress upon them a sense of her own superiority. This trait in her character had in it nothing allied to sycophancy, which quickly disgusts persons of sense and refinement; neither did it originate merely in the desire to please, but had its source in an inherent principle of her nature, which prompted her to seek to promote the happiness of others.

She possessed an intuitive knowledge of human nature, which, together with her extreme delicacy, with regard to the feelings of others, formed the keystone which unlocked to her the secret recesses of hearts, which, to a less careless observer, would have been veiled in impenetrable coldness and reserve.

In early life she had given her heart to the Saviour, and had consecrated herself to the service of God; and she sought to follow the example of the meek and lowly Jesus.

The poor, the sick, and the sorrowful, were objects of her peculiar care and attention. Many a poor, crushed and broken-hearted being, borne down by poverty and affliction, was made glad by her sympathy and kindness. She possessed that sweet, graceful way of offering a benefit which rendered a favor from her doubly acceptable. Among the gentlemen of her acquaintance, there were many who, fascinated by the charms both of her mind and person, sought to win her heart, but of all her numerous admirers, there was but one whose affection was reciprocated, and that one was well worthy the love and confidence of such a being as Annie Howard. He possessed those noble qualities of heart and mind which command the admiration of the great and good, and which render man, in the true sense of the term, the noblest work of God. Gifted with strong powers of mind, which had been disciplined by a thorough education, possessing principles of the strictest integrity, and an elegant and prepossessing exterior, he was beloved and esteemed by all who knew him. He was a physician, and had the reputation of being a skilful practitioner. He had resided in the same village with Annie some two or three years, and being of congenial dispositions, and thrown much into each others' society, a strong attachment had sprung up between them, which was sanctioned by the friends of both parties.

But brilliant intellect, beauty of person, sweetness of disposition, goodness of heart, nor love of friends could save her from death's relentless dart. In her case, the words of the poet Wordsworth were verrified,

"The good die first, And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust Burn to the socket."

Ere nineteen summers had passed over her head, consumption had fastened upon her vitals. At first the symptoms were so slight that her friends felt little alarm, but soon the hollow cough, which sounds so much like a funeral knell, the unnatural brilliancy of the eye, the hectic glow upon the cheek, and the short, labored breathing, told but too plainly that death was not to be cheated of his prey. It has been said that death loves a shining mark, and it is true that he often passes by the loathsome form, shriveled by age, and want, and lingering disease, to feast upon the sparkling eye, the ruby lips, and glowing cheek of youth and beauty.

Annie soon became fully sensible that she was not long for this world, but was perfectly calm and resigned. She possessed that hope that alone can sustain the soul in sickness and suffering, when we feel that our hold upon earth is each day growing weaker, and eternity, vast, boundless, with all its untried scenes, with all its deep mysteries, and overwhelming interests, lies stretched out before us, when the soul feels that it must soon be called upon to enter upon those untried scenes, and to fathom the deep mysteries of that endless existence, and that it must go alone and unattended into the presence of its Maker, there to render up its account. She felt that, although she was unworthy of God's favor, yet Christ had shed his blood for her, and she trusted that her sins had been washed away by that blood, and her soul made meet for the heavenly inheritance. She strove to console the grief of her parents, who were almost heartbroken at the thought of parting from their child. She pointed them to that home beyond the grave, where they should be reunited never more to part; never more to suffer pain, or sorrow, or care; where tears are wiped from all eyes, and the ransomed spirit will be permitted to join with the heavenly host in singing praises to the Redeemer.

She bore her sufferings with sweet resignation. As her bodily strength failed her mind seemed to expand, and her intellectual powers to grow higher. Her love of the beautiful seemed also to increase. The deep blue sky, when studded by a countless host of brilliant stars; the soft, fleecy clouds when reflecting the gorgeous hues of sunset; the music of the birds; the whispering of the breeze, making mysterious melody as it mingled with the rustling of the leaves; these, with a thousand other sweet but incomprehensible charms of nature, seemed to form the link that bound her soul to earth.

Gradually her strength failed; each day her fragile form became more attenuated, and her thin hand more transparent. There was nothing terrible in the approach of death. Nothing that was revolting to the most sensitive mind; but when we were summoned to stand around her dying bed, there was something so calm, so heavenly, so peaceful, in the expression of her countenance, that we all felt that it was indeed a privilege to witness the departure of her soul to the world of spirits, and we involuntarily exclaimed, "Let me die the death of the righteous, and let my last end be like his."



We All Do Perish Like the Leaf.

One rosy cloud lay cradled In the chambers of the sky; Rock'd gently by the autumn winds, As they came sighing by;

Touching, oh, so lightly, Each leaf on ev'ry tree, Yet wafting them in tinted show'rs, O'er mountain, hill, and lee.

For autumn's chilling finger Has touch'd them, by decay; And now the slightest zephyr's wing Bears their frail form away:

And strews them o'er the barren glebe, In withered heaps to lie The sport of many a wintry storm, As it comes surging by.

So man, with earthly honor, Stands proudly forth, to-day,— To-morrow Death's untimely frost His glory sweeps away.

And down in Death's dark chambers, With folded hands he lies; The things of earth excluded Forever from his eyes.



Life Compared to the Seasons.

Loud blows the stern December blast; The snow is falling thick and fast; And all around so cold and drear,— Proclaims the winter of the year. Touched by the finger of decay, Summer beauties passed away— Her fragrant flowers forgot to bloom, And slept within their winter tomb. The butterfly, that airy thing, That floated on its gilded wing, And birds that with their music rare, Warbling filled the summer air; Dewdrops that gemm'd the morning flower, All—all were pageants of an hour,— The trappings of a summer day, That sank with her into decay. But though bleak winter reigns around,— Nor fruit, nor flower adorns the ground, We know that Spring will wake again All the pageant Summer train. And Winter has its store of mirth, Its studies and its social hearth, And by nature seems designed To elevate the human mind. The seed committed to its trust Will not decay, and sink to dust,— It will not with the summer die, And dormant through the winter lie; But ever fruitful, it will be, Even through eternity.



Writing Composition.

Well, here I am, sitting down with inkstand, pen and paper all before me, to write a composition. And what is composition? It is thought drawn from the resources of the mind, and portrayed upon the unsullied page. The mind, that mysterious, unfathomable, undying, immortal part of man; that immaterial essence, which contemplates upon past and future scenes, from which emanates all our thoughts and passions—and all our happiness or misery. If we would have our composition correct, the mind must be well cultivated, for that, like a well cultivated garden, will produce fine fruit and beautiful flowers, where no noxous weed should be allowed to intrude, or delicate plant wither and die for want of culture. The mind should be strengthened and nourished by solid reading, well digested. The rich volume of nature lies open before us, where all who will read, may improve the intellect.

Do we seek for the beautiful? we see it around us in the gently sloping hill, the verdant vale, the fragrant flowers, and the whispering rill, and the ten thousand varied beauties with which nature is decked. Or seek we for the sublime, we must contemplate the whirlwind in its fury, the vivid lightning's flash, and the deep toned thunder, reverberating peal on peal, the mountain torrent, dashing down the stupendous height, and hurrying to embosom itself in the ocean below; or the forest, standing unbroken in its silent majesty, till the thoughts instinctively rise from the sublimities of nature, to nature's God, the maker and former of them all.

Composition is said to be the index of the mind, if so, how necessary it is that there should be no improper word or idea expressed, no blot or tarnish should be upon the fair page; how chaste and elegant should be the diction, how pure and refined the idea, how simple and concise the expression. It should be like the glassy lake that reflects an unclouded sky—the mirror of a spotless mind.



Lines, Written in Answer to the Question "Where Is Our Poet?"

Ask you for the poet lyre? What can touch his soul with fire, When from ev'ry passing cloud The storm-king whistles shrill and loud, And nature shrieks her requiem wild, O'er summer, her departed child. When through the shortened winter day The languid sun sheds sickly ray, And struggling moonbeams seem at most, Dim meteor forms of Ossian's ghost. Then shall not I, a feeble maid, Of the Muses be afraid? When poets sleep with talents fine, Shall I approach the "sacred Nine?" But when I heard the vesper bell Mournful peal its sad farewell; And murmuring through the evening air, Echo only answered, "where?" I thought I'd chase my fears away, And conjure up a simple lay. Ye poets who have talents ten, Excuse the errors of my pen; The best I could do I have done, For reader I have scarcely one.



My Husband's Grave.

In looking over the foregoing pages, I feel that sad indeed have been my wanderings in the shady paths of life. The aged friends of my childhood have been buried over again. The last sad parting from many dear friends has been noted down; the deaths of sister, brother and mother, have been noticed in sad rotation; grand-children have sprung up, beside the way, flourished for a little season, then faded like the pale, withering leaves of autumn, and passed away from earth forever.

O, Memory, thy garland has indeed been entwined, with many a withered flower, whose leaves though faded, emit a sweet fragrance to the heart, and lead it to a purer, holier trust in heaven.

But there is a deeper shadow, a gloomier shade, a sadder spot upon earth, than we have yet visited. It is the recently made grave of my husband—the father of my children, who passed suddenly away, leaving his afflicted family, bereft of his counsel, his watch care, and his support.

As I stand in this sad spot, and gaze upon that lone grave, with tearful eyes and a bursting heart, memory comes like a tide, throwing over my soul the remembrances of the many—many years we have journeyed on together, since our first acquaintance in academic halls (for our intimacy first commenced in school), and all the sad loneliness of the present presses like a weight upon me, crushing me to the earth, and obscuring all the sunshine of earthly bliss.

How sad and desolate is the home from which some loved one has been borne suddenly away, with the firm assurance that "the places that once knew them shall know them no more forever."

The vacant seat at table, the return of their usual hour of arrival, all places and all things remind us of the departed one, and bring up harrowing remembrances of the past, that add deeper pangs to our sorrow, and fill our hearts with more unendurable anguish, and suffuse our cheeks with more scalding tears, as the stern reality presses upon us, that it always must be thus.

Companion of my youth, can it be possible thy manly form is hid beneath this grassy mound at my feet? that I never again shall hear the sound of that voice, whose endearing tone won me to thy side, to unite my destiny with thine, and float with thee over life's tempestous ocean?

Rough, indeed, has been the passage, and many the adverse storms we have encountered, during our thirty-two years companionship, and now, way-worn and weary, the grave—the greedy grave claims thee for its occupant. How sweet is the assurance "that the graves shall give up their dead, and this mortal shall put on immortality." Yes, this dear dust shall rise again, and be clothed in undying youth.

O, how stealthily the stern messenger came, laying low the form of the strong man, ere we were aware of his danger. One week—one short week, and yet to him a week of agonizing suffering, and all was over. Yet, in that week, what a volume might be written, of deep, intense thought and feeling, of fervent prayer and supplication, and tearful, childlike submission to the divine will. Might be written did I say? Is it not written—even in the book of God's remembrance? Neither sigh or tear were unnoticed, or prayer unheard, by that God who careth for us, and numbereth the very hairs of our heads. How often the prayer ascended from the lips of the dying man, "O my Father, help me in this my extremity," and it was indeed his hour of extreme necessity, for he was wrestling with his last enemy.

A smile sat upon his countenance, even while struggling for that frail life that was so soon to end, and it is now very evident to those that were in attendance upon him, that he was more fully aware of his situation than they. Every arrangement and every observation plainly shows now that he had little, if any hope of recovery.

But still the attending physician spoke very encouragingly to him, and to others, and so we hoped and believed he would yet be well.

He was grateful for every attention. Ere the disease (which was pneumonia) assumed its most fearful aspect; a daughter, who was watching by the bed, hearing him whisper, thought he was addressing her; but bending over the pillow, she heard him say,

"Oh, my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me."

Then raising his clasped hands, said, fervently, "Nevertheless, not my will, but thine be done." Towards morning, reason became dethroned, and the bewildered imagination wandered in the land of shadows. There was an extremely anxious expression of countenance, and he would look earnestly upon his attendants, as though he thought we could relieve him. He was incessantly springing from his bed in his struggles for breath, and trying every new position that the extremity of his case could possibly suggest, but all to no avail.

But why dwell upon the fearful scene? We have seen the little child contending with the strong arm of the destroyer, and felt it was a fearful thing for it to yield up its little life and pass forever away from earth. But when we see the strong man cut suddenly down, the man who has scarcely passed the meridian of life, we "feel how dreadful 'tis to die." The love of life is strengthened by years. There are cords of association binding him to it, the rolling, restless tide of business, with its fluctuations and its cares, sweeps over him, and seems binding him to earth. The love of children, for whose welfare a kind father has so long been mindful, and all the fond endearments of home and kindred, are so many sacred ties binding him to life. But all must be severed before the ruthless tyrant who conquers conquerers, and has justly been styled, "the king of terrors."

And so it was in this case. Nature yielded reluctantly every advantage gained by the fearful foe, 'till her energies were exhausted, and sinking down in quiet slumber, she yielded the contest without a struggle.

About eight o'clock on Thursday evening, a heavy stupor came over him, and the fearful death-rattle warned us of the approach of the grim messenger. We watched his failing breath with agonizing emotions. But we turned from him one little moment, and when we turned again, the lamp of life was extinguished. O, the fearful agonizing cry that arose by that death bed, when we realized that the husband and father had passed away, forever away. But while we wept and mourned, he slept on unheeding. Death made little change in his countenance, and when he was dressed in his accustomed clothing, and laid in his coffin, he looked like a weary man taking rest in sleep.

It was a pleasant day in mid April that we bore him to his grave, and laid him down beneath the green branches of the arbor vitae tree. How many mournful thoughts pressed upon the heart, almost crushing out the very life, as the mournful train followed him to that sacred spot. Who that has looked into an open grave, and seen the coffin of the dearly loved lowered into it, but has felt an indiscribable agony filling the heart, and blotting out all the prospect of future earthly happiness? And who that listens to the sound of the heavy, damp earth as it falls upon the coffin, but will say, "oh, has earth another sound like this?" And there we left the husband and the father reposing beneath the tree his own hand had trained, and in the yard where he had spent so many hours laboring to beautify the spot where he was so soon to lie down in his last long sleep. By his side are the graves of the two dear grand-children, who were wont to share in his caresses, and his smiles. Silent now is their greeting, as the weary grandfather lays down with them in the place of graves: But eternity! oh eternity! how is the meeting there? Have they met? There are father, mother, brothers, sister, and a long train of relatives from whom he has been long separated. Have they recognized each other? O, bewildering thoughts, be still, and cease your restless longings; "secret things belong to God," and "what we know not now we shall know hereafter." But now, while the soft winds of summer are gently sighing through the branches of the arbor vitae tree that stands at the head of the grassy mound that rises over the form of my buried husband, I see by his side, the spot where, in all human probability, this frame will soon be deposited, to sleep with him in death's silent halls, even as I have journeyed with him through life. 'Till then, let me turn to my mission, and endeavor by a faithful discharge of every duty, to prepare for that time, and strive by a holy life and godly conversation, to so influence my children, that they may all seek a city not made with hands eternal, and in the heavens. And thus shall be answered my daily prayer, that we may be a united family in heaven.

So we returned to the house beneath the mild radiance of a Sabbath sun, to experience that awful void that death makes in the domestic circle to which so many bereaved hearts can respond.



Lines, Written upon the Young Who Have Recently Died in Our Village.

Why are the young and beautiful Call'd so early to the tomb? Death surely loves a shining mark,— And sweetly feeds on youthful bloom!

Go, wander in the place of graves, When softly steals the autumn's sigh, And on the sculptured marble read, How many in life's morning die.

Beauty may bloom upon the cheek, And brightly sparkle in the eye; But soon the fatal hectic streak Proclaims that stealthy Death is nigh.

Maria, by her mother's side, So young, in Death's dark chambers laid, And Lottie, soon to be a bride, Have seen earth's fairest vision fade.

A lovely vision floating fair, In Memory's chambers now is seen, With sparkling eyes and glossy hair, A radiant brow, and gentle mien.

She stole by fond and winning ways, Into many a loving heart; And with a sweet and childish grace, Well performed her little part.

But death soon laid her beauty low, Like spring flowers fading on the stem, And, blighting all her youthful bloom, Laid Clara, mould'ring now with them.

Dear Willie too, that child of prayer, So suddenly has pass'd away, And enter'd those bless'd mansions where All is bright, eternal day.

Here, many a loving name is found, Of those who in life's pathway trod; Who slumber now, beneath the mound, Their spirits summon'd to their God.

Some by long disease confin'd, Have slowly wasted day by day; Health, strength and beauty—all declin'd, And Youth's bright visions pass'd away.

But wander on; the sculptured stone In thunder tones is speaking here; The name—the age—it loudly tells, To eye and heart, if not the ear.

They sleep when winter's winds are loud, And snow and sleet come drifting by; And when light sails the rosy cloud, And Spring's sweet gales around them sigh.

They sleep—ah, yes—that dreamless sleep, That never shall know waking more; They've cross'd the icy steam of death, And pass'd unto the viewless shore.



Conscience.

Conscience, and what is conscience? Is it not that silent but powerful monitor within that weighs our every motive? is it not the small still voice that whispers its approval when we have acted right, but bursts like the crashing thunder peal or the terrific earthquake, when we have acted wrong? She stands with extended finger a silent though faithful friend, and points us onward in the plain path of duty. We have only to follow her dictates, and all will be well. But many gaudy flowers are blooming here and there beside the path, to tempt the thoughtless one to step aside and pluck; but though they are beautiful to the eye, and their fragrance borne to us by the breeze, seems to woo us temptingly, yet, concealed within their leaves is a deadly scorpion or poisonous asp, whose sting is instant death, or some, perhaps, contain a more slow and sluggish poison, that creeps into the mind, and instilling its venom by slow degrees, corrupts the whole. Conscience has well been called the tell tale of our breasts.

How does it harrow up the mind at the still hours of midnight, when all nature sleeps around, and depict crimes that no eye has witnessed but God and their perpetrators; how does the murderer toss from side to side beneath her lash, and see his victim for the thousandth time in the agonies of death; over and over again, she acts the bloody scene, and, while he turns restless and feverish upon his pillow, still holds the picture bleeding fresh to fancy's wearied gaze, and as in Macbeth, presents the dagger, while "on its blade and bludgeon are drops of blood that were not so before." Crimes of dye not so deep, are conjured up to harrow up the breast and rack the brain, and render the victim of a disapproving conscience a miserable wretch indeed.

Truly she is placed within us as a friend, warning us of danger and pressaging good. If we would listen to her dictates, we must be happy, for she never argues wrong. And superlatively happy are they who can lay calmly down on the bed of death cheered by her approving smiles, for a "death bed is a detector of the heart;" here tired dissimulation drops the mark that through life's grimace has kept up the scene.



Lines, Written in an Album.

The autumn winds are sighing loud, And wither'd leaves come flitting by, And slowly sails the gath'ring cloud, Across the bleak November sky.

The flow'rs have perish'd on the stem, Their brilliant beauty all decayed, And many golden hope like them, In disappointment's tomb is laid.

But yet, far sinking to his rest, The golden king of day behold, The crimson curtains of the west Are richly fring'd with molten gold.

Thus brightly may your life decline, Though youth may fade upon your brow, May Truth and Virtue radiant shine, E'en like yon sinking sun beam now.



Letter, from the Pen of My Husband, Now Deceased.

Pawtucket, June 20, 1852.

Mrs. M. M. Bucklin:

My daughter in affliction, I would that, like Paul on Mars Hill, I could enter at once, with eloquence and persuasion, on a subject that might have the influence of restoring or bringing back your natural buoyancy and elasticity of spirit. I need not tell you that I feel earnestly, sensibly and deeply for you; and any mortal effort or sacrifice within my power should not be wanting to effect an object so desirable by your friends. But Malvina, an arm of flesh is not to be relied upon; no human ken can reach the mysterious windings and wonderful intricacies of a mother's love for her offspring. That is, as yet, the unrevealed handiwork of Omnipotence, who in wisdom conceived the beautiful mechanism, and brought to perfection the refinements of our nature; and to his almighty fiat are we indebted, both for the boon of death and the glorious hope of the resurrection. How peculiarly adapted to our consolation is the doctrine of the resurrection. The angel of mercy has withdrawn from your boson a beloved child. O, how sweet the consolation of hope through the very life-giving words of Him who cannot lie, as so beautifully and so tenderly expressed to Martha, "Thy brother shall rise again." And, my daughter, be assured that your little Emma shall rise again, for said the same Almighty Comforter, "of such is the Kingdom of Heaven." Therefore it would be wise in us not to sorrow for her who is asleep. I know you believe that Jesus died and rose again. And so, also, of them who sleep in Jesus, will God bring with him.

The question by the afflicted man of Uz might once, with some degree of propriety have been asked, "If a man die shall he live again?" But we believe in the resurrection of the dead, because He who has promised is able to perform, and no science however new, nor speculation however magnificent, should be allowed to rob us of this beautiful and life-giving hope. I know that it is hard for us to concieve the mighty power of transformation or to demonstrate the great principle of a spiritual ascension from our decayed bodies, of those seraphic hosts, who are to stand as ministering angels around the majesty of Heaven, through all the never ending cycles of eternity, no matter what objections skepticism may urge of the impossibility of conceiving how the dead can be raised up to a newness of life. Our faith receives it as a revealed fact, and our hearts rejoice in the glorious hope, because we know that our Redeemer liveth, and that he will again stand upon this earth. And though these our frail bodies may be destroyed by death, yet shall we see God. Marvellous as may be the transition, at death and the resurrection, we shall all preserve our own identity, and see and know the beloved companions of our earthly pilgrimage.

Blessed be God for this sweet hope in the resurrection of the dead, that so clothes the far off and unseen world with ecstatic anticipations of the renewed presence of our friends, to whom, even in their glorified appearance, we shall be no strangers. We must not persuade ourselves that the preservation of little Emma's sacred dust is a mere tribute of affection to her memory; but rather a prophecy of that precious hope, that she shall awake from this sleep and meet us again, and that we shall know her again, and that we shall be together, and unitedly hear that voice, sublime and almighty, yet tender and soothing, saying, "I am the resurrection and the life; he that believeth in me though he were dead, yet shall he live."

The resurrection of the dead is the crowning act of the Redeemer's power, and the consummation of his work. How beautiful to contemplate the spiritual import and eternal grandeur of his mission:

"We may be blest, but Emma's glorious— O'er all the stings of death victorious."

Dear M.M.:

"You feel like Eve, when Eden's gate Had closed on her forevermore;— You feel that life is desolate, And Paradise is o'er. No tears be yours, for tears are vain; Your heart and not your robe is rent: If God who gave did take again, 'Tis folly to lament. Then drop the curtain, fold by fold, O'er her consecrated bower; And veil from curious eyes, and cold, Your dead, yet living flower."

Affectionately, your

Father.



Hope.

A little skiff on time's dark stream, With silken sail and golden oar, Is floating like a fairy dream, And pointing to some distant shore, Where brighter bloom more fragrant flow'rs, Perfuming amaranthine bow'rs.

The oar that dips the sullen wave, Throws up some diamond rich and rare, Striving the sinking soul to save, From the dark shadows of despair; And though the night be e'er so dark, Light hovers o'er this little bark.

'Tis Hope unfurls that silken sail, And dips her oar in life's deep tide; And dancing on before the gale, Throws sparkling diamonds far and wide, And paints in brilliant rainbow dyes, Onward to some radiant prize.



Visit to Mount Auburn.

It was a beautiful day in autumn, when the mellow sun shed his subduing rays Over the face of decaying nature, that we entered the elegant carriage of an esteemed friend, and pursued our way towards Mount Auburn, that quiet resting place of the dead.

As we pursued our way from East Boston, the water in the harbor, whitened with many a sail, sparkled in the morning sun, and glittered like ten thousand diamonds.

It was Saturday, busy, bustling Saturday, when all the world seemed hurrying on as if to make amends for any deficiency in the other days of the week.

The white sea-gulls were floating through the air, often stooping as if to dip their wings in the ocean waves, that murmured gently upon the winding shore.

There was scarce a cloud to be seen in the sky, and the calmness of nature whispered peace to the weary spirit.

As we crossed the ferry and entered the city, and witnessed the moving tide of human life that was surging through the city mart jostling against each other in their eager chase; and as we looked out upon the motly group, human life was to be seen in almost all its forms.

Wealth hung out his golden trappings, and rolled by in all the splendor of ease and luxury The children of poverty trudged on in tattered garments, stung by pinching want, bearing heavy burdens upon their heads, and weighed down by oppression.

These scenes awoke many reflections in the mind, and presented the contrast of life.

Passing through the city with its tumults and its changes, we pursued our way through Cambridge to the Cemetery.

The scenery was beautiful, and as we passed the elm tree where Washington stood to give command to his army, how many associations rushed upon the mind, filling it with remembrances of our country's early struggles.

We entered the quiet shades "where rest the dead," sleeping beneath the sober shadows of the forest trees that were scattering now and then a withered leaf upon the grassy mounds that lay at their feet. Here still, even here too, is the same contrast so visible in the moving, active life of the city.

Wealth here has the splendid monument, embellished with all the sculptor's art, while the poor sleep as sweetly beneath the simple sod.

Our first visit was to the Chapel. You are struck upon your entrance with the hollow sounds that reverberate at every footfall, reminding one of the emptiness of all earthly things.

There was a coffin within the paling, covered with a black pall, speaking to us of death and decay; but as we raised our eyes to the stained glass windows, through which the autumnal sun was pouring his mellow rays, and casting such a subdued and peculiar light upon all things in the Chapel, and saw the heavenly expression of the angels as they took their upward flight, the soul seemed big with immortality, and the Christian's hope teeming with a better life, was cheering to it, lifting it up till the things of earth looked dim, distant, shadowy.

The beautiful statue, too, touched so nicely by the hand of art, as to look like breathing marble, points the beholder upward to the skies. This Chapel, standing as it does at the entrance of the Cemetery, is well calculated to solemnize, the mind, and prepare it for the contemplations of the surrounding scene.

As we left its quiet retreat and pursued our onward way, sad thoughts came stealing over the mind, as we reflected how many aching hearts and tearful eyes had passed over that road to deposit the dearly loved, and lost in their last resting places.

How proper it seems that a navigator should stand at the entrance to pilot the way, and we can but think Spurzheim is taking his scientific observations, as his bust stands as though looking upon the passers by as they pursue their way to the city of the dead.

We passed on our way through the winding avenues, presenting their striking and varied emblems, speaking so forcibly to the mind. The white dove with open beak and half spread wing; the harp with the broken string, and the broken column, are all beautiful and significant representations, preaching loudly for the silent dust that slumbers beneath them.

As we ascended to the tower, we passed the yard enclosed with the beautiful bronze fence. Looking from the tower you witnessed life with its struggles, its comforts and luxuries; but the graves beneath us say, "we must leave all, and come and make our beds with them."

How striking is the anxious expression of the faithful dog, keeping patient watch over the grave of his young master, through summer's sultry heat, and winter's pinching cold, never betraying his trust. How beautiful, and yet how simple is the touching inscriptions, "My Father," "My Mother." Neither name or age are mentioned to the stranger, yet what a volume is spoken directly to the heart. The white lambs reposing upon the grassy mounds represent the innocence that slumbers beneath.

Many little tokens are scattered round here and there, as mementoes of fond affection. As we gazed upon the fresh boquets, wet with the dew of night, we felt that love lingered around those places, and the tears of affection often fell there.

The flowers, beautiful though they are, either at the tomb or the bridal, give us no name or trace of former days, but lay scattered round in rich profusion, telling us of love and affection that cannot perish, because they are amaranthine flowers that have their root in the mind, and bear the impress of immortality; and as we gaze upon the beautiful, either in nature or art, it becomes daguerreotyped upon the soul, and thus lives forever, coming up at the touch of memory's wand, with all the vividness of a first impression.

The forest trees standing in solemn grandeur, the winding avenues, the sloping hills, the deep dells, with the placid waters sleeping in their bosoms, with the bright red flowers contrasting with the white polished marble monuments, all conspire to render the place one of extreme beauty and interest. But when we compare this with the descriptions we have read of Westminster Abbey, covered with the mouldering dust of ages, as generation after generation has been added to it, we can picture to the imagination the change passing years will make here. The silent hand of time will steal by degrees, the freshness and beauty from the polished marble, effacing their beauties, one by one, 'till all are obliterated, and green mould and moss occupy their places, and the monument shall cease to be a memorial.

Such is time with its changes, and yet the thoughtless race of man pass on, unheeding the destiny that awaits them, slow to learn the lessons these solemn places are calculated to teach.

The birds as they sang in the branches, seemed breathing a dirge-like melody over the departed, and even their thrilling notes sounded solemn in this sacred place, so strong is the power of association over the human mind.

After spending some hours in this shady place, and drinking in its beauties and its solemnities, 'till the mind became softened and subdued by surrounding influences, we left it, bearing in the memory all the rich variety of landscape, we had been gazing on.

We visited Fresh Pond, where so many go for amusement. Thus it is ever, the living sport upon the very graves of the departed. The scenery here, though beautiful and picturesque, has not the touching influences of the Cemetery, and so we lingered not there, but returned again to the busy city to contrast its bustle, and its stir, with the deep quiet and silent shades of Mount Auburn.



Lines, From Mary to Her Father in California, with Her Daguerreotype.

Papa, I have hither come, To cheer you in your lonely home; No wealth of mind to you I bring, But I would touch the secret spring That can your best affections move, The fountain of a father's love. My perfect likeness here you see, In infantile sobriety; But then I jump, and laugh, and play, And call on mamma all the day; And though you distant are so far, I'm calling ever on papa. If I a hoe or spade could hold, I'd dig for California gold: Or wash your clothes—prepare your bread, Or sweep your room, or make your bed. But many a year must pass away Ere I one kindness can repay; For I can only have control O'er the deep currents of the soul; I feel I have a kindly part Within many a human heart. Should life be spared as years pass by, To win approval I must try. Perchance in passing o'er life's stage, That I may soothe your weary age; And then in part the debt repay, That now increases day by day. But papa, dig your heap of gold, That we may soon your face behold; But to be patient we will try, One kiss, papa, and now good by.



A Reminiscence.

Early in the evening of a beautiful summer's day, I stood, with thousands of my fellow creatures, on the dock of one of our northern cities, to witness the departure of a noble steamer, which sat upon the blue waters like a sea bird at rest, freighted with the wealth and beauty of the land. The golden sun had sunk behind the curtains of the west, bathing the earth with a flood of crimson glory; and the noisy hum of busy life was hushed, as the quiet shades of twilight fell upon the tired citizens of the great metropolis.

Here and there among the crowd could be distinguished a group of kind friends, gathered around some loved companion, who would soon be

"Far out o'er the ocean blue."

Here a careless, merry set of fellows were trying, with their bright wit and lively sallies, to cheer a young companion who was about to leave the home of his boyhood, to seek a name and a fortune a far distant land.

There stands a pale, care-worn, yet lovely woman, with a tear which she cannot restrain, coursing down her cheek, as with a convulsive pressure of the hand and a murmured, "God bless you," she parts with her son. He is her only son, and she is a widow.

In yonder proud city a home awaits him, where he can earn a slight pittance, to keep them from starving.

The grey-haired sire, the blooming youth, the middle aged, are all here, parting with their friends, while yonder gay throng, with light laugh and bandied jest, are offering the congratulations and the parting salutations to a fair young bride, arrayed in all the gorgeousness of wealth and beauty.

The last word is spoken, the last fond pressure of the hand, and the last farewell kiss are all given, and amid the cheers of the multitude, and the whistle of the engine, the ringing of the bell, and the puff of the steam, the noble ship leaves the wharf, and ploughs her way on the billowy deep, and the busy throng seek their homes, their hearts beating high in anticipation of a coming day, when they shall again welcome the absent friends, scarcely a thought of pain or death mars their bright hope.

* * * * *

The hours pass on. The full orbed moon rides forth, enthroned among her retinue of stars, in a clear cerulean sky, bathing all things beautiful in a mellow light. Far out upon the blue waters rides the noble steamer, like a thing of life, leaving a long wake of white foam behind. Her numerous passengers had laid down to dream of home and happiness. The gay youth is with his companions, the poor boy with his widowed mother, the bride in the home of her youth—all are living over again the scenes that are past.

As they thus lie, lulled in security, the startling cry of "Fire! fire?—the ship is on fire!" breaks in an appalling sound on the ear. Every one springs instantly to their feet, and every possible means are resorted to, to quench the flames, but all in vain; the flames rush on, and in agony the passengers and crew await their doom. The man of God, with his white hair streaming over his shoulders, is calling upon them to make their peace with God; and anon he kneels and commends them to his kind care. The voice of prayer, the hymn of praise, the groan of agony, the silent tear, the piercing shriek, are alike in vain. The destroyer speeds on; the awful announcement is made that there is powder on board! Oh, the untold misery of that hour, as in speechless agony they watch the flames. It came at last—and with one shriek of despair, the doomed victims were hurled into eternity, and far and wide over the waters were scattered the remains of the steamer and her crew.

Morn came. The waves sparkled merrily in the sunbeams, and not a trace of the fell destroyer remains; but far—far down in the depth of the ocean, on a bed of green sea flowers, reposes the form of that fair young bride—the friend of my youth.



Letter of Resignation, from Mrs. Hanna to The Maternal Association

February, 11th.

Dear Sisters in Christ:

We have journeyed on together, through another year, until we have reached that elevated period, where it has been our wont to pause and take a retrospective view of the past, and lay plans for the future.

Has the progress of our Association been satisfactory? I feel, my dear sisters, that while we have some things to deplore, we have much to be thankful for. No mother has been taken by death from our circle, and we have been called to part with but one darling child; and while God has taken from us one immortal spirit to bloom in his paradise above, he has in his rich mercy bestowed upon us another to claim our sympathies and our prayers.

Another year is gone—solemn thought! As we glance at the record of its events, and contemplate its changes, we can but feel a realizing sense of the shortness of time, and the necessity of improving the present to the best possible advantage. One after another has dropped from our little circle, till we are left but few in number; but enough to claim the precious promise of the blessed Saviour, that he will be with us if we meet in his name. And, my sisters, has he not verified his promise unto us? for have we not felt our hearts burn within us, when we have knelt together before a mercy seat, and poured forth our prayers into the ear of that pitying Saviour, beseeching him to have compassion upon us and our children. Have not the hours we have spent together, conversing upon the things that pertain to the kingdom of God, and the moral and spiritual improvement of our children, been to us like the oasis in the desert to the weary traveller? and may we not look back upon them as the spots where we rested beneath the shadow of the Almighty, and drank from the healing waters of salvation. And my sisters, though we may not see the immediate results of our labors, let us rely upon the rich promises of God, that in due time the seed shall spring up and bear fruit, some ten, twenty, thirty, sixty—perchance some an hundred fold. Then let us be encouraged to do with all our might what our hands find to do.

As we see the vacancies the past year has made, we can but feel, with Job, "that when a few more years are come, I shall go the way whence I shall not return." And truly we may adopt the language of Paul, "Seeing these things are so, what manner of persons ought we to be, in all holy conversation and godliness."

My dear sisters, it now devolves upon me to resign the office necessity rather than choice compelled me to accept, and I feel that in so doing, I shall best promote the interests of the Association. I thank you for your kind forbearance toward my short comings, which have been many. I regret that I have served you so inefficiently, and hope the better offices of the succeeding year may tend to the greater promotion of the holy objects of your Association. And while we meet together, and pray together, and together wait for the harvest, may we be bound together in the love of Christ, and each succeeding year add new supplies of grace.

Yours, affectionately, in Christ,

A. S. Hanna.



Improvement of Time

There is nothing more necessary for our future welfare than the improvement of time. Our time is too valuable to be spent in idleness. If we wish to be respected, we must be industrious; and to be industrious we must know how to value our time. Every moment must be spent as we should wish it had been when we come to years of discretion. There are many things that we can busy ourselves in doing that will fill up a few leisure moments, and perhaps it will do some good. If we are poor, we can relieve our parents in trying to assist them in the daily labors and toils of life, for hard must be the lot of that toil-worn father, and care-worn mother, who have a numerous family to maintain by their daily labor, all careless and indifferent of their hardships and fatigues. If we are rich, we can make those happy around us by the thousand nameless attentions which the hand of industry alone can supply. Therefore, whatever our situation in life may be, the good improvement of our time will not only tend to promote our usefulness, but our happiness. Take for instance a man who has indulged in habits of indolence from his childhood, and see what it has brought him to. He has been in the habit of lounging about the streets unemployed, or perhaps watching for opportunities for mischief; step by step he descends in his moral degradation; vice succeeds folly, till a dark catalogue of crimes brings him to a drunkard's grave. State prison, or the gallows. While, on the other hand, take a man who has been accustomed to labor and toil for his daily food, and see how much more he is respected, and what a difference there is in the lives of those two men. The one is beloved and respected, and the other is miserable and degraded.

The industrious man begins life, and perhaps has no better prospects before him than his companion; but see how much better he ends life than the other. He begins to climb the ladder of science, and by perseverance, he will soon reach the top round, and he can not do this unless he improves his time.

We have ample proof that unless we improve our time we can not be happy or respected, and when we have a feeling of indolence come over us, we must shake it off and try to arouse our energies, and we must bear in mind that for every idle moment we must give an account at the bar of God on the judgment day, before God and man.



Lines, Written on the Death of Frank.

For their darling boy they weep,— For their beautiful and bright, Who sweetly fell asleep, One mild, autumnal night, And the wind his requiem sang, As his spirit passed away, From this world of toil and pain, To the realms of endless day.

They bore him to the grave,— To his long and silent home, Where the trees in summer wave. And the birds and blossoms come;— Where the sunlight faintly creeps, And the autumn breezes moan, There the loved one softly sleeps, In his chamber dark and lone.

Now vacant is the chair, At the table and the hearth,— They miss him everywhere, With the voice of joy and mirth. They seek for him in vain, In the chamber where he lay, Through weary months of pain, Wasting slowly, day by day.

He sweetly fell asleep, As an infant sinks to rest, When sunlight shadows creep. Along the rosy west. Gently as falls the rose, Fanned by the zephyr's breath, So his eyelids softly closed, In the quiet sleep of death.

He has gone to his rest; Oh! weep not for the dead,— For the loved and the lost Let no bitter tears be shed. We trust that he has gone. With the glorified to dwell, And say, "God's will be done— He doeth all things well."



The Pleasures of Memory.

Memory is a choice gift bestowed on man. It is a boundless source of pleasure to most all persons, unless their lives have been fraught with crimes of so daring a nature, that it makes the the heart revolt at the very thought of them. It is pleasant at times to revert to the scenes of by-gone days, and recall one beloved companion and another, that have passed away, and to think of the many happy interviews we have held with them.

It is necessary for the scholar to improve his memory, that he may retain what he learns; that it may be of use to him at some future time; that he may receive the reward he has anxiously sought for. It is pleasant to the aged to recall the scenes that have long since slumbered in oblivion, and awaken from the hallowed precincts of the dead, thoughts of friends with whom they were wont to associate in their early days, and retrace the sports of their childhood, when health and activity nerved their limbs, and happiness filled their bosoms.

It is pleasant to look back upon past pleasures, to recall the beautiful scenes we have once witnessed, the smile of friendship, the tear of sympathy, the glance of affection, the tone of love, or to listen again to the thrilling sounds of soul-enrapturing music, that has once delighted us. But so varied is our pathway of life, that a thorough retrospection must ever be fraught with sad as well as pleasing reflection. Is memory thus faithful to her trust? Then how necessary that we should improve each moment, as it glides along into the unbounded ocean of eternity, that it may bear a good record to the future hour. And, O, how necessary that we should so spend our lives, that when we come to be laid upon our death-bed, in the last agonies of expiring nature, if reason does not forsake her throne, and memory still proves true to her trust, it may bring up the pleasing recollection that life has been well spent.



The Song of the Weary One.

There is no music in my heart,— No joy within my breast; In scenes of mirth I have no part,— In quiet scenes no rest.

Mine is a weariness of life,— A sickness of the soul; An ever constant struggling strife, My feelings to control.

Oh, it was ever—ever thus, From childhood's earliest hour; My spirits ever were weighed down, By some mysterious power.

There seemed some dark, unearthly fate, Around my life to twine; That which brings joy to other hearts, Brings mournfulness to mine.

And yet I am too proud to weep, I never could complain; And so they deem my spirit feels No weariness or pain.

They read not in my sunken eye, And in my faded cheek. A weight of wretchedness and woe, That words could never speak.

Oh, 'tis a weary—weary lot, To live when joy is gone;— To feel life has no sunny spot, Yet still we must live on.

To mingle with the laughing crowd, Yet feel we are alone; To know there's not one human heart Can understand our own.

Oh, Thou, who sitt'st enthroned on high, Who every heart can see, Look down in pity and in love, and take me home to thee.



Lines, Inscribed to a Brother.

A New Year's gift I send to thee, A volume filled with quaint old rhymes; And may it wake the memory Within thy heart, of olden times.

When we by the cheerful fireside hearth, Together conned the glowing page, Grave themes, and subjects full of mirth, Did each by turns our minds engage.

Oh, then, what rapture filled my heart, How throbb'd my brow—how burn'd my brain, As the poet with his magic art, Wove the deep mysteries of his strain.

But now a leaden stupor lies Upon my dull, inactive soul; In vain my spirit strives to rise, From the dark mists that o'er it roll.

Nor legend old, nor wild romance. Nor fairy tale, nor minstrel lyre, Can with their magic power entrance, Or one impassion'd thought inspire.

Thus, like the rosy sunset hues, Fade fancy's pictures from the soul, The light that youth's fair skies imbued, Is merged in clouds that o'er us roll.



Changes

Who has not observed the mutability and ever changing aspect of earthly things? Here, in this pleasant village, where rises the towering spire, the lofty mansion and the humble cottage, with all the varieties appertaining to our village, its numerous factories and pleesant school houses, its well erected bridge over its foaming waters, once the Indian roamed, in untamed freedom, through forests unbroken by the woodman's axe. Here resounded the fierce war-whoop, and here the wild death song; here was built the council-fire, and here was smoked the pipe of peace; in fine, here on this very spot existed all the elements of savage life. The light canoe was paddled over the roaring stream, that thundered on in its majesty, even as now.

But the white man came and scattered the race, and civilization spread its changes over the scene. Thus society is ever changing; even beautiful cities that have existed in all the pomp of wealth and elegance, have now become extinct, and are covered by the dust of ages.

Man's life, too, is one constant scene of change, from infancy to childhood, from childhood to manhood, and from manhood to old age. And many are the vicissitudes which await us during our journey through life. One generation passes away to be succeeded by another; we too must change, and when we shall be sought by our friends in our accustomed places, and they shall ask, "Where are they?" Echo shall answer, "Where?"



To Mr. and Mrs. S——, On the Death of an Infant.

The fairest flow'r that blooms on earth, And charms the gazer's eye, Is first to lose its brilliant hues, And fade away and die.

Soft it unfolds its petals rare, To gentle dew and sun, But come one blast of chilling air, And all its beauty's gone.

E'en so is life; the glow of health That warms the youthful cheek, Seems to invite the tyrant Death, His helpless prey to seek.

Thy little babe scarce 'woke to life, And promised fair to bloom, Ere cruel Death his victim seiz'd, And bore it to the tomb.

We fondly watch'd with anxious eye, For Hope had promise giv'n; And little deem'd that passing sigh, Had borne his soul to heav'n.

Calm as the breath of summer eve, On flow'r and foliage shed, And pure as midnight's heav'nly dew, His gentle spirit fled.

Then let not grief for him abide Within a parent's breast, For while his flesh returns to dust, His soul's with God at rest.

When we from earth are call'd away; By God's own summons giv'n, May we as tranquilly depart, And be as sure of heav'n.



The Spirits of the Dead.

"Are they not all ministering spirits, sent forth to minister unto them who shall be heirs of salvation?"

Some say the spirits of the dead, Are hovering o'er our way; At night they watch around our bed, And guard our steps by day.

Their shadowy forms are floating round, In parlor and in hall; They come and go without a sound,— As night dews gently fall.

One writer says, "Their airy forms Are round us everywhere; They are flitting in and out the door, And up and down the stairs."

Others the theory deride; But oft it seems to me, Beings are present by my side, Which yet, I cannot see.

Sometimes I start and gaze around, With half-bewildered air, Thinking some lov'd one's form to see, Within the vacant chair.

Sometimes a gentle rustling Falls faintly on the ear; Some angel, with the radiant wing, Perchance is hov'ring near.

We watch the dying Christian's bed, When death has marked his prey; He struggles painfully for breath, And longs to pass away.