-te: ' jij-iyywiUbu. / IIW H&ilFSHffil IBf H9BS SJa :« B m@®mm *■ c■ ,c. \c-- c;' •Til?' T T T T A TVIT 1^ 'SO IT « *£,.' g 5£Sj(jOi»,nn(R»on,fS:."Pin,??,rt ':''?,«■?:' « o; n >'" rfoo M FOR YOU; FROM V jfjeui IcMimpliire Sliitlinr.a. BY F. A. MOORE. i^flanrljcstcr, K. 52?. WILLIAM H . F I S K 1850. -^-g T ^ Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year ]850, by < WILLIAM U FISK, ? !:i the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of New [ J Hampshire. RTEUEOTYrEl) AT THE BOSTON S T i; 11 1". O T Y r i; F O r N D R Y . '>* AY pheface. PREFACE. The appearance of the present volume will occasion no surprise. It was thought ivell enottgh to attempt something of a readable and presentable kind, better suited to the popular tastes than any previous collection in this quarter. To this end our efforts have been mainly directed, and we hope, too, not without a degree of success. The materials employed have been such as came readily to hand, and no attempt has been made to embody a full selection from New Hampshire literature. A less imposing, less \ presumptuous task was ours. But while angling I in " our waters," it may seem invidious, almost, i that we have not drawn more variously from I our New Hampshire writers ; yet, in this re- f^i'47(iG57 IV PREFACE. -a spect, we were not unlike the fisherman wlio threw away his rod, not when he had drained the stream, but when he had obtained his " string-full." Of the character and quality of the work, they will speak for themselves, and need no elucidation. The writers are all believed to partake of New Hampshire growth or origin ; and as such, arc presented to each other, and to their friends in the Granite State. Apkil, 1850. CONTENTS. V CONTENTS The Greeting, Myron, 11 By-past Hours William B. Tappan, . . 12 The Merrimac, William M. Richardson, 13 The Tomb of Stark H. W. Horrick, .... 16 Sunset, Harriet Farley, .... 17 The White Mountains, E. Jane Gate, .... 19 The I.yre, Milton Ward, .... 25 The Granite Hills, Arthur B. Childs, . . . 28 Our Mountain Homes, Mrs. S. E. A. Barnes, . . 29 The Old Woods, David Gilchrist, .... 31 Sabbath Evening, Caroline Orne, .... 33 The Sultry Noon, Carlos Wilcox, .... 34 The Light of Home Sarah J. Hale, .... 35 Life in the Woods, Ina, 37 Thoughts alone, George Moore, .... 40 I won her Heart in Autumn, . . . J. Q. A. Wood, . . .42 The Soul of Song, Effio May, 44 Casual Counsel, Horace Greeley, .... 46 Original Thinking, Caroline Orno, .... 48 Lines, Oliver W. B. Peabody, . 51 To the Merrimac River, .... Theodore Russell, . . .52 About Names, . . Ina, 57 Bridal Wishes, . Harriet Farley, .... 62 i, Woman's Love, Joanna, 63 ? s VI COXTENTS. The Stranger Maiden's Death, 65 Altonock, David Gilchrist 68 Stanzas, L. L., 71 Can I forget thee ? Carolus, 72 I live to love, Effie May, 73 I love to live, EtTie May, 74 5 The Beautiful Ideal, " Lue," 75 I Too Early Lost, O. W. B. Peabody, ... 78 < Passing away, M. A. Dodge, 81 < Press on, L., ........ 82 ' Kindness, Kate Clarence, .... 64 I May Day on Rock Raymond, . . . S., 88 I Farewell to New England, .... Mrs. S. K. A. Barnes, . . 90 ( Speak kindly, Josephine L. Baker, . . 91 I Stanzas, "lone," 92 / Aristocracy, N. P. Rogers, 93 j My Spirit Home, N. Wright, 97 The Valley I love, Hannah M. Br)ant, . 99 A Flower, " H." 100 The Reverie, Olfe, 102 The Ideal of a True Life, .... Horace Greeley, . . .104 ', The Spirit of Poesy, . ..... Clara 110 ^ The Indian Summer, M. J. H., HI Old Man of the .Mountain, . . . Mrs. Mury M. Glover, . 112 Orilla, Harriet Farley, . . . .114 Fnctory Life, E. B. M., IIC Farewell to i^iicnmer, Ell:i May, 120 The Autumn Rose, Mary S. Patlersun, . . 122 Last Wishes of a Child, .... James 'i'. Fields, ... 123 To a Sister, : J. M. Fletcher, . . . .124 Woman's Influence, Miss L. A. Parker, . . 125 Stanzas, IlclfU, 129 Man Is not \\ lial li(« wills, .... Leonard Swain, . . .131 CONTENTS. Vli The Three Visions " lone," 134 The Angel's Wliisper, Martha A. Clough, . . 136 The Wife to her Husband, . . . Mrs. C. S. Goodale, . . 139 A Dream of Love, N. Wriglit, 141 The same old Girl, B. B. French, .... 143 [ love a Laugh, "EffieMay," . . . . 144 Orator>', Samuel G. Brown, . . 145 Autumn, . . . , N. A. Haven, 150 Friendship, Mrs. D. W. Holt, . . .151 Beauty, > • • Caroline, 152 Books, A. B. Fuller, .... 154 They tell me. Love, Horatio Hale, .... 160 The Phantom Fisherman, . . . . E., 161 The Scholar's Death J. H. Warland, .... 163 Literature, N. P. Rogers, .... 164 The Two Maidens, Sarah J. Halo, .... 167 Stanzas, " lone," 168 To a Bride, Hannali M. Brj-ant, . . 1C9 Beauty of Liglit, Harriet Farley, . . .171 Eventide, J. W. P., 173 Now England, J. M. Fletcher, .... 175 The Valley Cemetery, Mrs. Mary M. Glover, . 176 Mystery, Reason, Faith, .... Ephraim Peabody, . . 177 Stanzas, : . . . H. N. L., 179 The Lovely Dead, J. R. Dodge 181 Dream of the Indian Prophet, . . J. Q. A. Wood, . . .182 The Uses of Sorrow, Henry Steele Clarke, . 184 My Childhood's Home, Julia A. A. Sargeant, . 188 The White Mountains, William B. Tanpan, . .190 Monadnock, William B. O. Peabody, 191 A Dream of Ambition, Kate Clarence, , . . 193 The Young Bride, J. T. Fields, .... 196 The Heart's Guest, Mrs. Orne, . . .- . .197 Viii CONTENTS. Mudngs, A. M. H., 199 The Bachelor's Song, F. A. A., 201 On a I^ad} '.s rortruit, Horace Greeley, ... 203 Ladies' Dresses, Hosca Ballou, .... 304 Novel-Heading, Elizabotli, 205 Reminiscences of Childhood, . . Leighton, 208 Brighter Moments, W., 210 The Novice, • Samuel T. Hildrcth, . . 211 1 am Dreaming, M. H. A., 213 The Green Mountain Maid, . . . Joseph C. Neal, . . . 214 To an Irish Boy, A. A. J., 217 The Sunbeam, Lucy, 219 Character, Charles B. Hadduck, . 220 Song of tlic Factory Girl, .... J. II. Warland, . . . 223 The Loved and Lost, O. \V. Whittier, . . .225 Higher, J. P. Chase, 226 Lines, Olive, 22S ^ The Man I like, Clara 229 Legislation, N. T. Rogers, .... 231 I sing to liini, i^arali J. Hale, .... 234 I can tell of a Home, C. F. C, 235 The Brotherhood of Man B. M. Tillotson, ... 237 To a Bachelor, 240 The New Ilami)shiro Girls, . . J. T. Fields 212 My First Love, .Vn Old Bachelor, . .213 We'll meet again Snnuiel T. HiUlreth, . .247 Conquest is ours, H. N. L., 248 Hampton Beach, J. O. Adams, .... 249 Stanzas, O. \V. 1!. IValmdy, . . 2.'a ('oming i>( Winter, - .1. li. A. Wood, . . Jmnioitality T. O. Lincoln, . . . Tlie Volunteer's Farewell, . . . Mrs. S. U. A. Barnes, Our Factory Girls, Nancy P. Healey,. . CONTENTS. Tlie Old Granite State, George Kent, .... 267 A Sketch, Moses A. Cartland, . . 269 Stanzas, M., 274 Ultraism, Joseph Kidder, .... 275 The Doomed Race, Mrs. Case, 280 The Restless Heart, M. G. Sleeper, . . . .281 To the Young, B. M. Tillotson, ... 287 I The Pilgrim of the World, .... Sarah J. Hale, .... 294 New Hampshire, J. CI. A. Wood, . . .295 Free Thought, F. A. M., 298 The Daughter of the Isles, . . . W. B. Tappan, .... 302 The Loved and Lost, J. H. Warland, .... 306 Living and Means, Horace Greeley, . . . 310 a- i THE GREETING. 11 THE GREETING. Sisters, we come from each rocky dale, Each woodland home, and each fertile vale, — From the mountain side, the city's hum, The shores of each mimic lake, we come. Your approraig smile we m.eekly wait — Accept the wreath from the Granite State. For you we have come, with the laugh and song. To each and to all our tributes belong. As the lover twines a garland fail-. To deck the loved one's clustermg hau% What varied hues in the chaplet beam. And each from contrast the lovlier seem ; Thus noAv, from among our granite-bound realms, A chaplet we'll wreathe, bright-sparkling with Gems - A bouquet culled from its gardens anew — And twining with care, inscribe it " For You." Myron. 12 BY-PAST HOURS. BY-PAST HOURS. Go, di-eain of by-past hours ; In retrospect, once more, Pluck fancy's gayest flowers, And revel in thy store. Go, seek thy native cot, Scene of affection fi-ce, Where pleasure cheered thy lot, A\'Tierc love -was all to thee. Do this, but never teU The heartless world thy dream ; Its scorn would hope dispel, Would crush the fairy theme. Do this, but in thy breast Let each fond AvLsh expire : For sorrows unreprcssed Are his who loves the lyre. miliam B. Tappan. ^^ a- THE MERKIMAC. 13 THE MERRIMAC. Sweet Merrimac ! thy gentle stream Is fit for better poet's theme ; For rich thy -waves, and gentle too, As liomc's proud Tiber ever knew ; And thy fair current's placid swell Would flow ill classic song as well. Yet on thy banks, so green, so sweet. Where wood nymphs dance and naiads meet. E'en since creation's earliest dawn, No son of song was ever bom ; No muse's fairy feet e'er trod Thy modest margin's verdant sod ; And 'mid Time's silent, feathery flight. Like some coy maiden, pure as light. Sequestered in some blest retreat, Far from the city and the great, Thy virgin waves the vales among Have flowed neglected and unsung. Yet as the sailor, raptured, hails His native shores, his native vales, — Returning home from many a day Of tedious absence, far away From her whose charms alone control i 14 THE MERKIMAC. The -vs-arni affections of his soul, — Thus, from life's stormj', troubled sea, My heart returns to ■v'isit thee. Sweet Nymph, -whose fairy footsteps press, And viewless lingers gaily dress. By moonlight, or by Ilesper's beam. The verdant banks of this sweet stream, — VTho oft, by twilight's doubtful ray. With wood-nymphs and with naiad gay, Lead'st up the dance in merry mood. To the soft murmurs of the flood, — All hail once more ! 'Tis many a year Since last I came to meet thee here ; And much it glads my heart once more To meet thee on this pleasant shore ; For here in youth, when hope was high, My breast a stranger to a sigh. And my blood danced through every vein, Amid the jolly, sportive train Of youths and maids, who, gathering round. Danced to the flute's entrancing sound, I felt thy powerful influence The l)liss our bosoms felt dispense, Delight on all our bosoms pour, And make our hearts with joy brim o'er; — Thy fingers on each virgin's chock Impressed the witching " dimple sleek," ( THE MERRIMAC. 15 ' > < Bade masic smiles and blushes meet J In mixture ravisliingly sweet, i And many a face a charm possess, > Which then I felt, but can't express. Blest days ! — alas, forever past I Sunk in the ocean deep and vast Of years, "whose dread profundity Is pierced by none but Fancy's eye, — Your joA^s, like gems of pearly light. There hallowed shine in Fancy's sight. What though, beside this gentle flood, Bedewed with tears and wet with blood, Profusely shed by iron ^Mars In wild ambition's cruel wars. No evergreen of glory waves Among the fallen Avarriors' graves ? What though the battle's bloody rage, "Where mad, contending chiefs engage, The njinphs that rule these banks so green. And naiads soft, have never seen ? What though ne'er tinged this crystal wave The rich blood of the fallen brave ? No deathless deed by hero done, No battle lost, no "S'ictory won. Here ever waked, with praise or blame, The loud uplifted trump of fame ? Here bounteoiis spring profusely showers A wildemess of sweets and flowers, — 16 THE TOMB OF STAllK. The stately oak of royal line, The spreading chn and towermg pine, Here cast a purer, happier shade Than blood-stained laurels ever made. No wailing ghosts of warriors slain Along those peaceful shores complain ; No maniac virgin, crazed -with care. The moiu-nful victim of despair, While pangs unutterable swell Her heai-t to -view the spot where fell The j'outh who all her soul possessed. Here tears her hair or beats her breast. Ne'er victor lords, nor conquered slaves, Disgraced these banks, disgraced these waves ; But freedom, peace, and plenty here Perpetual bless tho passing year. fVtUiam M. Richardsou. THE TOMB OF STARK. No trappings of state, their bright honors unfolding. No gorgeous display, mark the place of thy rest ; i But the granite points out whore thy body lies moiU- dcring, And where tho wild rose sheds its sweets o'er thy breast. i SUNSET. 17 > The zephyr of evening shall sport with the willow, And play through the grass where the flowerets creep, While the thoughts of the brave, as he bends o'er thy I pillow, Shall hallow the spot of the hero's last sleep. As, from glory and honor, to death thou descendedst, ^ 'Twas meet thou shouldst lie by the Merrimac's wave ; It was well thou shouldst sleep 'mongst the hills thou defendedst. And take thy last rest in so simple a grave. There forever thou'lt sleep, — and though ages roU o'er thee, And crumble the stone o'er thy ashes to earth ; The sons of the free shall with reverence adore thee, The pride of the mountains which gave thee thy birth. H. TV. Herriclu SUNSET. Come with me, brother, forth ; and view the sun, How he goes down in glory. Brilliant light Is in the air : and brilliance on the waves. Each slight, thin cloud is now irradiate. And, 'neath our feet, we tread the only shade. 2 * 18 SUNSET. Thou wast not here last eve ; and sawest not His other glorious valedictory suit. DoA^•n^vard he came — down, from the chaos thick Of a wild storm, which like a troubled deep Left the dark sky, and sailed into a smooth And golden sea, which shimmered in the west. Then downward still, behind the riven cloud, "Which, like a massive, broken wall, was there Upon the horizon low ; and, even like The glowing parapets of Heaven, was rich In ruby and in amethystine hues. Like the hot glow of living fire was light Behmd that bastion cloud ; and then the sun Went down below the earth, while far away. Gleaming through every rift and broken space, Spread the rich mantling blush ; and, upwai'd there, Inverted billows of the deep above Caught on their hanging heads a crimson cap. And hovered like a gay and liveried host. O'er his farewell descent. He grows not old, Like temples wliich their ruins strew around Us here ; but fresh, unworn, and strong, as in That day when set in firmament above. Brother, he now has bade us all adieu, And left the world to moonlight and to dreams. Harriet Farley. THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 19 I THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. " Cool enough up there : plenty cool enough. Showers every day, green as emerald all about ! De- licious, I do assure you, going from these hot, parched regions." This is M-hat people say when they come back to us from the mountains. And to us who have lately seen all and felt all, what dreams of freshness, and comfort, and wonder do their rhapsodies beget ! Of the moun- tains themselves, swelling and towering up to the very heavens, rocks as large as houses, torn and frightful, waiting only until we come along the accom- plishment of their "dire intent" of crushing some- body ; the sunshine and the beautiful blue mists, the darkness, nowhere else so intense, the vapors and the storms, nowhere else so headlong, sudden and tumul- tuous as among the mountains. These, ah ! and the moonlight, and the mountain streams leaping clear and bright as crystal down their rocky way. And here, par parenthese, lot mo ask it of my readers who have been at the mountains, if, in any other place they ever saw such intensely green foliage, ever felt such invigorating airs, or treasured memories which ^^ill have such power to cool and refresh them, in all the 20 THE •\VIIITE MOUNTAINS. hot, -wearisome days of their earthly life, as along these same mountain streams, at the Basin, the Flume, and the "Wliirlpool. Aprojws to the sudden showers and storms. "\Vc start out to ride a few miles for air and exercise, for a search after mosses, minerals, and flowers, to see how people live off there, to make our way into some log cabin we passed in coming to the Mountain House, ostensibly to get some water, but really to see if it is not " as dark as pitch within," and as dismal and com- fortless as can be. The sun is shining, and there is only one cloud to be seen. Wc observe it particu- larly, on account of having had already several cxtem- \ porancous drenchings. There is but one cloud, and that is no larger than a man's coat, — with its skirts and sleeves well spread, dear reader, — and it lies away off at the north-western horizon. \Ve venture out, therefore, in a light open buggy, with our para- sols for the sunshine of the cleared districts, and our cashmeres for the cool, damp shade of the woods. Away wc go. Our horse, it appears to us, absolutely flies over the road to "the music of the spheres" — for this it seems to us to be, the deep, strange silence of the place, frona which yet there comes such deep, strange melody, when we bend our car and thought, and listen as we go. "Wc know that birds have a part in the concert, or wo presume they have ; for we look upward, and a giant hawk m I 11^ -m THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 21 " poised on Iiigli, Flaps his broad wing, yet moves not." We turn to either side of the way, and birds are on the wing. Sprays, which they have just left, are quivering, and those on which they have just settled, are swaying to and fro. Before us, also, are they trot- ting along, ever and anon turning half around, with a hope to look at us, while from the tree tops, birds of heavier mould and gayer colors sail gracefully out, make their short circuit of supervision, and again settle in their leafy coverts to eye us as we pass. "VVe know that all these, and thousands which we do not see, are <' poua-ing their little throats ; " but it is not this — we hear something beyond all this when we listen and are still. We feel in those moments that the great temple in which we are has an inner sanctuary, that as yet we have never entered, of infinite beauty, infinite purity, and infinite joy. Its "beautiful gates" are only occa- sionally opened to us ; and it is then that we hear those low, dreamy sounds, as it were "the melting songs of other worlds ; " then that those breezes fan us and supply our breath, which make us " drunk with beauty." We do not know, it may be, that this is not all illusion. Since heaven is all around us, it may be that sometimes we are so far spiritualized as to enter upon the borders of the beautiful land, and to enjoy for a few moments, and in a poor degree, some of its delights. But it is not long ; for it troubles us. m- 22 THE •\VH1TE MOUNTAINS. } We are torn between a yearning to be away, to enter >. at once the sanctuary of beauty and holiness, and the I gross materialism which still fastens us to the earth. ( This we cannot bear long, and therefore we are not / long silent. "Wc begin talking fast to the birds, to our i companions, and to our good steed. AVe wield our I sledge among the rocks along the way, or hunt the | pale flowers, and arrange neatly every petal, every stamen, amongst the leaves of an old singing book taken along for this very purpose ; or — but what was that ? — a patter on a leaf near — what was it ? "What is this on our nose ? Not rain ; not rain, our compan- ions declare, for the sun — pooh ! where is the sim ? We would like to have you show us the sun. There is not an inch of the sky to be seen, and that was cer- tainly a great rain drop on that leaf, and on our nose. It was perfectly natural that it should alight on our nose of all the rest, for our nose is a long nose, pro- truding itself far enough beyond the perimeter of our little bonnet. It was rain ; no doubt of that now, for it is already falling fivst and thick. And here we are, five mUes from the ^lountain House ! and hands full of moss, and flowers, and rocks ! No umbrella, no top nor boot to our carriage — notliing but our little bonnets, our little sunshades, and our cashmeres. Well, our minerals, flowers, and moss, must be dropped right ? here, — that is certain ; wc shall Ixavc enough to do to THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 23 take good care of ourselves. It is pleasant now — is it not ? — that we have a kind driver, who says good na- turedly, " Come, girls ; " who looks up to the clouds, and whistles — whistles as he thoughtfully gathers the reins and whip, and who does not once on our way back say, " I thought — ah, wc should have saved all this, sis ; we shouldn't have had this bath, coz, if you had not been there so long musing and flower gather- ing." Yes ; pleasant that we have not a driver who will say this to us. We are sorry enough as it is — malgre we go laughing all the Avay — to wet our bon- nets. We would have no patience with one, were he brother, cousin, lover, husband, or friend, who, in such a case, would once say, " I thought," or " I told you," when, the truth known, he didn't any more than we did. But snap ! crack ! whew ! how our horse skims along the way, and how happy we are in defiance of the rain ! happier, I do believe, on this rain's very account. And here we are in sight of Crawford's : truly, it goes to our hearts lilie the sight of home. Thrum-um-na go those ever-rolling balls. A gentleman is crossing the street to the alley with prodigious leaps, all made on tiptoe ; and yonder, just disappearing in the Notch, is the " Mountain Ranger." We do not know what accessions to our company it has left at the Mountain House, or what number of acquaintances, formed there, it is carrying forever from our sight. We — But here -m '^ THE -WHITE MOUNTAINS. comes Mr. Crawford. Ah ! we like him as a brother. I In the twinkling of an eye he lifts us from our car- S riage into the piazza, and hurries along -with us through ^ the hall, brushing the big rain drops from our veils and I shawls as we go. "What, Mr. Crawford, " Diimcr all \ ready? Been kept waiting for us /i>e wuVjwies/ " Five minutes ! Only think, brother ! Only think, cousin ! I Five minutes — and in a boarding-house in America I too ! and up among the mountains, where people arc so J voraciously hungry. Wliat, Mr. Crawford, "Trout J from the stream direct," did you say ? Ah ! " And blackberries and cream, and blueberry dumplings, and — and — " Yes, we shall sec. We will dress in just three minutes. Then such a dinner as we will make after this drive, and on such fare too ! And after din- ner we will sit on the parlor sofas, and rest, and listen to the contented buzz going on in all the rooms, and I buzz ourselves occasionally, and turn over the leaves in I «< Jackson's Kcport," without reading, seeing, or think- I ing, and perliaps we will, noletis volens, get the least bit I of a siesta somewhere along ; and if we do, then we / are rested ! Then we are ready for any thing — for the ^ heartiest laugh we ever had yet over the odd conceits i and really witty things of the albums ; for finding I Uncle John and giving him torment sonic way, (luiz- zing the little city dandy, wlio fancies us aU in love with him ; for a good and sensible chat with the good and sensible Mrs. Kcllcy ; for a quarrel with Professor H^ THE LYRE. 25 Lane about things in general ; or, better than any of these — since it ■would help us most effectually to rid ourselves of this superabundance of electricity — for a game at tenpins, now that the shower is over. Come, cousin ; come, brother ; come, Professor Lane, and uncle John, — yes, do ccme, uncle John, and we will go on our knees, and not laugh once while we ask your par- don for throwing that water on you. ^Irs. Kelley, please — thank you — yes v.e will all go now to the bowling-room. Your arm, uncle John ; only, don't let me fall if I slip in the mud, as you did purposely the other day. F.. Jane Cdte, (Franklin.) THE LYRE. There was a lyre, 'tis said, that hung High waving in the summer ak ; An angel hand its chords had strung, And left to breathe its music there. Each wandering breeze, that o'er it flew, Awoke a wilder, sweeter strain. Than ever shell of mermaid blew In coral grottos of the main. "When, springing from the rose's bell, Where all night he had sweetly slept. ! 26 THE LYRE. The zephyr left the flowery dell Bright -with the tears that morning wept : He rose, and o'er the trembling Ij-re "Waved lightly his soft aziuro wing. What touch such music could inspire ! What harp such lays of joy could sing ! The murmurs of the shaded rills, The birds that sweetly warbled by, And the soft echo from the hills, Were heard not where that hai-p was nigh. When the last light of fading day. Along the bosom of the west, In colors softly mingled lay, While night had darkened all the rest, Then, softer than that fading light, ] And sweeter than the lay that rung < Wild through the silence of tlic night, } As solemn Philomela sung, '< That harp its plaintive murmurs sighed J Along the dewy breeze of even ; I So clear and soft they swelled and died, I They seemed the echoed songs of heaven. < Sometimes, when all the air Avas still, 5 And not the poplar's foliage trembled, { ITiat harp was nightly heard to thrill ;! AVith tones no earthly tones resembled. ( And then, upon the moon's pale beams, \ Unearthlv forms \\ ore seen to stray, -^~~^ THE LYRE. 27 ( Whose starry pinions' trembling gleams Would oft around the Avild harp play. But soon the bloom of summer fled ; In earth and air it shone no more ; Each flower and leaf fell pale and dead, While skies their wintry sternness wore. One day, loud blew the northern blast, The tempest's fury raged along ; O for some angel, as they passed. To shield the harp of heavenly song ! It sliricked — how could it bear the touch, The cold, rude touch of such a storm, When e'en the zephyr seemed too much Sometimes, though always light and warm ! It loudly shrieked — but ah, in vain : The savage wind more fiercely blew ; Once more — it never shrieked again, For every chord was torn in two. It never thrilled with anguish more, Though beaten by the wildest blast ; ITie pang, that thus its bosom tore, Was dreadful — but it was the last. And though the smiles of summer played Gently upon its shattered form. And the light zephyrs o'er it strayed. That Lyre they could not wake or warm. Milton Ward. 28 THE GRANITE HILLS. THE GRAXITE HILLS. The Granite Hills ! How sweet those words Are always to my car ! What pleasant thoughts e'er cluster round My native state, so dear ! From boyhood's earliest hours I've roamed Amidst her hills and dales, I've seen licr frowning torrents pour, And heard her mountain gales. Her lakes so smooth, so pure, so clear, liright mirrors of the sky, No lake of sunny Italy Can with their beauties vie. I've gazed on pictures rare, and drawn With limner's nicest skill, But ah, no painting gladdens me Like Old New ILunpshire's hills. When I am gone, I will but ask Somo quiet, shady grove. '•-^■^^~^^~-»ii OUS MOUNTAIN HOMES. 29 That I may slumber undisturbed Amid the scenes I've loved. Then lay me wlicre some silent stream Its narrow channel fills, With many a leafy bough o'erhead, Among the Granite Hills. Arthur B. Ckilds. OUR MOUNTAIN HOMES. The glad, green earth beneath our feet, The blue, bright heaven is greeting ; And voiceless praise is rising up. Responsive to the meeting. Yet wherefore wakes a scene like this The warm hciU't's wild emotion ? The slave may boast a home as bright Beyond the pathless ocean. "Why do we love our mountain land ? The murnuiring of her waters ? Italia's clime is far more bland. More beautiful her daughters ! Why pine we for our native skies ? Our cloud- en circled mountains ? 3 * 30 OUU MOUNTAIN' HOMES. The hills of Spain as proudly rise, As freshly bxirst her fountains ! Alas for mount or classic stream, By deathless memories haunted ! For there Oppression, uiu-ebuked. His iron foot hath planted. The curse is on licr vine-clad hills, 'Tis life upon her -waters ; But doubly deep upon her sons, And on her dark-eyed daughters. Go fling a fetter o'er the mijid, And bid the heart be purer ; Unnerve the warrior's lifted arm, And bid his aim be surer ; Go bid the weary, prisoned bird Unfurl her powerless pinion ; — But ask not of the mind to brook The despot's dark dominion ! Why turn we to our mountain homes "With more than filial feeling ? 'Tis here that Freedom's altars rise. And Freedom's sons aie kneeling ! "Why sigh wc not for .softer chmcs ? Why cling to tliat which bore us r 'Tis here we tread on Freedom's soil, A\'ith Freedom's sunsluuc o'er us ! THE OLD WOODS. 31 This is her home — this is her home, The dread of the oppressor ; And this her hallowed birthday is, And millions rise to bless her ! 'Tis joy's high Sabbath ; grateful hearts Leap gladly in their fountains. And bless our God, who fixed the home Of Freedom in the movuitains ! Mrs. S. R. A. Barnes, (^Manchester.) THE OLD WOODS. Old woods ! thou art venerable in thy years. And thou hast grand and stately monuments, Wliich Time hath reared to mark his own progress. But he numbers liis greatest strides with change ; And when he hath returned from his far rounds, He doth fling upon them his withering pall. And they no longer greet with foliage The passing year at the vernal festival. But tremble like a man in weary age, Tin their proud branches are bowed to the earth. And they are drear and stricken things. Then the far winds gather and thi-ow thejn down. And bear on their fleet wings the hollow dirge 32 THE OLD WOODS. < To Tiill and dale afar. The seedlings rise up In jiridc and beauty, and spread their branches To the sky. Nature in thy deep solitudes doth reign Supreme. The presence of the benign God Is there, as light pervades the day, or thought The mmd. And when man hath become weary Of his labors in the world's strife, he may seek A retreat in the deep wilderness, And in the far, aU-pervading stillness Of that vast sanctuary, where the nymphs Do hold communion, learn wisdom not taught In flowery domes, and with nature's truths Ecfore him, resolve his own imperfect deeds Into good (if aught there Ls) and evil, And trace the stream of his avni wayward life Back to the crystal fount from whence it flowed, And there — with energy of thoiight, unclouded By the dim mysteries that paralyze llie quickening intellect, and shadow Nature's e\-idencc of the living God — Learn the wondrous purpose of human life. There is a mngic spirit in the woods, Whcrcwitli wo may multiply the mystcrica Of the universe, and then unfold them. And traro the varying, yet unvaincd. H- ^J*./^^^ ^ * r .^.- ^»N. SABBATH EVENING. 33 Hand of Divinity, from the flower And germ, to the liigh monarch of the hills, Thence, in hnes of glowing inspiration. Through man to Heaven. David Oilc/trist. SABBATH EVENING. 'Tis the eve of Sabbath ; all is so still That the wing of the bird, as it flies to its nest, Sends forth a low rustle, and sweet murmurs thrill On the ear, though the earth and the winds are at rest, Like music that flows from the harp's golden strings. When swept by some spirit's invisible wings. Even yonder white cloud, in the fair evening sky, I Its bosom just tinged with the hue of the rose, ^ As it moves, hkc a fairy sail, noislessly by, I Has a look that partakes of the Sabbath's repose ; But the calm and the stillness, more holy than all, Are those o'er the spirit that silently fall. As the flower, palo and droop'ng, doth heavenward turn, \Vhen the day's gairish splendor no more meets its eye, I -m ^^ 34 THE SULTRY XOOX. And while the fresh dewdrops steal into its urn, Its perfume gives out to the breeze floating by, From our hearts may the incense of praise, this blest hour, Flow forth like the fi-agrance that breathes from the flower, Caroline Ornc. THE SULTRY NOON. The fields ai-e still. The husbandman has gone to his repast, And, that partaken on the coolest side Of his abode, reclines, in sweet reijose. Deep in the shaded stream the cattle stand, The flocks beside the fence, with heads all prone And panting quick. The lields, for hiu-vest ripe. Now breezes bend in smooth and graceful waves, While with tlieir motion, dim and bright by turns. The sunshine seems to move ; nor e'en a breath Brushes idong the surface w itli a sliadc, Fleeting and tliin, like that of flying sjnoke. The slender staUvs, their heavy bended lieads Sujjport Its motionless lus oaks their tops. O'er all tlie woods the topmost leaves ore still. ia> " ^.*•^-'^.■^«y^•v■* r- THE LIGHT OF HOME. 35 E'en the wild poplar leaves, that pendent hang By stems elastic, quiver at a breath. Rest in the general calm. The thistle down Seen liigh and thick, by gazing up beside Some shading object, in a silver shower, Pliunb down, and slower than the slowest snow, Through aU the sleepy atmosphere descends ; And where it lights, though on the steepest roof, Or smallest spire of grass, remains unmoved. White as a fleece, as dense and as distinct From the resplendent sky, a single cloud On the soft bosom of the air becalmed, Drops a lone shadow as distinct and still, On the bare plain, or sunny mountain's side ; Or in the polished mirror of the lake, In which the deep reflected sky appears A calm, sublime immensity below. Carlos Wilcox. THE LIGHT OF HOME. My boy, thou wilt dream the world is fair. And thy spirit will sigh to roam, And thou must go ; hxxt never v>'hen there Forget the light of home. ia- < 36 TUE LIGHT OF HOME. > Thouc;li i^lcasurc may smile vith a ray more bright, It dazzles to lead astray ; Lilie the meteor's flash it will deepen the iiight, When thou treadest the lonely way. But the hearth of home has a constant flame, -A nd pure as Jhe vestal fire ; 'Twill burn, 't\Nill burn forever the same. For nature feeds the pyre. The sea of ambition is tempest tost, And thy hopes may vanish like foam ; But when sails arc shivered and rudder lost, Then look to the light of home. And tlierc, like a star thi'ough the midnight cloud. Thou shalt see the beacon bright, For never, tUl shining on tliy shroud. Can be quenched its holy light. The sun of fame, 'twUl gild tlie name. But the lieart ne'er feels its ray ; And fashion's smiles that rich ones claim. Arc like beams of a wintrv dav. k And how culil and diiu those beams would be, \ Should life's wretched wanderer coiiu^ ! ) But, my boy, when the world is dark to thee, \ Tbci;. turn to the light of home. . Saruh Joscjiha llule. J LIFE IN THE WOODS. 37 LIFE IN THE WOODS. When a soft October clay comes, with a golden haze in the atmosphere, and the whole earth is steeped in languid bcanty, have yon never felt a vague Avish to go off somewhere f Have you a fancy for a life in the woods ? To start off on some road little travelled, and turn in at the first forest path you come to, and follow every winding wood track, rvistling heedless over falling leaves, listening to the jays calling to one another upon the trees, are Avays of spending time, for which one day is never long enough. I confess to a fascination for forest life. I have been reading about the early settlers of Massachusetts — the little band of emigrants, guided by Thomas Hook- er, who journeyed westward to the banks of the C'on- necticiit. Men, women, and children, with their flocks and herds, wandered over the green valleys and through the broad forests of Massachiisetts, living a pastoral life, as did the patriarchs in the Bible times. What a glorious time they must have had of it ? I have read '* Eothen," too, till the adventurous spirit of its fearless writer has fascinated my wayward fancy, and made me wish for the freedom of the " dwellers in < 38 LIFE IX THE AVOODS. \ J tents." My heart is in it — tliis life of vagabondage. c At this moment — sitting here, -w-ith the sunsliine flickcrmg over my page, and the falling leaves rusliing round mc — hoAv gladly would I exchange my quiet life for a wild Indian's rovijig ! There must be intense interest in tlie uncertainty and adventure of each day ; constant and changing pleasure in new scenes ; health and happiness in the exercise. Mary Ilowitt, m the early days of her wedded life, travelled off, with her husband, over half of Scotland, hundreds and hundreds of miles on foot. I remember, too, about Audubon. What an enviable life has his been, journeying off in new countries, by day and by night, living among all beautiful tilings, liimself hardy, bold, and robust, and with the fine pliisique essential to their enjoyment ! And his wife — a most noble and lovable woman, in the measure of her intellect and affections — sluu-ed ■\\'ith him tlie toils and the perils, — O, yes, and the liappincss, beyond expression, — of those wanderings ; the bark canoe on the unliuo'mi river ; the scant nu\d of berries in the patldess woods ; the bii-ds' music ; tlie leafy shade ; the thousand beau- tiful and charming tilings in that boundless west. J History tells us of the wife of nn cm-ly settler, who I came over n peerlessly lovely bride, from cultivated \ England, to the wilderness of our new world. Though ' mistress of a stately home in lier native land, she ] chose the dangers and privations, and tlie wild ad- m^- LIFE IX THE "WOODS. 39 '. venture of a life with him. She had the erect form ' and glorious health of her countrywomen ; she had ; > the love, and devotion, and self-sacrificing spu-it of a J true -s^afe ; and through the forests of Maine, and along > > the margin of the great lakes, she journeyed without > other companion than lier husband. I fancy, with > pleasui-c, the picture of this refined and elegant wo- ', man, in her lit and beautiful half-Indian, half-lady- ! like, and all-coquettish costume, passing years in that j Avild, exciting, but most delightful life. ! There was Daniel Boone, too. That man had a { > most noble character — fearless, bold, and determined, I with Ids strong backwoodsman's arm, his chivalric, ' right generous heart. I like to think of him — that > pioneer of the west, moving on farther and farther into | the wddemess ; raising, at last, his log cabin, where the i smoke from no settler's hut had ever risen, beyond the > reach, or sight, or sound of civilized life ! O, he must ', have enjoyed it — that brave old soul, sharing no | companionship but Ms own thoughts, and the presence | of the God above him, and leading his life of loneh- > ness among the glorious things of creation. J I love to read of wild adventure ; of wandering life ; > of De Soto on the IMississippi ; Boone in the -wilderness ; i Audubon on the distant prairies of the West ; and O, * most touchingly and tenderly beautiful, that talc of ) love's pilgrimage from green Acadia to the luxuriant J shore of the Father of waters ; fi-om the voyagers' > 40 THOUGHTS ALOXE. path over the desert, to the missionaries' lodge in the West — the sweet, sad story of Evangeline. Ina, (.Vfie London.) THOUGHTS ALONE. The world is still ; the shadows grow Silently through the evening aii- ; Nightward day's sparkling moments flow, To lose their light and clearness there. And I am all alone ; the shade Of twilight casts its sombre gloom, And sunny thoughts aU seem to fade. As hopes die at the loved one's tomb. O for some heart to beat \\-ith mine, Some love to llmlit its holy flame ; Some soul to wliioh I coidd resign Each hope of life, each high-wrought aim ; Some one to trust, as life goes on, With a love as pure as heaven's light, Which, when the rays of day are gone, Sliincs in the starry robes of night ! B~^' M ) THOUGHTS ALONE. Yes, I could love some trustful one, Whose heart was pure, and free from guile. Whose voice should soothe till life was done, Whose look should cheer by its happy smUe ; Or, if the sorrows of earth should twine Their myrtle wreaths around the heart, And shade the sunlight of hope divine. Who might pray with me for the better part. To feel I was loved and trusted here. Where so few will trust their hearts in love. Where few can shed sympathy's tear. Or breathe together hopes above ; To feel a care so deep and strong. To unbosoni every cherished thought, To gain affections which so long- Have been in constant yearnings sought, — To clasp the hand wliich shall greet my own, To hear the voice wliich shall always send Through the heai-t a cheerful tone, — This is the life that I would spend. Then these lone hours Avould blend with those Sacred to love's inspmng throng ; And sweeter, as life draws to its close. Would rise the notes of its happy song. OeorsB Moore. 4* 41 \ -a 42 I WON HER HEAKT IN AUTUMN. I WON HER HEART IN AUTUMN. I WON her heart in aiitumn, That brings the golden da^\■n, "When crimsoned -were the forest leaves, The honeysuckle gone. But she is not what slic has been To me in moments past — The silver chord is broken, And golden bowl, at last ! She was a fairy creature, ^Vith eyes of licuvon's blue. And locks that o'er her shoulders fell, Aaad heart that promised true ; But Mammon wooed with coffers bright, And lioUow words of pride — Why should slie, with sucli beauty. Become a poor man's bride ? He had a dajiplcd coiu-ser, "With proudly arching mane ; It should be hers, and she should guide It with a silken rein ; I WON HER HEART IN AUTUMN. 43 While in the light her spotless brow With costly gems should burn, And at her gate the menial Should wait for her return. The harp, and iiute, and viol Should to her haUs belong, And voices from beyond the sea Should mingle there in song. She listened ; and her woman's heart Could keep its trust no more ; She could not wed a poar man — 'Twas vulgar to be poor ! The leaves again are crimson, The honeysuckle gone. And she, so loved and lost, is by Her dappled coursers drawn. But on her cheek the faded rose A tale hath meekly told, How that her heart is breaking Beneath its silver fold. And is it thus -«ith woman ? Is human love so nought, That it may ever, ever be With golden bubbles bought ? ^'^"•^^^^^tti -g 44 THE SOVL OF SONG. \ Then -what are life's young -v-isions -worth, / Their piire, unearthly bliss, J If all that they have promised Mvist fade awav to this r i J. Q. ^. yiood. THE SOUL OF SONG. O, WHERE resides the soul of song ? Say, where may it be found ? Does it dweU with the dancmg, faixy throng ? Does it live on enchanted ground r Where dwells the real soul of song ? Lives it in polar regions, AVhere snows remain for ages long, Uniniiuenced by the seasons ? Or lives the soxil of joyful song In the burning tropic clime, Where the over-ilowcring orange grows, And the cluster-laden vino ? Lives it on mountains, bleak and wild, I Ilira^i towering to the sky ? I Or is it the humble valley's diild, I In lowly glens to lie ? m- i THE SOUL OF SONG. 45 Does it live in the bubbling crystal spring — In the brooklet's rippling stream ? Or in ocean's unknown regions deep Do its peai-Iy treasures gleam ? Is it borne along on tlie gentle breeze, And by zephyrs lulled to rest ? Or on the wliirlwind does it ride, By the sprite of the storm caressed ? Does it dwell in the bright and gaudy flower Of the prau-ie's fertile plain ? Is its homo in the gloomy forest deep ? Do we seek it stUl in vain ? The soul of merry song doth dwell In all tliis httle earth ; 'Twas given us by the " morning stars " — "Tis of celestial birth. The little, noisy, mui-muring stream Slugs praises as it flows ; And the boundless ocean sings a song In the storm, or m repose. The feathered warblers of the wood Pour forth, iix sweetest strains. Songs to the Author of all good. Who nought has made in vain. 'B '46 CASUAL COUNSEL. When zephyrs gently move the leaves, Or tempest loudly roars, The soul of song blends every sound, As upward liigh it soars. And, O, that man his heart niiglit tune To join the mighty choii'. And loudest sing the praise of Ilim Whom man should most admire, — That, when the -world has pixssed away. The morning stars may sing, As they retake the soul of song Which soids from earth may bring. Effie May, {Rumncy.) < I CASUAL COUNSEL. •* What read'st thou there, my fair-haired boy. With eye so soft imd blue ? What spell has chilled the tide of joy, Whiih late thy veins ran thiough ? " Up looked he from that page of fear, (Sufh (head our race inherits,) And spoke tlu- title, low but ch-nr, ? •' The world of Evil Spirits." \ CASUAL COUXSEL. 47 " Hand me the book, my gentle friend, And let me o'er it glance. Whilst thou a patient hearing lend To -what I may advance. ' Spirits of Evil ! ' — ah, my cliild ! They are of fearful might : 'Tis well thou seek'st to shun their guile ; Be sure thou seek'st aright ! " ' De\Tls ! ' — Ah, yes, in this world of woe, They tlirong each trodden street. By day, by night — where the lonely go. Or where the joyous meet ; But dread them not in shapes like this, Absurd, — grotesq^uc, — abhorred ; Ah, no ! they revel in forms of bliss, And sliine at the sparkling board ! " In glossy stiit, — perchance of black, The de^•il is oft arrayed ; "SMiile the dapper boot on his sinister foot Does honor to Crispin's trade. Ah, not by outward shape of fear Is the cunning dcvLl shown ; But the gamester's ■\\-ile, or the scoffer's sneer, Shall make his presence known. " ' Witches ! " Ah, yes, they, too, abound ; Exit ne'er in garb like this ; 48 ORIGINAL THINKING. They rather in silks than rags are fovind, And betray, as of old, -with a kiss. When the witch looks out from a ■wanton's eye, Or up from the ruby bowl, Then, if thou wouldst not to virtue die, Stand firm in thy strength of soul ! " ' Ghosts ! ' Ah, my cliild ! dread spectres they That tell of our wasted powers ; The sliort-lived elves of Folly's day ; The ghosts of our miirderod hoiu-s ; Of friendship broken, love estranged ; Of all that our hearts condemn ; Of good rei^eUcd to evil changed ; Beware, my boy, of them ! " Horace Qrecley. ORIGINAL THINKING. > Who that has for a moment exercised liis own intcl- < Icctual powers upon any given subject or subjects, < has not felt that he has a living jiriiiciplc witliin, \ which, if stirred to the fountain, is capable of bringing forth from the laboratory of Ills own mind thoughts tliat would sway a multitude of the unthinking ? The unthinking, did I say ? Are there human beings, M 5 ORIGINAL TUINKIXG. 49 rational and accountable, who permit to lie dormant the highest faculty of our nature — thought ? Alas ! do -we not see it in cvery-day life ? — men, -whom God has endowed with reflecting and reasoning powers, suffering themselves to be led captive by the aspiring ambition of some awful demagogue, merely because they are too indolent to think ; allowing their moral powers to be governed and directed, indeed, to be at the sole disposal of some one in whom they have \ i^laced confidence. And is there no sin in thus com- mitting our ways to another ? Our talents are given us to improve tUl our Lord comes, and he that neg- lects, — who shall say to him, Not guilty ? What a visible change would there be in society, if one and all would arouse the moral energies of their souls, awake I within them the immortal germ of thought, and in- j cite to action that glorious image of the eternal mind, i which has been suficrcd so long to remain in uncon- ^ scions repose ! I The pleasure of thought might be mentioned as an I incitement to mental application, as he, who has toiled \ for hours, with the silence of his own thought, would ] testify. Note the ecstatic joy of the student, who has labored long over a problem or proposition, but finally comes to a logical conclusion ; who has struggled Avith the misty darkness of his own mind, for a clear view of some difhciilt subject, until the clouds, one after another, have dispersed, and he beholds, with his < 50 ORIGINAL THINKIXO. ; mental vision, in bright and glorious light, the con- < ception for ■which he labored. Tliink you he would 5 exchange his joys for the pleasures of sense ? It is of \ a higher and more ennobling character, and not to be ;. bartered for paltry worth. \ ^^'^lat dignity and self-respect invest tlie man of ] thought I His very looks bespeak of mind. He is f approached with deference, as a being of higher order '; in the scale of intelligence ; as one who has a right to i command and be obeyed. For what moves mind, but < mind ? A strong intellect, coming in contact with one \ of less energy, Avill as natui-ally move it, as superior <: physical strength will overcome the weaker. \ Doth it not become mankind to arm themselves J with the panoply of thought, to exercise the mmd — J the highest gift of nature with -\\liich we are endowed, i and which is to continue in the advanccnient of knowl- ; edge throughout eternity r "Would that all might so cultivate and improve their reasoning and reflecting I faculties, as not only to add to their hap]>iues9 here, > but to their eternal felicity hereafter, that it might not ^ be said of any, in that day when all must give nn account, that they had neglected to improve the talent committed to their cai'C ! Caroline Orne. n> i LINES. 51 i LINES. J O, >YHO tliat has gazed, in the stilbiess of even, I On the fast-facling hues of the -west, J Has seen not afar, in the bosom of heaven, I Sonic bright little mansion of rest, And mourned that the path to a region so fair Should be shrouded with sadness and fears ; That the night winds of sorrow, misfortune, and care, Should sweep fi'om the deep-rolling waves of despair, To darken tliis cold world of tears ? And who that has gazed has not longed for the hour When misfortune forever shall cease. And hope, lilcc the rainbow, unfold, through the shower. Her bright- written promise of peace ? '/ And O, if that rainbow of promise may shine ,; On the last scene of life's wintry gloom, > ^lay its light in the moment of parting be mine ; I ask but one ray from a source so divine, To brighten the vale of the tomb. Oliver TV. B. Peahody. i i J 52 TO THE MEliaiMACK RIVER. < TO THE MERRIMACK RIVER, A T T H E F A L I, S OF TUB A M - A U II - X O U R - S K E A Q . Roll on, bright stream ! And ever thus, from earliest time, thoii'st leaped And played amid these caverncd, sonndiuu; rocks, When the long summer's sun hath tamed thy power To gentleness ; or, roused from thy long sleep. Hast cast thy A\'intry fetters off, and swc^jt. In wild, tumultuous rage, along thy course, FUnging the ■white foam high from out thy path, And shaking to thcii- very centre cju'th's < Foundation stones. \ s And in thine awful might, "When tentH' ridt-'s thy wildly-lieaving wave Or in thy soft and gentle flow, when break The ripples on thy sandy shore, in sweet, , Delicious music, as of fairy bell-;, \ \ How beautiful art tliou ! ■ And, since that fiist Glad hour, when morning stars together sang, k --^•.--.^ ->..--. — mi - — sa TO THE MERllIJIACK RIVER. 53 \ } Each rising sun, Avith dcwj' eye, hath looked •> On thee. Each full-orbed moon hath smiled to see < Herself tliroAvn back in pencilled loveliness, > Mirrored a mimic disk of liorht, beneath <' Thy pure anc^ limpid wave, or broken else s Into a myriad crystal gems, flung high, ] In sjjarkling jets or gilded spray, towards heaven. < And long ere on thy shores the white man trod, Aaid wove the magic chain of hiiman will Around thy free and graceful flood, and tamed Its power to minister to human good. The Indian roamed along thy wooded banks. And Kstened to thy mighty voice with awe. He, too, untutored in the schoolman's lore. And couA'-crsant Avith Nature's works alone. More deep, true, reverent Avorship paid to thee Than does his fclloAV-man, Avho boasts a faith More pure, an aun more high, a nobler hope — Yet, in his soiil, is filled Avith earth-born lusts. The Indian loved thee as a gift divir.o To him thou fiow'dst from the blest land that smiled Behind the sunset hiUs — the Indian heaven, Where, on bright plains, eternal sunlight fell. And bathed in gold the hills, and dells, and Avoods, Of the blest hunting-grounds. With joy he drcAV The fimiy stores from out thy swarming depths, 5* 54 TO THE MEllRIMACK mVEIl. Or floated o'er thcc in his light canoe, And blessed the kindly hand that gave him thcc, A never-failing good, a fount of life And blessing to his race. And thou to him Didst image forth the crystal stremn that flows From " out the throne of God and of the Lamb," The Christian's " water of the life divine." Thy source was in the sijirit-peopled clouds, I And to his untaught fancy thou didst spring J Fresh £i-om Maiiitou's hands — tlio o'erfloA\-ing hand I From -which all blessing comes, alike to him I Whose teaching comes from rude, material tilings, > Who worsliips 'ncath the clcai' blue dome of heaven, > As liim -who in a sculptured temple prays. i And tliou, bright river, in thy ceaseless flow. Hast mirrored many a passing scene would charm The painter's eye, would Arc the poet's soul ; For beauty of tlic wild, fr-ce wood and floods Is yet more beautiful when far removed From the loud din of toil, that e'er attends The civilizing marcli of Saxon blood. And poetry, unversed indeed, and rude. But full of soul-wrought, thrilling harmony, Ilath spoken in tliy imirniur or thy roar ; I And huninn hearts, tlirough long, swift-gliding years, i Have made the valley thou linst blessed their home, I AN'herc they have lived, and loved, and joyed, and hoped, \ < TO THE MERRIMACK RIVER. 55 ^ Nay, passed through, all that makes the sum of life, Of human life, in every clime and age. Along thy shaded banks, in grim array, Wild bands of "braves," as fearless and as true As ever sought a deadly foeman's blade, Or battled nobly in a country's cause, AVith step as silent as the grave, have sped, In lengthened files, to strife, and blood, and death. In that SAveet dell, -where giant trees o'crhang Thy soft, encircling wave, the council-fires Have blazed. There silent, stern, grave-visaged men Have sat the magic circle round, and smoked The calumet of i^cace ; or youths, in wild Exciting dance, AA-ith battle songs and sliouts. With flashing arms, and well-feigned, earnest strife, Have acted the sad mimicry of war. To yonder sheltered nook, where, still and calm, The chafed and wearied waters rest a while Behind a rocky point, on wliich the waves Break ever, with a music soft and sweet. And 'neath the shadows of tall, sighing pines. That, in the fiercest noon, create a soft. Cool, cloistered light upon the sward beneath. The dusky brave, fierce now no more, hath stolen Oft at the twilight hour, and when the young New moon hath tipped with silver bough, and rock, 56 TO THE MEBRIMACK RIVEE. And -wave, to mnrmur into willing cars Love's w-itching story, told full oft, yet new As when 'twas whiskered in fair Eden's bowers. Sweet ^Mei-rimack I For ages thus the stream Of human life ran on -n-ith thine, yet not As thine ; for thou art as thou wast of old, "When first the Indian chased along thy banks. But where is now the red man, true and brave r Alas I where once the child of nature trod, Unquestioned monarch of the land and wave, The many-towered, busy city stands ! Hi ll s that threw back the war-whoop's fearful peal, "\i\Tien filled was this fair vale with sounds of strife, Xow echo to the engine's shriller scream, As swift and strong it flies, with goodly freight Of life and merchandise ! By thy fair stream The red man roams no more. No more he snares The artful trout, or lordly salmon spears ; I No more his swift--\Wngetl arrow strikes the deer. I Towards the setting sun, with faltering limb And glaring eve, he seeks a distant home, "Where withering foot of white man ne'er can come. And thy wild water, Merrimack, is tamed. And bound in servile chauis which mind has forged / \ ABOCT XAMES. <7 \ To bind the stnbbom cartlt, the frcc-wing ed air, '' The heai'ing ocean, and the ruKhing Ktream, | Th' obedient iicnrant« of a mi^itier will, \ E'en a« a Kjiint caught in earth-bom toil*, | At Icgcndx toll, and doomed to slave for him i Who holxLi the strong, m}'«tcriouii bond of power. \ And thou art now the wild, free stream no more, \ Playing all idljr in thy channels old ; > Thy days of sporttre beauty and romance Arc gone. Yet, harnessed to thy daily toil. And all thypowerw controlled by giant mind. And right dirccUd, thou'rt a spirit Btill, And workcst mightily for human good. Changing, in thine abundant alchemy. All baser things to gold. ThatdAfTt BtutOt, jMimfkfiter.) ABOUT NAMES. I AX iiiclined to be of the opinion that women may | be cJasnAed by thdr names, certain names being sng- $ gcsttre of peculiar traits of character. Mlio exet '' knew of a Lucy wlio was not timid and dependent ? '» The name itadf has a gende sound, and moumfiil, | 58 ABOUT NAMES. now, as I recall the sad talc of the sweet Bride of Lam- memioor. Catharine has been illustrious through centuries of history — the favorite appellation of the proud daugh- ters of Braganza and Aragon — borne by the queen con- sorts of Great Britain — honored by the Livonian peasant girl Avho shared the hcai-t and throne of a Rus- sian czar. Then we have the stately Cathaiines who move in royal procession on Shakspearc's page, and " plain Kate, and bonny Kate, and somctunes Kate the curst;" and roguish Kate — poor lloland Grime's bewildering love ; and Luther's Catharine, and the painted Blake's warm-hearted Kate. Kate is the giid, capricious, and half a coquette, calmed to the more elegant Catharine in her perfect womanhood — superb then as a crowned queen, scorn- ing insults, quick in resentment, but loving unto death. Jane is quiet and detennined, with a strong, ener- getic will, " cfjiial to any fate." Julia is piquant, shrewd, saucy, bright-eyed, and beau- tiful. Claiming close relationship to Julia in mischief- making comes liizzie, quite as roguish, a merry, rosy- cheeked girl, with abundance of glossy, dark curls, and / a foot that falls " as lightlv as a sunbeam on the water." l Unliltc these, never mirthful, never trivial, is Marga- I ret, with a sweet tracery of beauty in every lineament ' of her serious face. Her clear eye burns, as with : ome / hidden fire, — her chock is of marble paleness, — lior > ABOUT NAMES. 59 brow, too lofty for feminine loveliness, is radiant with intellect. " Nor look, nor tone, revealeth aught Save woman's quietness of thought ; And yet around her is the light Of inward majesty and might." She might be a tragic queen — a Siddons — a Rachel — a Joan of Arc — or, as she was, in pride, and mag- nanimity, and misfortune, the thrice regal princess of Anjou. ! In the symbolical language of the Hebrews, the word Hannah means, " one Avho gives." I once heard of a Hannah who was called a coquette ; but it must have been a mistake. She is just the right woman " to go hand in hand with, through the every- day-ness of this '/ work-day world." [Perhaps I have not quoted quite ' correctly, but no matter.] ] Alice is like a " dream of poetry." How beautiful ( the name is — a good old English name, borne by the 5 fair Saxon maidens in the olden time, and graced now ' by many a blue-eyed, golden-haired girl. It is fra- > grant of sweet-brier waDcs, and tangled copsewood, t i ', sacred to tender memories in the gentle heart of Charles ^ Lamb. Wc can hardly think of plain Alice, or way- and all the scenes of \ " The wanderings with a fair-haired maid." \ Was not her name Alice ? I think it was, Alice N , 60 AliOrX NAMES. ■ward Alice. It -woTild be like sweet bells jangled and ) out of tune. It should be fair Alice, or bonny Alice — always a winsome, blue-eyed girl. Some one lias said that the best welcome ui the Avorld is the frank "How are you ? " of an Irish girl. Just such a welcome A^ould Ellen give you — a cordial / "How arc you ? " at meeting, and a warm " God bless < you I " at parting. I like Ellen for that — her joyous / voice — her merry smile — her dancing eye — her j ringing laugh, — not always a musical laugh, iierhaps, but glad and free as the ripple of a brook, or the song of a bird. Cold and calm, icy cold and marble calm, is Caro- line. One can hardly think of a Caroline who has not a striking dignity of character and manners — self- ( possession in every motion — the seeming conscioxis- \ ness of grace and majesty innate. Slie sets a high i value upon herself, and passes at that valuation. J The name Sarah means " princess," aiid princess-like / women wear it as proudly as a countess might wear I her coronet. I One of the loveliest among women, formed for nil I hoiisehold viitues, Imogen in her fidelity, Dcsdemona in > her gentleness, is Marinnna. J [Maria — how can I describe Maria? How noble ' that name appears in history, immortal througli her ' for whom the gnlhmt Ilim^iuiims swore, ns they j>lai'od the iron crown of the Lombard king.s upon her slender ABOUT NAMES. 61 head, " We will die for our king, Maria Theresa ! " And Roland's glorioiis wife — that woman who stood calm, majestic in the wild tumult of volcanic France — " serenely complete, Uke a white Grecian statue amid that black wreck of night ! " There was but one Mad- ame Roland, as there was but one Josephine. For all to whom the blessed name of Mary is a household word, let me quote their portrait of a iireside idol — darling Mary : — " Let her be full of quiet grace, Not sparkling with a sudden glow, Brightening her purely chiselled face And placid brow ; Not radiant to the strangcr''» eye — A creature easily passed by ; — " But who, once seen, with untold power Forever haunts the yearning heart. Raised from the crowd that self-same hour To dwell apart, All sainted and enshrined, to be The idol of our memory. " And O, let Mary be her name ; It hath a sweet and gentle sound, At which no glories dear to fame Come crowding round, But which the dreaming heart beguiles With holy thoughts and household smiles." Ina. H- '!a BRIDAL WISHES. He.wtex bless thy gentle bride, Bless the husband at her side — May your paths through life be free From all that's woe to her and thee. The joys to others ye bestow. In thine o^\^l home may ye e'er know ; Such pleasures in your bosoms live, As ye to others often give. Trials meet -v^•itll chastened grace ; Look them calmly in the face ; Angels' wmgs you'U see unfurled, They are from that better world ; On their pinions, far away. To the realms of nightless day, Tliey will bear your souls away. Oft, at nightfall, angels come To the still, secluded home, Clad in human wanderers' guise. Blessing with a glad surprise, When the morrow's sun shall rise, And tlic licart that's open e'er To the passing traveller. woman's love. 63 "Welcoming the wronged and lone, Taking iji the sorrowing one, Giying hope and sympathy With its boundless charity, Oft will find good angels stay, Guard them to the coming day ; Watching through each dangerous night, TiU the morrow daA^aieth bright. To such angels, now, my friends, Thee and tliine my heart commends. Harriet Farley, {Lomell, 1849.) WOMAN'S LOVE. 0, IF there be, 'mid aU life's hoUo-svness, Its cold, unreal seeming, one piu-o spell. Making of chaos, beauty, — weakness, strength, — One fount of freshest feeling, one bright hue Dropped from the -swing of angel Innocence In her sad flight fi-om Eden to the skies, — 'Tis wo7nan's love. What is. there else on earth. What thing beside, so frail and vet so stroucr. Whose very might is tears ? or what beside Whose treasured wealth is one low-whispered tone ? -a 64 woman's LOVli. The fresh awakening rose-bud may enclose How much of rarest odor in its cup, Ere the light zephjT spirit's wooing v/ing Invade its dainty portals, bciuing thence A world of breathing beauty and fau hues ; E'en thus with woman's heart, — its deep repose Is full of calmness, and the dreamer sighs, O'crburdcncd with the marble quietude Of feeling unawakcncd ; but the gleams Of nobler being, and the unwrit lore That love brings with it, these ai-e absent there. 'Tis but when the pure faith that sees in time Its livelong joy, in death but second birth, Doth inly fold its wing, that woman's heart, As 'twere an angel's mission, pom-eth forth Its hoarded sweetness, oft, alas ! on air. Power, f:nnc, dominion, and tlie gleam of gold, Tlie pomp, the pride of splendor, these are man's ; Only one lonely breath of tenderness Floats tlirougli liis spirit 'mid the din of all ; But mightiest 'mid the niighty, swaying scorn And pride before it like a wind-swept reed ! Eor love, O, love is woman's : gave oarth. none, No otlicr seal of beauty to her brow, No gii't to make her equal with her lord, Eove were alone suflicicnt in itself, Outweighing all beside ! ss^ i THE STEANGER MAIDEX'S DEATH. 00 i THE STRANGER MAIDEN'S DEATH. She -vvas an humble maiden, and — she died. This is her history. The pomp of pride, — A toAvering intellect, — ambition's strife, — Appear not in the annals of her life. She -was an hiimble maiden, and her home Was far away, •where fragrant breezes come From waving cornfields ; pastures broad and fail'. And boundless forests, proudly stretchmg there. Compassed the simple " house where she was bora ; And pleasantly, as oped each joyous morn. The lowmg liinc, and lambkins bleating near, Sent their accustomed voices to her ear. Here long her childish footsteps gayly roved ; This was her happiness, — she lived and loved. But from the distant city, rumors flew Of other scenes ; and o'er her dazzled view 6* There is no flame. Lured torn heaven's altar to the human breast, No vestal lamp, whose fragrant oil burns on 5 Through dark despaLr and sorrow's blackest night, / Kept pure and queneliless still, save woman's love ! ! Joanna. > ? i 66 THE STRAXGEE MAIDEN'S DEATH. j Danced beaming phantoms, gay and golden drean-is, ^ Illumed by fancy's bright, deceitful gleams. > She left her home, and here she trod a -svliile i The beaten path of labor ; and a smile \ Glowed on her cheek, and sparkled in her eye ; s Her hands their daily task ■v\T0Ught willingly. Of care and pain she lightly bore her share. For youth and health are buoyant every where. Not long she labored thus, — for sickness came, "Weakening the vigor of her youthfiil frame. Until, as 'ncath the tempest suiks the flower, She prostrate lay bcneatli his tyrant power. Sick, and alone, 'mid strangers ! — O, the thouglit Comes to the heart ^^-ith threefold anguish frausht. How can a stranger catch the gentle tone AMth A\ liich a mother greets her drooping one : Or borrow from a sister's love-lit eye The soothing light of blessed sj-mpathy ? O Love, and Home ! ye ai'e the cordials best To j-icld the weary suftVrcr healing rest. They bore her to a kindly shelter, where The sickened stranger meets luiwearied care ; < And there, retired from all distracting noise, i In dreams returned again her childhood's joys. She traced the wildwood footpaths o'er and o'er, And crossed the tlu-csliold of her cottage door ; Tlicn ruslu'd her loved ones" fond embrace to meet — m~ THE SXnANGER MAIDEN'S DEATH. 67 "WTiy tell the tale ? — her blessings seemed complete. Those di-eams were short — too short ! She woke again, To feel the Aveight of weariness and pain, To see Hope's torch, just lit by Fancy's ray, BloAvn rudely out, and darkened all her way. She woke to hear, half-drowned with pity's sigh, The dreadful whisper, "Maiden, thou must die ! " Stunned as by heaven's red bolt, a while she lay. Struggling 'neath speechless, miglity agony. Such agony as hers what words could tell ? At length her ntu-se, who, tenderly and well, With kindest care, had softened every pain. And sought the sufferer's ease and health in vam. She beckoned to her side, and faintly said, " I may not conquer quite tliis inward dread; I cannot die ! O, I have loved so well, And stm do love, I cannot say farewell To aU the cherished idols of my heart ! ^lother ! O mother ! how can I depart To the cold grave mthout beholding thee, And aU I love ? O, no ! it must not be ! Sweet nurse, to me some blest elixir give. Whose power can make this sinking frame revive. And bid disease, and pain, and languor fly ; O, give me this, — and say I shall not die ! " The last faint echoes of her voice still run" Upon their cars, as o'er her couch they hung. > 68 ALTONOCK. -^-isi She looked imploringly, but no relief Of eai'tlily source could now assuage her grief ; Her eye grew dull and fixed, and pale her brow, ' So pale — but hush ! she smgs in glory now ! ALTONOCK. IIoAv beautiful is the closing even, When the day- god hath sunk to rest, and left Upon the enchanted heavens a glow So rich, so purely beautiful, that earth Seems lapsing 'pon the land of blessedness ! 'Twas thus when Altonock, Choctaw's chief, With an eagle's pinion firmly braided In his scattered locks, and loosely girdled With a belt of leopard's skin, bowed ■^^■ith age, Went forth from among his hapless tribe Unto the banks of the limpid Homah, That he might unbosom to the (ircat Spii-it The sore trouble that preyed upon his soul. And implore for his aistressed people A refuge from Ihvir relentless foe, And tlie spirit light, to guide on their way His weak and faltering steps, unto that land ALTONOCK. 69 'S\Tiere silvery lakes and lucid rivers, Pure, and clear, and beautiful, fanned by airs Of Eden, sleep in flowery lawns, or wind Through dx-camy meadows of aiiy softness, And unfading verdure, where his fathers dAvclt. Altonock had two sons ; they fought bravely ; They fell in blood by liis side in battle. He moiirnc:! three days, and returned to the war. Then he had no comfort but Sunnyeye, The child of his age. She was all his life. Her smile vi-as like moonbeams, her step Lilie the breeze of morn upon the flower. She played round his tent fires, and sported With the young fa-wTi. She was all gentleness — Her heart was good. She was a light, beaming In the path of Altonock — joy was his. But a dark cloud hath passed over the star ; The soft tendrils of the vine have been riven From the old oak ; Sunnyeye hath gone Away, and ^Utonock knows not whither. Seven moons have waned since he left Ms tent, When the sun rose, and her eyes followed him From the hill side to the little deer lick ; And her voice echoed from the Homah, For him to " stay not long from Sunnyeye." The sun set, and he returned fr-om the chase. But she came not o'er the hill to meet him. Her voice was not on the breeze ; she was gone. 70 ALTOXOCK. " Spirit, thy home is among the bright stars ; Is she not there r Bring her to Altonock, Or take him hence." The angel was wordless. He cast upon the aged -warrior a look That was all of heaven ; then, tvirning from him, Spread his broad pinions and clove the thia air ; And, as he mounted the clear ujiper sky, His burnished wings tlu'cw a radiance Over the vale of night. The moon Avas up ; Her pale beam played upon the waters ; And as the still wave crept silently on. Unnoticed by the bowed and jjeusive chief, A gentle bark came gliding down the stream. The dip of a light oar roused the sachem From his revery, till he straightened up And stood in the attitude of battle ; And as tlie light keel pressed upon the strand. An angel form darted upon tlie shore, And the gentle Sunnyeye was folded In the arms of the enraptured warrior. Escaped from the wily (Jhcrokccs, who, From her home, had illudcd her away. She loosed the sachem's pirogue, and gliiling Upon the stream, floated down the far rounding Of llu- river, to licr own bayou liome. Dacid Qilchrist. STAXZAS. 71 STANZAS. 0, "WHY should we ever be sad, When with pleasure all natiu'C is beaming ? The birds and the flowerets are glad, And the sunlight is joyously streaming. The vale and the stream wear a smile, The soft summer clouds gaze so brightly, And the zephyrs laugh merrily, while They dance through the forest boughs lightly. Then why should we ever be sad. When the circle is glowing with pleasure ? 'Tis surely worth wliile to be glad, Or nature could deem it no treasure. This world is a beautiful world, And our spirits should muTor its beauty ; Love's banner witliin us unfurled. With ardor will cheer to our duty, A glance from a love-lighted eye, A smile ever placid and cheerful. Will make every dull shadow fly From the orbs that were saddened and tearful. [a]- 72 CAX I FOEGET THEE ? Blithe words have a magical power To subdue in the heart care's dominion ; 111 temper may triumph an hour, Then conquered, she'll spread her black pinion. 'Twcrc jilcasant, if only by name, We mortals knew trouble and sorrow ; But life is not always the same, And a bright eve may bring a dai'k morrow. Yet, since changes must ever betide, j\jid from darkness there is no protection, We will look on the sunniest side, And our faces will bear- its reflection. L. L. CAN I FORGET T 11 E E ? Can the sun forget his rising? Or the moon her silver ray ? Can the bii'ds forget their jiraising ? Can the wheels of time delay r Can deatli forget the rending Of hearts, with murderous hands ? Can angels cease descending. To nccomplisli (Jod's commands ? Then may all else forgotten be, But, Carra, Til f(n-;;i't not thee. ti< I LIVE TO LOVE. 73 Should I think to breathe a prayer For the suffering every where ? Should I think to shed a tear 'Side a mother's lonely bier ? "Would sink my soul in sadness ? Or sweU my heart in gladness r Should I think to rest at even ? Should I think of God in Heaven ? Then cherished deep in memory, Dear Carra, should I think of thee. Carolas. I LIVE TO LOVE. " I LIVE to love," said a laughing girl. And she playfully tossed each flaxen curl. As she climbed on her loving father's knee. And snatched a kiss in her childish glee. " I live to love," said a maiden fair, As she t-«ined a wreath for her sister's hair ; They were bound by the cords of love together, And death alone could those sisters sever. " I live to love," said a gay young bride. Her loved one standing by her side ; Her life told again what her lips had spoken. And ne'er was the link of affection broken. \ 74 I LOVE TO LIVE. " I live to love," said a mother kind — " I would live a gixide to the infant mind." Her precepts and example given, Guided her childi'en home to heaven. " I shall live to love," said a fading form, And her eye was bright, and her cheek grew warm, As she thought in the blissful world on high She would live to love, and never die. And ever thus in this lower worlc' Should the banner of Love be wide unfurled ; And when we meet in the world above. May we love to live, and live to love ! Effie May, I LOVE TO LIVE. " I LOVE to Hve," said a prattling boy. As he gayly played with Ids new-bought toy. And a merry laugh went echoing forth From a bosom filled with joyous mirtli. "I love to live," said a stripling bold — " I will seek for fame — I will toil for gold ; " And he formed in his leisure many a plan To be cairicd out when he grew a man. m- THE BEAUTIFUL IDEAL. 75 " I love to live," said a lover true — " O gentle maid ! I would live for you ; I have labored hard in search for fame — I've found it but an empty name." " I love to live," said a happy sire, As his claildren neared the wintry fire ; For his heart was cheered to see their joy, And he almost wished himseK a boy. " I love to live," said an aged man, Whose hour of hfe was well nigh ran ; Thiiik. you such words from him were ■wild ? The old man was again a child. And ever thus, in this fallen world, Is the banner of hope to the breeze unfurled, And only with hope of a life on high Can a mortal ever love to die. Effie May. THE BEAUTIFUL IDEAL. There is an ideal song-born spii-it dwelling witlinr 5 the inner temple of our natures. It is all-seeing, yet / unseen ; wandering deep ■within the dark streams of j life. It is the hope of our soul — the brightcner of our 76 THE BE.VITIFUL IDEA!,. being, making the common -waters musical ; binding ■with, a silver thread all tempest -winds ; -walking like a bright night vision o\-cr this dreary earth ; sho-wing dimly, by the soft morning light, the bright Avorlds above. It — the " Beautiful Ideal " — stirs our soul with deep and happy thoughts, A\-hen life Avears tlie hues of hoije. When, too, the earth is -\\Tapt in gloom, it leads us far, i far -^'ithin its true home, and makes us breathe the soft > air, and gaze upon the golden sunlight, painted -with its I own beautiful colors. Through it, spai-kling rivers ) move playfully along, catching and sporting -with the j bright beams above, or give back the silvery light of I the mild-eyed stars, that look so lovingly \ipon its calm / bosom ; or -we wander amid the roseate lu-ns of daA\ni, I when the happy skylark weaves the wild meshes of his ^ song, and hold, tlu-ough the ideal of our nature, secret I coimnunion with the oread, that sinks in mist down I the mountain side. { This fair, wondrous, unchanging part of our being — ) this inhabitant of our heart of hearts — communes ; with all the beings Heaven has made, finds a music in ! tlic wind " that makes the green leaves dance," that ) plays across the stream, and answers to its own pure i song. It looks forth upon the stars of evening, and > finds a secret sympatliy — a holy feeling — answer \ there. It needs not words or language. It goes forth, j and mingles with its kindred essences of jnirity and THE BEAUTIFUL IDEAL. 77 hope. O, this "Beautiful Ideal" witliiii us it is that stii-s -within the desii-e to be noble — to search for \ •nisdom's fount — to commune -with the skies. It [ M^akcs the ■\\ish to be better than -we are — it gives to / us the glorious shapes of heaven — the yearnings to | soar beyond our mortal state. } O, there is a truth in the fictions of the unseen J ■world ! There are bright lingerers by the forest and ' stream ! Tliere are -winged essences of life that look J forth from the soft stars — that tremble in the s-weet | flo-wers — mingling, in thought, with the deeply beau- \ tiful of our souls. It is the moonlight track upon the \ ■waters of our youth ; the -whispers, by -svhich the ideal j speaks to its sympathetic ideal ; the secret and unac- countable affinity, by -which the beautiful of our nature is drawn to the beautiful of another ]iature, and -fi-ith it holds yiViXQ and lofty communings. This something, that unites the children of earth to the spirits of a ', finer race — this lofty aspiration, that desii-es the bright, the far, the unattained — this something, that makes life sunny golden, and gilds our path %^ith joy — this mj'sterious, yet " Beautifid Ideal," is the love of the soul, " Luc." 7 * 4 78 TOO EARLY LOST. TOO EARLY LOST. Too lovely and too early lost ! My memory clings to thee, For thou wast once my guiding star Amid the treacherous sea ; But doubly cold and cheerless now, The wave too dark before, Since every beacon-light is quenched Along the midnight shore. I saw thee fii-st, -when hope arose On youth's triumphant M-ing, And thou wast lovelier than the light Of early dawning spring. Who then could dream, that health and joy Would e'er desert the bro^^•, So bright with varying lustre oni'C, So chill and changeless now r That brow ! how proudly o'er it then Thy kingly beauty hung, When wit, or eloquence, or miith, Came burning from the tongue ! Or -when upon that glowing check Tlie kindling smile was spread. TOO EARLY LOST. 79 Or tears, to thine o^vn avocs denied, For others' griefs were shed 1 Thy mind, it ever was the home Of high and holy thought ; Thy life, an emblem of pure thoughts, Thy pui-e example taught ; "When blended in thine eye of light. As from a royal throne, Kmdness, and peace, and vii'tue, there In mingled radiance shone. One evening, when the autumn dew Upon the hills was shed. And Hesperus, far down the west. His starry host had led, Thou saidst, how sadly and how soft, To that prophetic eye, Visions of darkness and decUnc And early death Avere nigh. It was a voice from other worlds, Which none beside might hear. Like the night breeze's plainti^'e lyre. Breathed famtly on the ear ; It was the warning kindly giA'Cn, When blessed spuits come From their bright paradise above. To call a sister home. -m f 80 TOO EAKLY LOST. How sadly on my spiiit then That fatal warning fell ! But O, the dark reality Another voice may tell ; The quick decline — the parting sigh. — The slowly mo-^-ing bier — The lifted sod — the scidptured stone — The unavaUino; tear. The amaranth flowers, that bloom in heaven, Entwine thy temples now ; The crown that shines immortally Is beaming on thy brov.- ; The seraphs round the biu'ning throne Have borne thee to thy rest, To d'\\cU among the saints on high, Companions of the blest. The sun liath set in folded clouds, Its twilight rays are gone. And gathered in the shades of night, The storm is rolling on. Alas I liow ill that bursting stoim The faintiug spirit braves, \Vhcn they, the lovely and the lost. Arc goiu' to early graves I 0. ir. B. Pealwihj. PASSING AWAY. 81 PASSING AWAY. TuE bcautiiul, fair, and the lovely of earth, Are fading fore'er from the hour of their bu-th ; The dew-drops of morning, the sun's parting ray, Are fading, fast fading, and passing away. The roses of summer, whose breath fills the gale, Who send forth their odors from hill-side and vale, Look at eve to the skies, and in sighs seem to say, , " Bathe our petals in tears — we are passing away." The sunny stream laughs in the pure light of mom, But onward, still onward, its waters are borne ; Its sparkling is transient — its waves may not stay ; To the depths of the ocean it passeth away. Yet what is the streamlet, the rose-bud, and dew. To the cheek that is flusliing mth youth's crimson hue — To the eye tliat is kindling with hope and delight, As it turns to the future, all splendid and bright ? Alas ! for the visions and dreams of our youth, When shadows seem substance, and friendship seems truth ; Like the sere leaves of autumn, the last beam of day. They fade into darkness — they aU pass awav. Yes, passinj aicay is the watchword of time ; Earth's bright ones are destined to fade in thcLr prune, 82 PRESS ON. In life's verdant spring, to lie clo^^•n in the tomb, And shroud in death's mantle theu* beauty and bloom. And e'en the -wide earth, -with her valleys and rills, Ilcr tirmly set mountains, and unshaken hills, Is marked for destruction — is doomed for decay ; On licr brow is engraven, •' Fast passing away." Jl/. A. Dodge. PRESS ON. What seest lliou hero ? wlir.t inark'st f A hiUtle-tiuld, Two banners s|)rc!ul, two ilreaiU'ul fronts of war, III Bhock of oppositioii fuTce on^'agod. Here error fought Willi triitli, with ilarkiiess hglit, iind life with death j the strife was for eternity, 'J'he victory was nevor-oiiding hllM, Tlic budge, a chaplct from Ilie tree of Hf<'. Courae of Time. WuKN weary witli the march of life, And ycarnetl my soul for rest, Some unseen spirit whispered nio, " Press on — wouldst tliou be blessed. "Ay, press thou onward in the strife, ' Nor yield to adverse fate ; PKESS ON. 83 I I / The future is with blessings rife, To those who toil and wait. " When darksome hours their shadows cast O'er all thy toilsome way, Remember, in thine agony, 'Tis darkest just ere day. "If fortune's sky o'erclouded be, And siin illume it not. Still labor on, right manfully, — In heaven thou'rt not forgot. " Then move thou on, to ' do and dare,' Nor yield to sordid might ; And where the fiercest struggles are, There battle for the right ; " And ne'er the battle strife give o'er, Nor strike thy banner down. Till thy brave heart can do no more — Then seek, in heaven, thy crown." 84 KINDNESS. , } KINDNESS. Who has power should have a kiucUy heart, for so wiil he win jEricnds. The kuig should smile upon his lowhcst subject ; for doth not the I^ug of kings care even for the little sparro-\v ? Kindness is the " oi^eu sesame " to almost every heart. Ay, kindness. Man may frown, and vassals Avill shrink with terror — ■will \ield up theu' lives, and pour out their very hearts' blood at his command ; but when the hour of trial comes, when he shall drink deep — deep even to the very dregs the bitter cup of woe, and the heart seems crushed 'neath its weight of sorrow — then there win be no eye to pity, no hand to save. Even -with the measure he pave, so shall it be ractcd out to him. People talk of woman's influence ; that she can sway the proudest heart, can bend the stubborn will, — and why r She has not that depth of intellect, that comprehension of human nature, that enables man " to lord it o'er his fellow-man." She has not an arm whose strength o'erpowers, nor a love of danger that braves, the opposing obstacle ; but she is strong in the might of her woman's nature, and kiiulncss is her sceptre. A true woman will pity — not censure error j i KINDNESS. 85 and who stoops to pity, niust learn to love, for kind- ness is a bright stream from that fountain, gushing ■warm and pure in the secret chambers of the heart, where its sparkling play has wreathed many a sad one's life in beaming smiles. " Love is the silken cord that binda Those happy souls above, And if in heaven a place we'd find, We must he formed for love." Not man alone, but every thing in nature, owns its sway. I knew a little flower that sprang up amid the weeds and brambles of a long-neglected garden. But soon drooped its slender stem, and its leaves grew <. tinged from the waste around. I took it to my home, I supported its di-oopiug stem, and placed it where the | wann sunsliine and refreshing showers cheered its ■> little life. Agaui it raised its beauteous head, and its S delicate buds burst forth in sweetest gladness ; and l when the winds of autumn came, the dying flower ^ gave up to me its golden seeds — a thanlcful tribute i for my love. 'Twas a little thing, but kindness did \ the deed. ^ c There came to my casement, one ^vinter's morn, a { shivering, starving bird, and perched it there, striving \ to tell its tale of suffering ; but feeble were its plain- | tive notes, and its glossy breast was ruffled in the \ blast. I raised the Avindow. Affriglited, the little \ 8 86 KINDNESS. wanderer spread its wings as if to soar away ; but, weak and faint, it sank fluttering in my outstretched S hands. I drew it in. Alamied, it darted round and I round the room, and beat against the frosted pane. I O cruelty, thou hast taught even the little birds to J doubt ! "NVhcn tlic sweet stranger grew less timid, I j gave him clear water, and tempting food, and so for \ many weeks we dwelt together ; but when came the < first warm, sunny day, I opened my doors, and he / flew away, away up, up into the dark blue heaven, j tUl he was lost to my eager gaze. But not an hour ' had passed, ere I heard the flutter of his tiny wings, ', and saw, witliout, his little breast glitteiing in the ■ golden sunbeams. A joyous life was his. No wii-ed ': cage restrained his restless wing ; btit free as the sum- \ mer cloud would he come each day, and gladly would < ray delighted soul drink in the silvery notes of his * gladdening melody. S And it is not birds and flowers alone, that, treated \ with kindness, flourish ko brightly "ncath its heavcn- ^ born rays. Individuals, families, nations, attest its I truth. Lcf/al suwsion may frighten to coniiiliancc, but J iiioml sttasion rules the will. To the erring wanderer, { in the by and forbidden paths of sin, with a heart I paled in darkness, and lost to every better feeling of i his nature, one little word, one little net of kindness, I however slight, will lind a sunny rcsting-iilaee in that sinful 8ha(h-, and prove a light to guide the wayward H- KINDNESS. 87 > one to holier and better deeds. The lion licked the 5 ; ', hand that drew the thorn fi-om his wounded foot, and I Powhatan stayed the descending club, when the biirn- / ing lips of the Indian girl pressed his dusky brow. \ And it is ever thus. There beats not a heart, how- • ever debased by sin, or darkened by sorroAV, that lias ; not its noblest impulses aroused, in view of a generous J and kindly action. The Holy Father implanted his \ > own pure principles in the breast of every one, and ) widely do -s^e deviate from their just dictates, when an j unkind word, or an unkind act, wounds a broken ', heart, or crushes a loving, gentle nature. ^ Then, — " Speak not harshly — much of care Ever>' human heart must bear; Enough of shadows rudely play Around the very summit way; Enough of sorrows darkly lie Veiled within tlie merriest eye. By thy childhood's gushing tears, By thy grief in after years, By the anguish thou dost know. Add not to another's woe, t ^ " Speak not harshly — much of sin Dwelleth every heart within ; In its closely cavcrncd cells, Many a wayward pasision dwells. By tlie many hours misspent, By the gifts to error lent, By the wrongs thou didst not shun, By the good thou hast not done, With a lenient spirit scan 'i'hc weakness of thy brother man." Kale Clarence, (.Mauckcitcr.) MAY DAY ON ROCK RAYMOND. It -wtiH the gala morning of the spring, When young, exultant hearts forsake their liomes, To wander forth among the woods and flowers. It was a pleasant morn. The night winds slept, And many gladsome eyes had early op'd To catch the aiispicious omens of the dav. Upon the rock-^■ro^^-ncd steep that rises in The distant wild, o'ersprcad ^\ ith mossy turf And pitchy pines, sat there an aged crow, Lone and weary with the vigils of the night. No sound alarmed, no daring step disturbed The quiet of his rest. The day advanced. Anon, the chime of bolls is distant heard, And sounds of merry voices come ringing up The shady glen. Again the sound — again — The crow is winging swift wide o'er the plain. MAY DAY ON ROCK RAYMOND. 89 At once, emerging from the forest glade, A gallant band have wound the rocky steep, And shoiit in triumph from its topmost crag. " Enchanting ! " bursts from every lip. Above, The clouds dissolve in amber light ; around, The air is laden with the gentle breath Of southern climes ; and the sun, new risen, Casts its golden light high up the crystal Tower of morn. Delectable the scene ! The right outlines the mormtain summit bold ; The left, the sloping hUls and browsing plains ; The river, winding o'er the woodland vales, The city near, and village just in view ; — Below, where lead the bending forest paths. Gay troops of cavaliers are prancing near, Or " mounting in hot haste " the rugged cHfF, Now swarming o'er with ripening loveliness, And echoing far with warbling minstrelsy. To paint that flock of rosy, romping girls, And manly boys — to note the fresh-culled flowers. Each changing glance, and tinging check that marked That Gal-a scene— ix bolder pen might dare. An hour swift-winged has passed. No longer comes The laughing shout, or choral song ; no more The sight of tresses " waving in the morn." Alas ! that joyous-hearted band have gone. 8 * f 90 FAUEWELL TO NLW ENGLAND. FAREWELL TO XEW ENGLAND. Faiiewell to New England, the land of my birth, I To the liome of my father, the hall, and the hearth ; To the bemgs beloved, -who have gladdened v-ith light Life's perilous path — be their own ever bright And O, A\hen the exile is present in thought, Be the fond recollection Avith happiness fraught ; Remember — remember — but not to deplore. Remember in smiles, or remember no more I I go to the land of the myrtle and vine, Where beauty is ANTcathing the pillar and shrine ; Where fairy-like feet arc repelling tlic sod, And the incense of nature is breathing to God. My grave will be made a\ here the A\'inter is not, And the sun of the south may iUuniiiie the spot ; Will gild and will gladden the place of my rest, Imparting in death what in life I loved best. That smile all unclouded when others are Hown, Bright beautiful nature 1 that smile is thine own ! A glory above all the glories of earth, Tlie glory that woke when the morning had birth ! Mn. S. R. ^. Barnes. ■M vH -fl SPEAK KINDLY. 91 SPEAK KINDLY. " All cannot be greatest, but all can be kind." " Speak kindly to thy fellow-man, Lest he should die while yet Thy bitter accents wring his heart And make his pale cheek wet." Speak kindly to thy brother man, for he has many cares thou dost not know ; many sorrows thine cj'e has not seen ; and grief may be gnawing at his heart- strings, wliich ere long wiU snap them asunder. O, speak kindly to him. Perhaps a word from thee -v^ill kindle the light of joy in his o'ershadowed heart, and make his pathway pleasant to tho tomb. Speak kind- ly to thy brother man, even though sin has marred the spirit's beauty, and turned to discord the once perfect hai-mony of his being. Harshness can never reclaim him — kindness will. Far down, beneath all his de- pravity, there lingers still a spark of the spirit's loveli- ness, that one word from thee may kindle to a flame ; may eventually purify the whole man, and make him, what he was designed to be, the true image of his God. Then speak kindly, act kindly to all, and ask 92 STANZAS. not whom thou servest. Enough for thee to know that he belongs to the common brotherhood, and needs thy sympathy. Josephine L. Baker. STANZAS. Tiiou sayest the world is cold and false ; I know not if it be ; With its beaming faces and loving hearts, 'Tis a world of light to me. Joy gUdeth into my silent heart, Far dov»Ti in its fathomless sea ; O, the angel of life wears a smile of light, "When ho pouvcth the cnp for me. There are times, indeed, wlien I feel tlic chain, When my heart leajietli wild and free ; And fain, in thy gorgeous rainbow land. Would my spirit dwell with thee ; When chainlcss thoughts like a storm sweep on, And my soul like a reed doth bow. And the world to the struggling, imprisoned heart Scemeth all too narrow now. AKISTOCllACY. 93 Then a gentle hand is laid on mine, And I cannot choose but bless The love-lighted eyes, uplift to me, With such melting tenderness. Then I smooth the close-curled locks away, And I Idss the open brow — O, the world of dreams is not so fair As the bright earth to me now. Then speak no more of the cold, dark earth ; 'Tis the home where love doth dwell ; And with its glad faces, and voices kind, O, my heart doth love it well. And by the great Father of light I love, Doubt not it shall be forgiven. If thanks for the fair, all- glorious earth Ascend with the prayer for heaven. " lonr," (Plymouth.) g^ ARISTOCRACY. Let me give it an off-hand blow here. Hateful, heartless aristocracy ! I detest it above aU things. I was subjected to its bloated frown wlicn I was a boy, and I have a very early, if not a native, inborn abhor- rence of it. It has no idea you have any rights, or any --a 94 ARISTOCRACY. feelings. You do not belong to the same race Mith your jialtry, uppish aristocrat. He does not associate with you when you arc with him. He makes use of you. He does not recognize you as a party in interest in what is going on. You arc no more a companion to him, than hia horse or his dog ; and you arc no more than a dog or a horse, if you condescend to be of his association. He belongs to the first funulies — first in idleness, first in indulgence, first in the scorn of hu- \ manity. Sometimes you will find it happening amid the ranks of reform. It is when it is eccentric and iU balanced, tliat it strays in there. It will keep its eccentricity, but not part with Its haughtiness. One \ day or other it will break out. King lliohard could carouse and fight by the side of llobiu Hood and the outlaws of Sherwood Forest ; but every now and then, outlawed freedom would tread on the too of majesty, and regality would show its teeth and claws. Richard was an odd king, and ■went among the brave outknvs, and fought on foot among them, liut ^\•hcn outlawry took the liberty to speak to him, on even terms of fellow-soldiership, it roused the Lion in him, and ho roared and shook liis mane. Aristocracy has none of i the lion in it, but it fo^sh hii/ger than a whole don of lions. You must beware of it. You (':in't livo with it. It regards every tliiu;;' allowed you as an allow- ance — a favoi'. You have no rights. 11 you receive any thing, you must do liomage f )r it. AIirSTOCllACY. 95 S Now I lUvO refinement, and dislike coarseness and grossness. I am disgusted at dirtiness of spirit, but I abominate uppishness. I like -washed hands, but not those " dainty fingers ; " cleanliness and elegance, to any extent, and the refined and delicate taste. These are often united -with ycomanly nature, "svitli fi-ecdom from all superciliousness and self- worship, and I love them. But tliis aristocracy I -will not tolerate or endiu-e. I have not the slightest respect for it. I will not treat it courteously even. I wUl not treat it at all. I will not have it about. Out of the way with it, and ^ out of the world. I It comes by birth, it comes by money, it comes of idleness even. It is engendered by trade and by office. Old wealth, however, breeds it the most offensively — a generation or two of homage paid by poverty to bloated opulence, will breed it the worst kind. It will tiim up the nose of the third or fourth generation, along — so that it can hardly smell common folks, as they go on the ground. You can tcU its nose and upper lip as far as you can see them. And there is a dumpsij daisy look about the eyes and eyebrows, as much as to say, "I care considerably less than nothing about ijeh," And the voice, too, it is amazing pecuUar. Now, any body may bo as well born as they have a { mind to. My father was a gentleman, as they call it, and a scholar, — a good deal of a scholar. And he was educated ; was of Ilarvard College — not poor 96 ARISroCKACY. 'i New Hainpsliire Dartmouth — Harvard College, of < Massachusetts. And he was of the learned profession, '> aud his father was a learned divine, and liis grand- ^ fatlier, and great-grandfather, and I don't know how > far back. One of them, not far back, -was president of \ Harvard College ; and back farther yet, one was burnt J at tlie stake. I am well descended enough, for 's I i know, but somehow it never made me despise any j body. I never could help seeing equal humanity J in every living creature, however poor aud forlorn, and * my father did before me. Perhaps, if he had been an ' aristocrat, I should have been one. But Ire had too '; much sense — too much real character and manhood. ^ I am half inclined to think I have ; — that is, I haven't < a vein or an iota of uppish blood in mc, and it must ( be owing to somethhuj, I haven't any superfluity of ! sense — but — too much to be an aristocrat. Finallv. J it doesn't tixkc much to be an aristocrat. I guess aris- ; tofrucy is a hwk of seiisr as much as any thing. Sense '( of a certain sort may accompany it, or be in the same I • creature ; but it is a sen«clcss conccru, ai\d, moreover, j \ superlatively hateful. I JV. p. Rujrerj. 5 -|g MY SPIRIT HOME. 97 MY SPIRIT HOME. I AM alone — no one is near — The daylight houi-s are past, And, with her sable cnrtain, Night Is shrouding nature fast ; And spirit forms around me move ; Their whispers spcali them near : They call me, — glad wo\ild I obey, — " come, thy home's not here." Sweet visions now of other days, When friends and hopes were mine, And youthful fancy painted bright The scliemes of after time ; Then flowers above my pathway grew — Those flowers, now dead and sere. To me with warning voices speak, " Thy home, it is not here." The twilight's past, its spirits fled. And darkness wTaps the whole ; But deeper gloom than that of night Is -wTappcd around my soul. The voices of departed joys, Now fall on memory's ear, United all — one voice they speak, — " Thy spiiit's home's not here." The stars that gem the sparkling dome. They Avhisper peace to me, } And tell me that I have a home < Beyond life's darkened sea ; i And though on earth no friends I find, I Yet kindi-cd souls there are } In that bright world, far, far away — "My spirit's home is there." O spirits of departed friends ! — Too good — too pure to die — Come down ujion the moon's pale beam, And hover i-ound me nigh. How soft and sweet their voices ring Upon the evening air ! Their music seems the notes of heaven, — " My spirit's houK^ is there." JV. Wright, {IMderntss.) THE VALLEY I LOVE. Tueke's a spot that I love, in a bright sumiy vale, Where whole hours I've listened the song Of the redbreast and tlu-ush, as the soft, balmy gale, Bore the notes of their chanting along. On a green, mossy bank, 'neath a huge spreading tree, In the deep heat of noon I have lain, And watched the light shadows, so sportive and free, Chase each spii-it-like form o'er the plain. I've sat 'neath the shade with the poets of old. And drank from Castalia's piu-c fount, And gathered, as they their bright thoughts would unfold, Rich gems from Parnassus' high mount. I've sat there 'till eve drew her beautiful veil O'er the radiant face of the day ; "NVhen the moon from her chamber came forth ghostly pale. And majesticly passed on her way. I've watched the bright stars, as they coyly would peep Through the thick waving leaves of the tree, m- ~m 100 A FLOWER. Aiid thought I -were blest, if at last I might sleep With such -watchful eyes guarding o'er inc. A sweet, quiet cot iu that vale might be seen, Ai'ound whose low, moss-covered eaves, The young t-\\ ining woodbine, so tender and green, Spreads out its rich covering of leaves. That green sumiy vale wUl be dear to my heart, Though wide over earth I may roam, And that low, quiet cot, with its vine-covered walls, I shall ever remember as Home. JIannah M. Bryant, (Manclicstcr.) A FLOAVER. < [Thovghts suggested by the discovery of a llowcr, / foimd in one of the Western States, in the hcai't of a > rock. When found, it was fresh and bcautil'ul. None > has ever been seen like it, as a native, or exotic] S IJt'iiulirul ri'llc of a dii^taiit lime, / Wr guze ciilruiicud on llice, > Anil llioughta unliidileii ore rliislcring close, ' For funcy will Iro iVce. I Meteou-i-ikk thou'st fljished across our path, < Blazing with wonder. Startled amazement A FLOWER. 101 ] > i 5 Fills our souls ; and -whence came ye ? trembles on j > Every lip. How long in this thy granite casket J Hast thou hid a living, fragrant jewel, > Breathing in beautv : What tale canst thou tell >, Of other days ? — and among all thy sister flowers $ AVast thou acknowledged queen ? Hast ^ Thou come to rival our blushing beauty, while the > Damask deepens on its cheek as we award to J Thee the admii-ation ever before heaped Upon it ? Is this thy mission, to show Erring mortals earth's fairest flower ? Perhaps thou bloomed in Paradise, ere man's Sin had marred its loveliness ; and perchance, Plucked, thou fell from the hands of perfect Eve, And lodged in thy rude enclosure, which time. Scaling, kept as a memento of earth's Primeval bcautj'. Thy birthplace, purity — Nurtured in innocence, art thou indeed A plant of Eden ? Did thy bud expand. Thy leaves unfold, cultured and reared by Sinless hands ? — inhaling an atmosphere Impregnate with holiness, and watered With celestial dews, didst bloom a Perfect flower ? Hast thou lived the wreck of Ages, and come to man the only remnant Of paradisiacal piuity r Six Thousand years hast thou slept in thy hardened f \ 102 THE HEVEEIE. J Bed, and now, by man's rude hands, art thou \ Startled from thy stupor : How changed Earth's aspect ! And as horror-struck thou op'st Thine eyes 'neath sin's domain, no wonder tliou Shrinkest %\ith terror, thy leaves quiver, And thy shrivelled form, gasping, sleeps Once again, earth's last, long, darkened sleep. " //.," {^Manchester.) THE REVERIE. One day, just after dinner. In the autumn of the year, When the trees were getting thinner Of their withered leaves and sere — "With my head iqion my hand, In a drowsy sort of \\a\, I nearly lost mo in that land ^^^lere di"caras olysiau play. Then frona out this soul of mine, Came trooping all together, THE EEVERIE. 103 The memories of olden time, Like giants of a nurfs'ry rhjoi^e. In seven-leagued sole leather. As I nodded there, and slept Like an alderman in church, A funny vision o'er me crept. Of an urchin and his birch. With this birchen-beaten urchin, Somehow came into my thought, LoAv-roofed and red, some ancient -walls, "Where my luckless brains were taught. I remembered, too, quite well. The spot just where I caught iti — The time that fatal ferule fell, — The fell misdeed that brought it. Hare old times were those, I ween, Many times in noontide hoiu's. When schoolboy king and rustic queen Wreathed their crowns of summer flowers. Now the sighmg, Avhispering breeze. Stealing through my open door, Like gales from Valambrosian trees, AU my chamber scented o'er, And my slowly opening eyes Unto my wuidow turning. 104 THE IDEAL OF A TRUE LIFE. -a From off the tui-f there seemed to rise A cloud like incense burning ; Then a faint, uncertain light, As of nebulaj afar. In this cloud moves to and fro, Like the spirit of a stai\ And then ! — and then ! O, bless me ! In the midst of my surprise, With an involuntary ah ! I could scarce believe my eyes, But it was a strong cigar .' Inglorious I awoke. To find my dreams all end in smoke. Oife. THE IDEAL OF A TRUE LIFE. Tuioiti: is, even on this side the grave, a haven v here the storms of life break not, or are felt but in gentle undulations of the unripplcd and mirroring waters — an oasis, not In the desert, but beyond it — a rest, pro- found and blissful as that of the soldier returned for- ever from the dangers, the hiudships, and turmoil of war, to the bosom of that dear domestic circle, whose < THE IDEAL OF A TRUE LIFE. 105 \ blessings he never prized at haK their worth till he lost ( them. ! This haven, this oasis, this rest, is a serene and hale J old age. The tired traveller has abandoned the dusty, s croAvded, and jostUng highway of life, for one of its ^ shadiest and least noted by-lanes. The din of traffic I and of worldly strife has no longer magic for his ear — i the myriad footfall on the city's stony walks is but noise or nothing to him noAV. He has run his race of toil, or trade, or ambition. His day's work is accom- plished, and he has come home to enjoy, tranquU and unharrassed, the splendor of the sunset, the milder glories of late evening. Ask not whether he has or has not been successful, according to the vulgar stand- ard of success. What matters it now whether the multitude has dragged his chariot, rending the au- with idolizing acclamations, or howled like wolves on his track, as he fled by night from the fury of those he had Avasted his vigor to serA-e r "What avails it that broad lands have rcAvarded liis toU, or that all has, at the last moment, been stricken from his grasp ? Ask not whether he brings into retirement the Avealth of ^ the Indies or the poverty of a bankrupt — Avhcthcr his \ couch be of down or rushes — his dAveUing a hut or a i mansion. He has lived to little purpose indeed, if he i has not long since reaUzed that Avealth and renoAvn are I not the true ends of exertion, nor their absence the \ conchisive proof of iU-fortune. Whoever seeks to \ ■m / 106 THE IDEAL OF A THUE I.IFK. j know if his career has been prosperous and brightening \ from its outset to its close — if the cvcnini; of his l days shall be genial and blissful — should ask not for | broad acres, or towering edihces, or laden coffers. ' Perverted old age may grasp these m ith the unyield- l ing clutch of insanity ; but they add to liis cares and ; anxieties, not to his enjoyments. Ask rather, "Has \ he mastered and harmonized las erring passions r " ? " Has he lived a true life ? " \ A true life ! Of how many lives does each hour \ knell the conclusion, and how few of them arc true i ones ! The poor child of shame, and sin, and crime, | who terminates her earthly being in the clouded morn- i ing of her scarce budded, yet blighted existence — the I desperate felon, whose blood Ls shed by the community, i as the dread penalty of its violated laAv — the miser- 5 able debauchee, who totters down to his loathson\e grave in the springtime of his years, but the fulness of his festering iniquities — these, the world valiantly affirms, have not lived true lives ! Pcarlcss and right- eous world ! how profound, liow discriminating arc thy judgments ! IJut the ba.se idolater of self, who devotes all his moments, his energies, his thoughts, to schemes wliich begin and end in jicrsontd advantage — the grasper of gold, and lands, and tenements — the devotee of pleasure — the man of ignoble and sinister ambition — the woman of frivolity, e.Ktravagaiue, and fashion — the idler, tlie gambler, the voluptuoi-y — on i THE IDEAL OF A TRUE LIFE. 107 I all these and their myriad compeers, -while borne on \ the crest of the advancing billo-\v, how gentle is the ] reproof, how charitable the judgment of the world ! I Nay, is not even our dead Christianity, which picks its I w-ay so daintily, cautiously, and inoffensively, through ;: the midst of slave-holding, and drunkard-making, and national faith-breaking, which regards with gentle rebuke, and is regarded with amiable toleration by some of the foremost vices of the times, — is it not too ] often oblivious of its paramount duty to teach men I how to live worthily and nobly ? Are there not thou- ( sands to whom its inculcations, so far as duties to man > are concerned, are substantially negative in their char- ', aeter ? who are fortified by its teachings, in the bcHef \ that to do good is a casualty, and not a frame of being f — who are taught by it to feed the hungry, and clothe ; the naked, when they thrust them,selves upon the charity of portly affluence, but as an irksome duty, for ^ which they should be rewarded, rather than a blessed i privilege, for which they should be profoundly grate- : ful ? Of the millions now weekly listening to the \ ministrations of the Christian pulpit, how many arc '< clearly, vividly impressed with the great truth, that ( each, in his own sphere, shoTiId live for mankind, as s Christ did, for the redemption, instruction, and exalta- t tion of the race, and that the power to do this in his '. proper sphere abides equally with the humblest as the ] highest : How many centuries more -will be required m 11 .^ I 108 THE IDEAL OF A TUUE LIFE. to teach even the religious -world, so called, the full meaning of the term Curistiax ? A true life must be simple in all its elements. An- imated by one grand and ennobling impulse, all lesser j aspirations find their proper places in harmonious sub- i servience. Simplicity in taste, in appetite, in habits of j life, Vvath a corresponding indifference to Avorldly hon- ', ors and aggrandizement, is the naturid result of the < predominance of a divine and unselfish idea. Under the guidance of such a sentiment, virtue is not an effort, but a law of nature, like gra-vitation. It is vice alone that seems unaccountable — monstrous — well nigh miraculous. Purity is felt to be as neccssarj" to the mind as health to the body, and its absence alike the inevitable source of pain. A true life must be cahn. A life imperfectly di- rected is made -vvrotched through distraction. We give up our youth to excitement, and wonder that a decrepit old age steals upon us so soon. A\'e wear out our energies in strife for gold or fame, and lueu won- der alilte at the cost and tlie worthlcssnoss of the ' meed. " Is not the life more than meat ? " Ay, truly ! but how few have practically, consistently, so regiu'ded I it? And little as it is regarded by the impcrfecily vir- j tuous, how much less by the vicious and tlic world- i ling ! What a chaos of struggling emotions is exlab- < itcd by the lives of tlie multitude ! How lUic to tlie i wars of the infuriated aniniidcula' in a niagnilicd ilrop < THE IDKAL Ol- A TIIIE LIFE. 109 Horace Orecley. of water, is the strife constantly -v\-agecl in each little \ mind ? How Sloth is jostled by Gluttony, and Piide j •wrestled with by Avarice, and Ostentation bearded by \ 'i Cleanness ! The soul which is not large enough for c \ the indwellhig of one vktue, affords lodgment, and ', \ scope, and arena for a hundi-ed vices. But their war- ; < tare cannot be indulged Avith impuiiity. Agitation and \ 5 ■WTetchedncss are the inevitable consequences, in the '-. inidst of wliich the flame of life burns flarmgly and ] \ swiftly to its close. \ I A triie life must be genial and joyous. Tell me not, pale anchorite, of your ceaseless vigUs, your fastings, yoiir scourgings. These are fit offerings to Moloch, iiot to Our Father. The man who is not hapi:)y in the \ path he has chosen, may be very sure he has chosen ^ amiss, or is self-deceived. But not merely happier, — > he should be kinder, gentler, and more elastic in sj^irits, ^ as well as firmer and truer. '♦ I love God and little \ cluldren," says a German poet. The good are ever attracted and made happier by the presence of the innocent and lovely ; and he who finds his religion averse to, or a restraint vipon, the truly innocent pleas- ures and gaycties of life, so that the latter do not inter- fere with, and jar upon, its sublimer objects, may well doubt whether he has indeed "learned of Jesus." v-^^v. -^g 110 THE SPIRIT OF POESY. THE SPIRIT OF POESY. Natuke is full of poctiy ; 'Tis breathing every -where ; It speaketh from the far, blue sea. From the mUd and summer air. Its voice is heard among the stars, In the hushed midnight sky, And in the ■wildly moaning blast, "NNTien the tempest rushes by. It floateth on the zephyr's Ming, Around the lonely tomb ; It springeth forth all joyously Amid the spring flo-wcrs' bloom. It rests among the twilight clouds, And hallows that calm hour ; It broodcth o'er the haunts of men, With soft, entrancing power. It mingles in the child's pure thought. And in the youth's bright dreams ; It tinges all earth's loveliest tilings With heaven's own radiant bciunn. ) THE IXDIAX SUMMER. Ill Sjjirit of Song ! yve hail thy might, Pcn'adiag all our earth ; For thou dost teach us that the soul Is of immortal birth. " Clara," (JVcw Hampton.) THE INDIAN SUMMER. 'Tis autumn ; and the stricken leaves Are falling from the mournful trees ; Yet as the swan her sweetest notes TrUls forth as unto death she floats. Or as the dolphin's dj-rng throes A thousand watery tints disclose, So with the trees, e'er yet they cast Their summer raiment to the blast. Lest man should tu-e of endless green, They summon forth aU nature's powers, Vying to grace the changing scene, To reign the beUc a few short hours. Thus 'tis with aU on cai-th below ; Our sweets but come at close of day ; They come, and then as quickly go ; They go when most we wish their stay. m- } '/ 112 OLD M.VX OF THK MOUNTAIN. In gorgeous hues the forests dress, Then smiling seek the sun's caress ; lie, like a youth in manhood's pride, Gazmg upon liis blushing bride, Smiles brightly from the ether blue, And every beauty charms anew. The -winds -withdi'a-w, no cloud is seen, The Lidian Summer reigns supreme ! 'Tis passing sweet — the loveliest time Of all the year. It seems to me I -would not change our varied clime For sunniest lands beyond the sea. What though 'tis changeful? Every change Shows paths of beauty still untrod. Through which the tireless mind may range, And bless its freedom — bless its God. M. J. II. OLD MAN O I-' T 11 E M O U X T A I N . (jiOANric size, unfallcu still that crest ! rrimeval d\\ cller v here tlic wild winds rc.-'t I 13oyond the ken of mortal e'er to tell ^\■l;!lt jHANcr sustninw thcc in thy rock-bound cell. Or if, when erst I'rcation vast began, And loud the universal Rat ran, \ OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN". 113 " Let there be liglit ! " — from, chaos dark set free, Ye rose, a monument of Deity ! j Proud from yon cloud-crowned height thou peerest | i forth • I On insignificance, that peoples earth — | Recalling oft the bitter drug which turns The mind to meditate on what it learns. Stern, passionless, no soul those looks betray. Though kindred rocks, to sport at mortal clay — LDic to the chisel of the sculptor's art, " Play round the head, but come not to the heart." Ah ! who can fathom thee r Ambitioixs man. Like a trained falcon in the Gallic van, Guided and led, can never reach to thee With e'en the strength of weakness— vanity ! Great as thou art, and paralleled by none. Admired by all, still art thou drear and lone ! The moon looks dowTi upon thine exiled height ; The stars, so mildly, spiritually bright, On wings of morning gladly fiit away, To mix with their more genial, mighty ray ; The white waves kiss the miirmuring rill ; But thy deep silence is unbroken still. .Vrs. Mary M. Olovcr, (Sanbomton.) lU OUILLA. R I L L A . Yes, thou art bright and beautiful, Though but of lowly birth ; Thou takest, with all joyous things, Thy place ujion the earth ; Thy voice is song, thy step a dance, Thy cliildish tasks but play ; Thou sportest ■\\ith the birds and lambs. As innocent as they. But in the future let xis look. For that which thou niay'st hope ; It little needs divining skill, Or cast of horoscope ; Thy simjilc garb bespeaks a life Of ill-reciuitcd toil ; Thy fate has linked thee to a band "Wlio ceaseless delve and moil. Thy glowing check, tliy brow so full, Thy softly brilliant eye, Tell me how deeply thou n\ust share Our woman's destiny ; OEILI.A. 115 Tliou'lt love and grieve, but still through all Thou'lt haplessly live on, And learn how life will Uuger still, "When all its joys are gone. Yes, woman's task — a peasant's v.ife I there before thee see, To be in some rude hut the di-udge, Some clo"mi's divinity ; To rise at morn with early siui, "With dew, and opening flowers, But only strive to break thy fast In all those glorious hours. Thy southern sun his radiant warmth Above thy cot shall shed. And thou'lt rejoice, because thy lire Need not so oft be fed ; Thy clear, bright moon, her gentler rays At night shall o'er thee thi-ow ; Thou'lt bless it as thine only lamp, AVhen to thy rest thou'lt go. And yet, of all that's high and pxire, Thou shalt not be divest, For still shall beat a woman's heart Warmly within thy breast, ] m- 116 FACTOKY LIFE. Deeming it not unworthy lot To live for others' -weal, For others' sakes to sacrifice, To sufFcr, and to feel ; — To know that tlirough thy toil and care, Thy strength, thougli weak it be, Ila-s been support and cheer to him WTio guides thy destiny ; That stUl, though poor and rude, thou hast A share in many a heart ; That peasant mourners o'er thy grave Will weep when thou depart. .Miss H. Farley. FACTORY LIFE. \ Variovs opinions are entcrtaincil in relation to the > influence of factory life Some e.\tol it, while others \ speak all manner of evil against it. But, if the advan- I tagcs and disadvantages, tlie lights and the sliadcs, \ wore dearly set forth, it would apjiear that these fac- > tories arc neither Paradise nor Pandemonium. The pic- ture may be overwrought, or otherwise. A manufacturing population is as free, as independ- ent, and as piu-e as any clnss under the sun. But it V ^ ». "v ■>. -s ^. X *s^ •^ m^ FACTORY LIFE. 117 I is not pretended that they are exempt from the evils incident to other classes of labor. The mind and char- acter is moiilded and fashioned, to a great extent, by the circumstances Avliich surround them. It is modi- l lied by the kind of employment pursued, by the ? facilities for performing labor, by manners, customs, J by a limited or free exercise of the intellect, and the | enjoyments of liberty. \ This is illustrated in the various studies and pursuits ? of life. The study of mathematics is excellent as ^ \ discipline for the mmd, and as engendering a precise ^ and accurate mode of thinking and reasoning. Some i kinds of employment require great accuracy of thought s and attention, while the occupation itself, in turn, ? reflects back upon the mind its o^-n proper influence. \ The farmer, in turning the furrows in his field, or repaii'ing his plough, does not exorcise the critical acumen and skiU of the machinist in fitting the com- phcatcd parts of Iris labor, or the watclmiaker in \ atljusting the intricate movements of the watch. But ^ this is no disparagement to the farmer. He may drink < in the richest influences from the wavy plain and glassy > lake ; from the purliiig brooks and pine-clad moun- < tain ; from the sports of the woods and the music of birds — aU. tending to urspire the mind with cheerful- ness, and with love to the Maker of the glorious works. Such scenes and such enjoyments are not habitually permitted to the denizens of the shop and 11' 118 FACTORY LIFE. J \ mill. 'Tis a defect, indeed, and must be othenvise \ supplied. But the intellect and the feelings have not alone to do in the matter. Those who are compelled to do any kind of work against theii- Avill, are apt to become fret- ful and discontented. Those, too, who are domiuccred over and driven, as in the case of factory operatives in '/ England, and hope for nothing better, exercise but ( Httle discernment or self-control. Managers and guar- > dians should look to this. If they would have re- j spectful and trusty persons about them, they must { show them respect, and let them perceive that they j have confidence in their talents and integrity. < Locality and climate also produce their efiects. The ^ dweller under an Italian sky, while he gazes on the ' clear, deep vault above liim, and beholds its surpassing > beauty, catches no smidl degree of that poetic ardor | tliat breathes forth in the spirit and heart of their \ peoijlc ; for who can " bind tlie sweet influences of | Pleiades, or loose the bands of Orion r " s Convenient tools, implements, and machinery, tend- > ing to facilitate the performance of labor ; fasluons, manners, customs, and ardiitectural disi)lay, all, like- wise, have their peculiar and appropriate intiuencc. What pleasing emotions iu:c iuspii-ed in the mind, on i; beholding, at a sufficient distance for the mind to take I in the full idea, some grand mul beautiful temple, I massive and proportionate, all its psuts perfectly bal- S FACTORY LIFE. 119 ) I anced and harmonized, sitting upon the earth. " like a thing of life," with an air of sublime and majestic repose ! What has been said of inanimate, may also be said of livmg, forms of beauty. Who does not feci peculiar and delightful sensations stirred within him, when I beholding some beauteous specimen of angelic hu- I manity — a creature whom God himself hath made, young and fair, whose form is love, whose gaze is feel- ing, and whose every appearance waiTants the belief that she would prove a successful rival even for the Medician Venus — the curved Imes of whose fine limbs flow into each other m a continuous sinuosity of sweetness, exliibiting at once matchless symmetry and proportion, and with a countenance radiant with affec- tion and innocent voluptuousness, " Heaven in her eye, In every gesture dignity and love " .' Who, unless they be frigid indeed, are not moved within by the magic power of human beauty ? And now, if locality and climate ; if the beautiful in nature and art ; if manners, customs, and fashions, all have their influence upon character, for good or for evil ; if the pursuit of certain sciences have a tendency to induce exactness in mind, may it not be fairly inferred, that fhose employed in machine shops and 120 FAREWELL TO SUMMER. \ factories experience the same discipline in a like ten- dency and degree r And in support of this, it may be obsei-ved, that -when persons, both male and female, coming from the country to work in the factory — some of them remarkable for nothing, perhaps, so much as their loose and slovenly method of performing their labor — after remaining in the mill a few years, have become the very reverse ; and, on returning to theii- homes, have carried -vv^th tliem, into their house- holds, and to their farms, the systematic method of doing business generated by factory life. /.'. B. M., (^Manchester.) FAREWELL TO SUMMER. The summer's sun is setting. And to-morrow's ciu-ly light "SVill bring again sad autumn, AVitli frost mv liowers to blicht. o O, give to me, sweet summer. In tliy Inst, declining day. Some record of what thou hast seen As thine houi-s have passed away. W" ■*.*W-N^*^N^\/N,«^P ^„ FAKEWELL TO SUMMER. 121 Daylight is almost ended — Shall I have no reply ? Hark ! now I hear a gentle voice. And it wliispers with a sigh ; — " Maiden, sweet roses for thee I brought To gladden thy heai't, and sadden it not ; Yet know, that thy life, though happy it be, Has thorns with the roses entwined for thee. " 'Tis eighteen summers since first we met — As I loved thee then, I love thee yet ; StUl gladly Avith thee my joys I'd share, To lighten thy heart of sorrow and care. " The sweet birds still in harmony sing, And flowers still wear the fragrance of spring ; But birds and flowers, of me they do tell — Would you know more ? ask them — fare thee well." Farewell to thee, sweet summer — I grieve to say farewell ; But stiU I'll keep thy sunshine Within my heart to dwell. And though chill autumn cometh, As the changing seasons roll, I'll strive to keep unclouded The summer of the soul. " Ella May," (Rumney.) 11 122 THE AUTUMN BOSE. THE AUTUMN ROSE. I SAAV, one bright autumnal day. A beauteous rcsc unfold. And to a genial sim display A bosom decked with gold ; I gazed upon the lovely tio%ver > With raptiu-ous delight, c And thought its charms had spell of power To make even winter bright. I -wished that autumn rose so fair In radiance long might bloom. And shed through the surrounding air Its beauty and iJcrfume. Vain wish 1 for on its ruddiness Soon fell a withering blast ; It drooped, and all its loveliness Died ere the day was past ! So pass earth's fiurest llowei's away, So dies the piuent's joy ; As clouds obscure the brightest day. And griefs the heart annoy ; LAST WISHES OF A CHILD. 123 But there's a balm for souls oppressed, A hope the heart to stay ; A bosom where the head may rest, While tears are wiped away. Thrice hapj)y they who can repose, In calm and holy trust, On Ilim who wept for others' woes. Who raised the sleeping dust ; Who in a glorious robe of white Ai-rays the blood-bought soul. And bids it rest in realms of light. While endless ages roll ! JUary S. Patterson. LAST WISHES OF A CHILD, " All the hedges are in bloom. And the warm west 'v\ind is blowing ; Let me leave this stifled room, liCt me go wlicrc flowers are gro'N^'ing. " Look, my cheek is thin and pale, And my pulse is very low ; Ere my sight begins to fail, Take my hand, and let us go. ^■!^ ! 124 TO A SISTER. " Was not that the robin's song, J Piping through the casement -wide ? j I shall not be listening long — 5 Take me to the meadow side ! ' " Lead me to the AN-illow brook — Let me hear the merry mill ; On the orchard I must look, Ere my beating heart is still. " Faint and fainter grows my brcatli — Bear me quickly down the lane ; Mother dear, this chill is death ! I shall never speak again." " Still the hedges are in bloom, And the -warm west wmd is blowing, Still we sit in silent gloom — O'er her grave the grass is growing. Jumes T. Fields. TO A SISTER. PouoET nie not, wlien I aiu i'ar away In other climes, and the blue sea between ; Give me a passing thought at close ol' day, As forth thou wandorost in our garden green. woman's influence. 125 Think that a sorrow may o'ercloud my brow, And heaviness of heart weigh me to earth, Far in a stranger land, with none like thou To check the darker thoughts which then have biith. Think of the early days when, hand in hand, We roved the green banks of the Merrimack, And wrote our names upon the wave-washed sand, And saUcd our boats far do-^Ti his winding track. By those bright, happy days of old, wUt thou Cease not to think of him that's far away. And lovingly, an angel then as now. Forget not for the errant boy to pray. And I, witlun the festive hall, and round Of gaycty, may banish thee a while ; But soon as that is passed, and dies the sound Of mirthfulncss, the bitter scornfiil smile Thou'dst pity, when I sUcntly compare The joys just passed with those that would be mine, Were we again to breathe our native air Together, as in days of Auld Lang Syne. J- M. Fletcher, (JVashiia.) WOMAN'S INFLUENCE. Woman has been compared to a floweret springing m the path of man, which, by its lovely tints and gentle 11* 126 ■NVOM.VN's IXFLUEN'CE. ( fragrance, beguiles him of life's rough pilgrimage, and j teaches him to forget the sorrows of a -wayfarer through 5 an inhospitable -world. She has been called the har2>, \ ■whose soft miisic can lull the stormy passions of the S human breast, and " lay discord to rest on the pillow I of peace." She has been Hkeued to that one star, I ■whose ray is a guiding light to the tempest- tossed i mariner. Her appellations have been the fireside orua- | ment — the presiding deity in the temple of home — i j the china vase among the stone ware of humanity. ^ She may be one or all of these ; yet it is cliicfly as 5 a moral agent, as the gentle minister of virtue, that the > line gold of her character ai^pcars. Since the Ught of < Christianity has dawned upon man, and shown him < > tliat his highest happiness, as well as his true greatness ; J < i and glory, is intimately interwoven with the dignity i i and character of woman, her influence has been grad- < / uaUy gaining new accessions of strength, till at length } ^ it has been felt in every land and every clime. s True, we do not And her, like Joan of Arc, or Mar- garet of Anjou, heading victorious troops on the field ] of battle, making her voice to be lieard above the din of the war-strife and tlie dying groans of thousands. She is not found in the stormy debate of the senate \ chamber, nor do wc li: But is it the noisy pnrtisiui, whose voice rouses and ; k woman's ixfluence. 127 kindles the passions of the multitiide, blinding them to the dictates of sober reason and unbiased judgment ? Is it the conquerer of nations, whose single -will is the talisman of the thousands who follow him to the field of carnage and death r Yea ; is it the preaclier who weekly meets liis congregation in the temple of the Most High, from whose lips fall the pearls of wisdom, as he nnfolds the treasures of the " book of books " — is it these who exert an influence of that constant and habitual character, that alone can exercise a controlling power over human conduct, or move the springs of society r No ; this belongs to the ministry of woman — enlightened, intelligent woman. But it has been said, that man, from his coming in contact and collision with a greater mass of mind, must of necessity be the chief agent in effecting revolution and reform. Is it indeed so r If we look into the natm-al world, do we not find that nature accomplishes her most wonderful and astonishing results by the most noiseless agents — by the most silent and imper- ceptible causes ? The mUd sunshine, the genial atmos- phere, the gentle descending shower, are employed to transform the acorn into the majestic and lordly oak. It owes its strength in the tempest, its defiance of the whirl-nind, not to the mountain torrent, the thunder's voice, or the lightning's bolt, but to the gentle influ- ence of maternal nature. The diamond derives not its existence from the tempest's fury, the hunicane's com- 128 woman's infuience. motion, or the cai'thquake's shock ; but to the silent agency of time and the water di-ops. The whole universe is bound together by the simple princiijle of gravitation — a something unseen, un- heard, unnoticed, yet felt to the remotest bounds of the Creator's empire. Tlius it is with woman. 'Man may cause a moral tempest ; he may shiikc the whole i fabric of society ; but he may be like the -wind that I lashes into foam the billows of the ocean, and tosses \ 5 about its waves ; but 'tis the sunshine alone that pen- I ti ctrates its depths. It is not in the bustle of the Avorld, j in the diu of public life, that man arms his soul for ' . conflict, or fortifies liimself in those principles that are ) to be his anchor in misfortune. No ; these are imbibed in the sanctuary of home, and learned at the domestic fkesidc. Thence the cliild carries with him those sen- timents and feelings, that are to sway the future man, and perhaps stamp the character of his age. Oiu- o^^^l Webster, speaking of maternal character, says : " Some may destroy the canvas on which the painter has be- stowed his labor — the marble of the sculptor may crumble to dust — but woman works on a substance that is impressed witli tlie seal of immortality." MUs /.. .4. Parker. m- ^ STANZAS. 129 STANZAS. I TWINED a splendid summer wreath Of scented sprigs, and blossoms rare, And placed it, with its morning breath, Amid the tresses of my hair ; But ere the noontide hours had past, Its fragrance sweet and bloom were gone ; The chajjlct from my brow I cast, To seek a more enduring one. I Avove a rich and bright bouquet Of all the choicest garden flowers. And fondly hoped its sweets would stay To cheer me in some darker hours ; I looked — the canker worm was there — A dcci)- corroding blight had spread Among the leaves, once fresh and fair : My chosen ones were dead. I culled a plajit of simple hue, Whose opening bud had caught my eye ; Beside a gentle stream it grew, Unheeded by the passer by ; -SI 130 STANZAS. I bound it meekly on my breast, And storms and sunshine went and came ; In winter shroud the earth was di-essed, Yet still it lived and smiled the same. The flowers that drooped in morning beams, They smiled upon my heart in vain ; Like fairy shapes in early di'cams, Alas ! they ne'er revived again. Those sweeter ones were friends beloved, AVhosc ties affection's hand had wound ; But friendsliip's vows deficient proved, And death the kindred bands unbound. That simple jilaut, whose cheering po-vvovs Throiigh all life's fleeting scenes are given. That soothes us in our saddest hoiirs. Is humble, childlike, trust in Heaven. The dearest hopes of youth may fade. And friends may change, and kindi-ed die ; But i/tis shall lend its kindly aid, And cliase the tear from son'ow's eye. Helen, (JUanehtster.) MAN IS NOT "WHAT HE WILLS. 131 MAN IS NOT WHAT HE WILLS. Man is not what he wills ; the very sky- Hath not a powerless cloud, but looketh down In meek compassion, as it floateth by, On us, born stibjects of a smile or frown. There's not an upstart, vagrant wind but drives His pa.ssive spirit on its lightest breath ; The unsincwed giant so no longer strives. Though o'er his maddened eye careers the shakened death. Man is not what he wills ; and O, 'tis joy, That not a spell-clad spirit is his foe ; No liloodless wizard, patient to destroy. Binds on the fatal ring, the charm of woe ! For age, the magic circle when it breaks. Goes up with fleeing sj-mphonies on high ; And a wild thrill of ecstasy awakes. Above the grief that mourns his lost captivity. Man is not what he wills ; for from above. And from beneath, the thwarting currents roll. And nature's mighty magazine of love Ten thousand times shall overcome his soul. -H ^ 132 MAN IS JfOT Vi'llXT UE WILLS. ^ And wheresoe'er his chosen path shall tend, 5 His charmed footsteps keejj but half the way ; i A cloud, a sound, a very flower, shall send An overfloA\-ing flood, and bear him wide astray. Man is not what he wills ; hast thou not seen The stern, strong face unbrace itself again, When a soft breath went by, with thoughts between That never touched his iron soul till then r The harsh, deteiinined ^-isage, how it teUs A sudden tale of years long past and gone ! The worldly, i-ugged bosom, how it swells With quick o'ercoming tides, from Youth's far ocean drawn I Man is not what he wills ; the simple child, That panting, hunts the dreamy butterfly, Doth pause at sudden, of his jirey beguiled, A smitten victim of the western sky, When o'er the burning hills it takes the sun To that briglit place of happiness and gold ; And as he turns away, the lesson done, He goes another child, by other thoughts controlled. Man is not what he wills ; the time hath been, When he, whase hand doth whet the midnight steel, Hatli bowed his head, all gray with age and sin. To hear the hamlet bell's sweet distant peal. ■m l' MAN IS XOT WHAT HE WILLS. 133 He had not cared to hear, but in Ms breast Were things of kindred with that human sound ; The answering memories break their long, long rest. And thought and tcai-s are born, and penitence pro- found. Man is not what he wills ; uncounted powers Beset each single footstep of his way, And, like the guardian spirits of the flowers, Charm each niaUgnant, poisonous breath away ; And so by guileless things is man beguiled, And sweetly chastened in his earthly will. While every thwarting leaves him more a child. With childlike sense of good, and childlilie dread of ill. Man is not what he wills ; a deep amen O'ercomes the grateful spirit as it hears ; " Thy will, not mine, be done," it breathes again To Him that sits above the circling years. The weak doth find supporters, and the blind A faith that will not ask an earthly eye, To see the goings of the eternal mind, When clouds and darkness bear his moving throne on high. Leonard Stoain, (J\nishua.) a- 134 THE THREE VISIONS. THE THREE VISIONS. I HAD a glo-\ving vision, I kno-\v not ■whence it came, But it burned within my veiled heart, liikc a consuming flame. And fierce and wild the strange desire It kindled in my breast, A struggling, pent-up lava-fire That -would not let me rest ; For wildly in my si>irit burned A haunting thii-st for fame, Till every other hope I spurned. To win a glorious name. A strengtli to labor and endure Awoke within my soul ; — 'Twas but to fix the standard sure. And to attain the goal. To the woak lioart that quenchless flame Gave vigor not its own — But the dream faded as it came. And I was left alone. I had a hccotuI vision, — It was a blessed one, — THE THREE VISIONS. 135 Bright as upon a stormy sea The day-smile of the sun. Kind, loving voices greeted me, i And starrj'-, gentle eyes. In whose dear light there seemed to be An opening paradise. For weary years I'd dwelt apart In the cold homes of men, i But the loving, trusting, childlike heart | Was with mc even then. > I fancied that no bitterness Could chill my spirit more, And felt, in this new blessedness, I had not lived before. That blessed vision faded In mist and tears away — The light of life seemed shaded. When it was gone, for aye. I had a third sweet vision. Most blessed of the three. For angels, from their thrones of light, Looked lovingly on me. I thought to see it fade away. It was so bright and fair ; But, clear as in the earlier day. It still abideth there ; 136 THE AXGEL'S -whisper. And ever in my soul I dream I hear their rapturous song. O, all too real doth it seem To be a vision long. Sweet, earnest, spirit-beaming eyes Upon uiy pathway shine, Sleeping or waking, from the skies, Forever bent on mine ; And gently a beloved hand Doth lead me ever on Unto the blessed silent land. Where Faith and Love are gone. " loiif," (Plymoiilh.) THE ANGEL'S WHISPER. There was silence in heaven. The song, that had echoed in strains of such entrancing sweetness ai'ound f the throne of the Eternal, was for n moment hushed. 5 There was no sound in Paradise, save when tlie golden \ lyre of some glorified spirit thrilled faintly, Juul sent I fortli a low, melodious note, as if unwilling to cense its \ musical breathings. > Tlic liosts of the bettor laud — myriads of nngcls BJ- i THE angel's ■whisper. 137 ] and archangels knelt humble around the " G)-eat I Am," \ ■with their pinions folded and then- heads bo^wcd in rev- > erence to Hun at -whose command a holy stillness now >' reigned throughout the spirit- world. j A vast, ay, and a glorious assemblage was that : yet > one Avhite-robed form, that was wont to mingle in the >. throng, was absent ; a divine commission had been \ given him, and now he winged his way to the world > below. Eagerly the angel bands watched him as he ! sped far, far on his earthward flight ; and Avhcn at length ; he paused above a scene of wretchedness, and a harp- I note of celestial sweetness came faintly to their ears, ! they cast then- fadeless diadems at the feet of the Infi- \ nite, and cried, " Hallelujah to the Lamb who has saved > us, and still continueth to save." • To the sad and the sorrowing, to the guilty and i erring of earth, had God sent the messenger of mercy ; { and Avhen the music of his song floated to the realms I above, he paused above a low couch, on which reclined > a dying boy. A bright-haired lad he was, who had beheld the stonns and sunshine of only ten short years. He had been gay and joyous, as childhood ever is ; but now the light of his sunny eye had grown dim, and his merry laugh went forth no more on the summer ah. There was a feverish flush on his rounded cheek, and his full lips were parched -with the burning breath of disease. Beside him stood a pale, sad woman — his mother — his widowed mother. There was an ex- 12 * TUE AXGEL S WlUSriiil prcssion of inteiiso .siift'eriiig on her face, and the tears gushed to her eyes ^\ hen she smoothed back the golden ringlets from liis brow. Nearer and nearer Ktill drew the heaven-sent messenger, and more intently gazed lie on the form, in whiih, like a pcnt-iip bird, the sonl ■was panting to be free. At length tlie lad's eye bright- ^ ened ; a rich crimson flushed his cheek, and the small ; liand, clasped in the mother's, trembled convulsively, ' as thus he spok(; : — } " I see tlic seraph, mother ! Let me — C), let me ; go ! " and the voice died away like the low thrill of a lute-tone — the eyelids dropped lovingly over those i calm, pure orbs — the crimson faded from the cheek — I tho boy Jiad heard the atu/el's whisper, and the mother sat I alone with the dead. '. Hours went by ; midnight brooded o'er the earth, { and the stars, like spirits' eyes, looked down ujion the I widow's lioine. Beside her boy the mother knelt, with \ her hands clinched across her motionless breast, and I her cheek pressed to his, as if to warm it into life ; but no mother's power could wake the dead. Still clasped tlie mother to her boy ; but tlie wild and unnatural light in lier eye too plainly told tluit grief was struggling for the mastery of reason. The spirit came near — softly lie struck one chord of his celestiid lyre, tlicii niiui^U'd a low whisiier willi the J thrilling strain. Suddenly a smile came o'er tlie face s 5 of the widow ; she clasped the corse of her son more J g- THE WIFE TO IIEK HUSBAXD. 139 nervoxisly — a slight tremor conruLsed her Kmbs — she had Jieard tlie anget s -whisper — instant her soul •was ■with him over whom she had mourned. Martha A. Q'ovgh. THE WIFE TO HER HUSBAND Methikks the sun is brighter, darling, Than it -was a year ago ; The flowers wear a richer color, And time moves not so slow. This earth that I have looked upon Since first I saw the light — Sure it is fresher, lovelier, now. Than when first spake from night. The song of birds is sweeter, darling, Than it was a year this time ; The music of the waters flowing Ilath the melody of chime. The surtsct wears a richer hue Than when I gazed alone. And the moon that used to look so cold Has very pleasant grown. \ 140 THE WIFE TO HER HUSBAND. And sure the heart that worshipped thee, A whole long year ago, Still tui-ns to thee, its idol-altar, And bums its incense low. The world has nought to charm away From willing worship given : AVhy should the spirit stoop to earth. That rested once in heaven ? Our sky is fair — no sorrows, darling, Have dimmed its glory yet ; And in its blue, so brightly shining There are no warnings set. Yet for all this we lie not down To sleep, when done is life, "Without the drinking of the cup, Without the bitter strife. Eartli never licld the favored one Whom sorrow has not known ; Whose cup has not been running o'er With bitter draughts nlonc : And yet the cup our Father gives Shall we not diink ? In vain The sujiplicating cry goes up, " Spaie us, O (jod, this pain ! " Yet wliy grieve now ? Our hearts, my darling, Will not grow cold in need ; i ( A DREAM OF LOVE. 141 "We'll not forget the promise given When the sun was overhead. Its truth shall lead us on through life, An angel in earth-guise : Shall it not guide us to that land — Its home — beyond the skies ? Mrs. C. S. Ooodale, [Manchester.) A DREAM OF LOVE. I HAD a dream — not all a dream, For 'twas a bright foretaste of heaven — A cup of bliss — diAdnc — supreme ! The sweetest cup to mortals given. But ah ! that dream has passed away ; Its lovely fancies all have fled, And in the tomb neglected lie, — Xo flowers are blooming o'er the dead. But then its spirit, lingering yet Around the home where once it d■\^•cit, Bids me be true, and ne'er forget The beauteous shrine where I have knelt. O, could those hours again return. And I once more their pleasure know. SI~ 142 A DREAM OF LOVE. Life's glimmering torch ■would brighter burn, And I should feel the less of woe. Yes, there she stands, that loved one, now, That angel guide of boyhood's hours, And circling round that peerless brow, A coronal of fading flowers. O, truthful emblem of my heart ! Too soon, like them, it drooped and died. As iiowcrs from their parent stem Depart — it perished by her side. The radiance of her lustrous eye Was brighter than the evening star ; Her voice, like faky's gentle sigh \Vhen borne upon the zephyr's car, AVas softer than the breath of even Which floats among the summer bowers — Was sweeter than the dews of heaven Which fall at night upon the flowers. We met — wo loved — we meet no more : % I left my love long yesu-s before — Our bUssful dream was (juickly o'er, But long has been the pang of woe. I've trod life's deserts since alone ; \ No cheering hope — no gladsome ray — < No heart in unison with my own, > To cheer mo on my lonesome way. \ J^. Hiifht, {lluldenuis.) . THAT SAME OLD GIRL. 143 THAT SAME OLD GIRL. Theue doth she sit — that same old girl Whom I in boyhood knew ; She seems a fixture to the church, In that old jail-like pew ! Once she was young — a blooming miss — So do the aged say ; Though e'en in youth, I think, she must Have had an okl-Uke way. How prim, and starched, and kind she looks, And so devout and staid I wonder some old bachelor Don't wed that good old maid ! She does not look so very old, • Though years and years are by Since any younger she has seemed, E'en to my boyhood's eye. That old straw bonnet she has on, Tied with that bow of blue. Seems not to feel Time's cankering hand, — 'Tis " near as good as new." 144 I LOVE A LACGH. The old silk gown — the square-toed shoes — Those gloves — that buckle's gleam, That silver buckle at her Avaist, To me like old frientls seem. Live on — live on — and may the years Touch lightly on thy brow ; As I beheld thee in my youth, And as I see thee wow, — May I, when age its furrows deep Has ploughed upon my cheek, Behold thee in that pew, unchanged, So prim, so mild, so meek ! B. B. Frcnth. I LOVE A LAUGH. I LOVE a laugh, a wihl, guy laugh, Fresh from the fount of feeling, * That speaks a heart enshrined within, Its joy revealing. I love a laugh, a a\ ild, guy laugh ; (), wlio would always sorrow, And wear a sad and woful face. And fear the morrow ? ORATOKY 145 I love a laugh — this world would be, At best, a dreary dwelling, If heart could never speak to heart, Its pleasure telling. I love a laugh — it cheers the heart Of age, bowed down with sadness, To hear the music in the tones Of childliood's gladness. Then frown not at a vnld, gay laugh, Or chide the merry-hearted ; A cheerful heart aiid smiling face Should ne'er be parted. " Effic jyiay." ORATORY. History is the chart of the deliberative orator. It reveals to him the quicksands and rocks where the hopes of empires have been wrecked. It reveals the ; sources of prosperitv, the som-ces of misfortune. To > him who can read it, it offers the suggestions of two I hundred generations. It bids us beware of the follies I of dead nations. To every individual it offers, some- < where among its records, encouragement to great and 13 '> 146 OUATORY. good deeds. It is from an ignorance of what has been, that men commit so many mistakes, and that the same error, after a larger or smaller cycle, returns again, like the forgotten fashions of our fathers. Man acts according to his belief. He believes in al- chemy; and with haggard visage and wasted sinews toils in dark caverns, in the vain hope of transmuting the worthless into the precious metals. He believes in a fountain which gives perpetual youth ; and straight- way — such is the record of history — embarks for unexplored lands, searches •\^•ith an energy which com- mands respect in spite of the folly, and pushes on his rugged pilgrimage with an enterprise worthy of the \ best cause. He believes in the insufficiency of his omti judgment in matters of religion, in the divinely ap- pouited supremacy of the |)ricstliood, and for centuries commits his conscience and his faith to liis spiritual ad- visers. He believes that the Bible is the only and suffi- cient rule of faith and practice, that he may and must examine it, and immediately he produces the Reforma- tion. Poetry cultivates the imagination. The j)rovincc of the imagination is not to separate truth from error, but " to render all objects instinct with the inspired breath of human passion."' It docs not dehiand if things be $ true independently, but ifthoylu- true in tlu-ir relation \ to other things. It docs not discover, but enlivens. It s melts together, into one burning mass, the discordant \ -81 ORATORT. 147 materials thro-\vn into its crucible. Like the colored light of sunset, it bathes in its own hue ■whatever it touches. Discarding technical rules, as from its natiu-e averse to them, it adapts means to varj-ing circum- stances, and seizing upon the hearts of the audience, in aid of belief or in spite of belief, buids them in willing captivity. It annihilates space and time, brings the distant near, draws together the past and the future into the jjresent. It warms the heart of the orator. He then speaks because he feels, not in order that he may feel. The influence flows from -within, outward, — not from without, inward. It tears the orator from considerations of himself, bears hun above liimself, above rule, criticism, apology, audience, every thing but the subject. The orator stands like an enchanter in the midst of spirits that are too mighty for him. He alone could evoke them from the dark abyss ; but even he is but half their master. He alone can demand the secrets of futurity ; but then he can speak only the Avords that they give him. He inspires others only as he is inspired himself. Logic is necessary for that severe form of speech wliich carries power in its front, and, by its very calm- ness and repression of earth-born passions, seems to belong to a higher sphere. It must form the bone and muscle of an extended discourse. Imagination clothes the skeleton with beauty ; breathes health into the rigid muscles ; lights up the eye ; loosens the tongue ; excites 148 OUATOKY. that rapid and vehement declamation which makes the speaker to be forgotten ; the subject, and the subject only, to be thought of ; betrays no presence of art, be- > cause, in fact, art is swallowed up in the whirlpool of excited feeling. Besides, there are truths with which logic has no concern ; " truths which walic to perish never ; " truths to be directly apprehended, as well as I truths to be i>roved ; feelings, as well iis facts. Love, ? and passion, and fear laugh at demonstration. "Logic," \ says one, " is good, but not the best. The irrcfraga- $ blc doctor, with his chains of inductions, his corolla- \ ries, dilemmas, and other cunning logical diagrams and > apparatus, will cast you a beautiful horoscope, and '^ speali you reasonable things ; nevertheless, the stolen i jewel which you wanted him to lind you, is not forth- ; coming. Often by sonio winged word — winged as the \ thunderbolt is — of a Luther, a Napoleon, a Goethe, i shall we see the difficulty split asunder, and its secret i laid baie ; while the Irrefragable, with all his logical \ roots, hews at it, and hovers round it, and finds it on I aU sides too hard for him." Poetry not only oifers ns the language of emotion, but produces emotion, and emotion eUcits thouglit. It has been well remarked of the groat English dramatist, that ho has been true to nature, in placing the " greater number of liis profoiindcst maxims a:id general truths, < both politicid and moral, not in the mouths of men at \ ease, but of men under the influence of passion, when m- ORATOIIY. 149 the mighty thoughts overmaster and become the ty- rants of the mind which has brought them forth." Then the mind rushes, by intaition, upon the truth ; scorns subtle and useless distinctions ; disregards en- tirely the husk, seizes and appropriates the kernel. Emotion in the speaker produces emotion in the hearer. \ You must feel, you must sympathize with him. Your S mind darts, with the speaker's, right through the tex- \ tures which cover up the subject, and grasps the heart ! of it. How deadening are the words of some passion- ' less men ! Lilce a duU mass of inert matter, their life- , less thought stretches across the path of your spirit. *> Different, indeed, are the words of another, to whom ', > has been given some spark of ethereal fire. His words | become to you a law of Hfe. They start your skiggish \ spirit from its dull equilibrium, and its living wheels \ shall thenceforth move whithersoever the spu-it that is | in them moves. Rarely has been found that combina- > tion of quahties necessary to the greatest orator, — ; dignity, enthusiasm, wit, the power of sarcasm, the power of soothing, philosophy which does not despise imagination, imagination w^hich does not spurn the \ restraints of philosophy. \ Such should be the studies of the orator. The great \ orator must be a great man, — a severe student in ^ > broad and deep studies. He must thoroughly know \ his materials, his models, the history of his race, and, 5 most of all, the heart within him. Then shall he have 13 150 AlTr.MN'. power to struggle in the noblest contest — that of mind with mind, — for the noblest object — the weU- beuig of his race. Samuel O. Broirn. AUTUMN. I LOVE the dews of night ; I love the howling wind ; I love to hear the tempests sweep O'er the billows of the deep ! For nature's saddest scenes delight Tlic melancholy mind. Autumn ! I love tliy bower, With faded garlands dressed ; How sweet alone to linger there When tempests ride the midnight air ! To snatch from mirth a fleeting hour. The Sabbatli of the breast ! Autumn ! I love thee well ; Though bleak thy breezes blow ; I love to sec the vapors rise. And clouds roll Avildly round the skies, FRIENDSHIP. 151 Where from the plain the mountaina swell, And foaming torrents flow. Autumn ! thy fading flowers Droop but to bloom again ; So man, though doomed to grief awhile, To hang, on Fortune's fickle smUc, Shall glow in heaven with nobler powers, Nor sigh for peace in vain. JV. A, Haven. FRIENDSHIP. How sweet the tones of Friendship, When borne from heart to heart Upon life's varying breezes, Which joy and grief impart ! They calm dark waves of sorrow Which o'er the bosom roll ; They speak of joy to-morrow, And flowing tears control. Stni purer those emotions, When heart with heart can join In pajing their devotions To Heaven's hallowed shrine ; — l?t)-^^v^^*»^ 8- 152 BEAUTY. -H When faith, our vision brightens, And hope, -with anchor sure, Earth's purest pleasure heightens, And heavenly joys seciue. "When soul with soul aspiring Above these gloomy shades, And eyes with joy admiring That cro\\Ti wliich never fades. AVhat, then, though death should threaten To make us soon his prey, With prospects bright for heaven We'd gladly soar away. Mrs. D. W. Holt, (Jfashua.) BEAUTY. What is beauty ? Do the lonturcs Finely moulded, fair to view, JIake this treasure often so\ight for By the miuiy ? No ! ah, no. M'hnt is beauty ■ Do the tresses Falling o'er the lily ncik, Either of the golden nnbiun, Or the gloBsy raven black, H^ ■W BEAUTY. 153 Form the beauty that is ^vorthy Of our praises and esteem : No ! the heart that -wears them may be Filled with guile, although unseen. What is beauty ? Do the blushes On the lovely maiden's cheek, Vying with the freshest roses, Fomi the beauty we would seek ? No ! the blush of shame it may be. Where, then, does the treasure lie ? Is it in the lip of ruby — Is it in the sparkling eye r Or does art give graceful beauty To the fair and fragile form ; Is it dress that makes the ■wearei Beautiful to look upon ? No ! 'tis foUy thus to seek it. Thus the treasure strive to win ; Nothing outward sure can make it — Beauty lies enshrined within. 'Tis the mind adorned -with graces That contains the magic prize ; If you seek it, there you'll find it. There true, real beauty lies. Caroline, a- 154 BOOKS. BOOKS. Books are the true levellers. They give to all, who nght faith- fully use tlieiii, the society, the spiritual i)resence, of the best and greatest of our race. — Cluiuniiig. In the facility for tlic acqiiisltion and preservation of ' knowledge, the present age excels i\ll others. An- tiquity had its eras of art and refinement, as Egj'ptian monuments plainly demonstrate ; but the press did not then work for their diffusion and perpetuity. "When the ruthless calif Omar burned the Alexandrian li- brary, the world met ■v^•ith a loss, which, thanks to the sons of type, can never bo paralleled, since no book, reflecting the science of past or coming eras, v.\\\ fail to have its multitude of copies. Time was, too, and tliat not long since, •when a sin- gle newspaper sufhccd for tlic demand in America ; while now the name is Legion of those leaves, not \ always for the healing of the nation, which arc scat- \ tercd more widely than those from ancient Sibyls' cav- \ cm, and more carefully consulted by the people than > ever of old was Delphi ornde. None so poor that he | cannot obtain books. Societies for the gratuitous j distribution of the Bible, eolportems of every sort, \ bring knowledge to the very doors of the jjcoplc, and \ ^m BOOKS. 155 almost thrust its records into the hands of the un^vill- ing or slotliful. True, much that is bad finds its utter- ance in tj'pc ; but thus can its hideousness best be made known, since the appropriate labor of sin can only safely be performed in darkness, and truth will ever gain precedence, as, in a fair and equal encounter, virtue and truth need fear no evil. But amid the multiplicity of books, much care as to reading and selection should be observed. And let me, by all means, urge the acquisition of a taste for good reading. I say acquisition, for it is not, as some suppose, innate, though it is the result of an intensely inquiring spirit, more or less the property of every sound mind. But the very alphabet is learned often with many tears, and every noteworthy book requires toil of the brain, which is the hardest of all labor. And here let me say to the young man or woman who i reads these pages, lot your taste be for e/ood reading only. I do not mean theologian lore alone. I wovild recommend a wide and liberal course, which would include all which is truly beautiful in poetry or fiction, but exclude all mere trash and sickly sentimentalism. Read hard books first — those which require think- ing, rather than prove labor-saving machines to prevent its necessity ; those which suggest more even than they i inculcate of thought and truth. ITiere yet floats, ' like scum upon the surface of literature, a large '/ amount of worthless books, fitted only for superficial 156 BOOKS. minds. Let the ephemeral productions of the day pass down the stream to oblivion's ocean ; but drink oiily of the clear, deep •svatcrs of knowledge, which shall be to you the cup of mental life. Read also to examine and discriminate. Most books contain chaff ■\\'ith the wlieat, some even positive e\"il mingled with the good. The truth makes the error with which it stands connected live, and he only Avho possesses discrimination can read much which others should leave untouched. Such a reader only can walk unharmed over the glowing lava of thought which poured from the burning and brilliant genius of By- ron ; can assay the beautiful, because natural poetry of Burns, and reject the dross, while he retains the gold which mingles in liis vein of poetic fancy ; can drink of the si>arkhng, but not always undcfiled fountain of many of our most gifted poets. There should be wisdom shown in the selection of books, and the number to be perused. '* Of making many books there is no end," and rapid and ti'ansicnt enough arc tlie many. A few books, well road, can make one better learned, witli a more cultui'od and refined nund, than a multitude read in a desultory manner, as men con words when they should follow and grasp thouglits. There is a motUal dissipation, as well as physical ; an intoxication of the intellect, as well as the body ; and our moral reformers should not spare the one, wliilc tliey denounce the other. Bad as ■m J BOOKS. 157 is the appetite which rejects hcaltMul viands for the ■wine cup, or closing dainties, the taste which can feed only on the be■\^ildering romance, or licentious French novel, is no less evil ; for ' Woe to the youth, wlien Fancy gains, Winning from Reason's hands the reins." Imaginatioil is not a power to be slighted, but should have a normal development, as the companion and handmaid of reason. | An exact course of reading cannot well be pointed ^ out to the young. Often what would be judicioiis for I one, would be deleterious to another. The matter-of- ^ fact man, to whom the world of imagination seems utterly closed, would do well to balance his tastes by reading tlie noble romances of Scott, the works of nature's great dramatist, Shakspearc, or the glori- l ous imaginings of Milton ; else is he in danger of < becoming hard and calculating, and wiU thus lose all i life's ennobling sentiment — its lofty ideal. But he \ who is naturally enthusiastic shoxdd read history, and attend to the exact sciences, for years, if he would pre- serve sound judgment, entirely refrainiag from the dangerous realm of fancy, the beauteous land of vision, thickly set with its airy castles, peopled with angels, I whose visits, alas ! save in romances, arc to earth " few I and far between." There are some, such as the writings i of Dr. Channing and Macaulay, which are an improve- ■ s 158 BOOKS, ment to every mind. Different as these writers arc, yet each has the reality of life united with grandeur of thought, and beauty of expression. Nor can I speak of reading, and fail to recommend to every youth, nay, every immortal being, the fre- quent perusal of that Book of books, -which has a charm for every eye ; balm for every wound ; solace for every affliction ; aliment for the nurture of every intellectual power. Do men love poetry ? Then let the sublime strains of Isaiah and David, the melan- choly breathings of Jeremiah, or that liigWy-wrought poem of Job, profitably gratify their longings. Do they seek the calm, clear stream of pliilosophy ? Here- in is the highest and the wisest, its commonplaces more glorious and conformable to human experience and aspiration, than teachings of Socrates or Plato. Does eloquence charm ? Here are the words of him who spake .is never man spake, the addresses of one before wliom goveniors trembled, and kiiigs were almost persuaded to become Christians. Above all, do men search for truth as for hid treasures ? The Bible is its inexhaustible fountain, and they who drink thereat arc iilone truly wise, because aviso unto sal- vation. Pursue, then, a judicious coxirsc of reading, of wliich the Bible is tlie basis. The \iniversal world is but a mirror of the world within. Attend, then, to the mind — the development of tlie intellectual and spiritual BOOKS. 1.39 nature. "While to the impure, all is j^oor and vile, he ■who hath enlarged the domain of thought, -whose mind is a kuigdom, he can trace God's handwriting in nature's great book, -with glorious lessons on its every page. He communes with Natui-e, for science and poetiy have taught him her language. The stars to hiin are not shining dust, but worlds of light and life. Life is not petty to him, for grand aud noble thoughts sweep the chords of his heart, till they sound forth in strains of harmony. He is never alone. Shakspeare, and Channing, and Milton, are his companions. He is not long weary, for Dickens and Scott charm his fatigue away; never hopelessly sad, for prophet, evangelist, and his Savior teach him the uses of disciplinary events, and make him rejoice when chastened ; his friends undying and unchangmg — never negligent or absent ; for from his book-shelves they come at his bidding, and give utterance to those glorious thoughts which have, and must ever move the literary world. Ji B. Fuller, (Manchester.') / J 160 TUEY TELL ME, LOVE. IS THEY TELL ME, LOVE. They tell mc, love, that heavenly form Was fashioned in an earthly mould ; That once each limb and feature warm Was lifelesri clay, and cold. And the old nurse, in prating mood, Vows she beheld thy babyhood. But vain the specious -web, and frail ; My heart can a\cuvc a truer tale. They lured a radiant angel down. And clipped its glorious wings away ; They bound its form in stays and gown, And taught It here to stay, But cavth nor art could e'er efface Its Rngol form, its hoavonly grace, And wouldst thou deign to linger licro, And tread with mc this mortal earth, A gioup of charming cherubs, dear, Might choor our hiimblc hcorth. And each would bo — nay, do not lau^^li Angel and moj-tal, half and half; And every pretty dear, when vexed, AVould cry one hour, and sing tlie next. VN/Vv* •^ % THE PHANTOM FISHERMAN. 161 But O, I greatly fear, my love, That eai-thly joys would all be vain ; That longing much for things above, The plumes would grow again ; And so you might, some pleasant day, Take to your wings and flee away ; I shall be sorry, if you do. But, dearest — take the children too ! Horatio Hale. THE PHANTOM FISHERMAN. A PHANTOM ! a spu-it ! hast heard of one, Restless on earth — in the air — or the sky, Weai-ily wandering under the sun. Close where the waves of the Merrimack run ? I tell thee, go watch, ere night passes by, 'Tis an ancient ghost, whose task is ne'er done, A quaint wight tells, and like this 'tis begun : — All haggard, and weary, and Avan, and old. On a shelving rock the fisherman sat ; His coat was brief as a tale that is told ; His grief-stricken nose, once jolly and bold. Now sadly stuck out from a rimless hat — 14 * 162 THE PHANTOM PISHEKMAN'. Often he sneezed, like a man ANith a cold, "While the damp river mist over him rolled. Curling and sj^arkling so brightly, so red, There blazed a fire on the pebbly shore. Fishing and Avishing, and nodding his head, Watching for eels in the old river's bed. There he sat, and sat, till midnight was o'er, Patiently heaving the line and the lead. Patiently watcliing the hook where it sped. Xow half a tear, and the sound of a sigh, Escape on the air so heavy and damp. As he turns his gaze on the cloudy sky, Or lists to the wind in the branches nigh. Or stirs up the fire of his waning lamp "With a limb of pine or a pitch-knot dry, — So sat the old man till morning drew nigh. The Avatcr splashed over his half-bare feet, And merrily laughed at liis bootless toil, Till Manchester spires were seen, through the sleet, Plainly to wink at the fisher's defeat, As slowly, at first, in the sandy soil, He seemed to commence an unwilling retreat, liikc one half forced to give it up beat. Over hill, o'er dale, till, coming to where Piscataquog meets the Merrimack's wave, i THE scholar's DEATH. 163 He entered a shadowy cabin there ; Warily stepping, with caution and care, As though caution and care himself would save, He uttered nor word, nor oath, nor prayer. But vanished at once in the thin, thin air. Haunting the shores of the ISIerrimack still. The ghost of a fisherman, slow and sad, Wishing in vain to drive off, at his will, The uj)roar and din — the noise of the mUl — Walks, as of yore, when, a young lazy lad, He asked for no work but his net to fiU, No rest but sleep in the shade of the hill. E. THE SCHOLAR'S DEATH The scholar's brilliant light is dim. And on his brow death's signet set ; O, many an eye that welcomed him. With sorrow's burnmgtear is wet ! His was a noble heart and true, — His was the strong and gifted mind ; And fame and love around him thi-ew Their wreaths, with choicest flowers entwined. id- 164 LITERATURE. His mind lay, like a gem, within A fretted and a slender frame, Which oft it buoyed to health again. Unknowing whence the healing came. The jewel through the casket frail Shone with a clear and perfect ray, As if its light would never pale Before e'en death's triumphant sway. He wore away ; no lovelier clime, With fairy scenes and gentle breeze, — The grandeur of the ocean chime, — Italia's skies nor India's seas, — Not these could brace his wa.sting frame, — Nor home, with all its memories dear : But cabnly, when the summons came, His soul soared to a brighter sphere. J. II. Warland. LITE II A T U R E . I FEEL awkward at attempting to touch any tiling literary. Not merely that I make chimsy work, but because I feel doubtful as to tlic utility of promoting the cultivulion of mere letters. For what is literature, but the luxury of words and periods ? What is tlie \ g- LITERATUKE. 16'3 use of it ? It has nothing of the power of unlettered I talk, or iUiterato ■writiufi' — if such there may be. It j engenders only an artificial language, that nobody ) talks, or can talk, except those fictitious creatures, the ? scholai-s — and they, only -when they arc not in car- l nest, Allien they arc learned, Put them to their neces- \ sities, and they 'forget their book style — their eom- 5 pound words and their constructed periods — and have to talk off jiiat like any body. Literature is a mere accomplishment, intended to be displayed only by the idle. It is like the parlor furniture, to be used — if it < can be called ttse — only by company. It is but ped- > antry, in its best estate. True, strong, human think- \ ing don't want it, and can't make use of it if it happen I to possess it. It has, in fact, to get rid of it before it \ can make the natural and necessary use of speech. > Human speech is of ahnighty power, almost, when \ unalloyed by learning. And yet the strong-minded, 5 unlettered man, bows reverently before the helpless > scholar. It is a grand mistake. This literature pro- ' duces nothing for humanity. It originates nothing, \ improves nothing, invents nothing, discovers nothing. \ It talks hard words about the labor of others, and is J reckoned higher and more meritorious for it than '> genius and labor are for achieving what learning can S ovlv descant upon. Learning trades on the capital of \ unlettered mind. It struts in solemn plumage, and it > is mere plumage. A learned man resembles an owl, 166 LITERATURE. ill more respects than matter of wisdom. Like that solemn bird, he is about all feathers. , Books, and their -writers — of what consequence to \ i humanity are either of them r They arc but copies, > and resemblances of copies, when we might be gaz- \ ing on originals. "Works — whole Alexandrian Ubra- > ries of them — what arc they good for ? Common \ sense esteems them as stubble. They arc food for no- | body but the moth, and his fellow-student, the book- \ worm. Some old invader burnt up ever so many of | / them, in a famous library, long ago, I believe in Egyjit. They call him a Vandal, or some such rude name, for it. But he might have been a very clever barbarian, for all that. I -wish he had burnt nothing more valuable, viz., human abodes and cultivated fields. I would not care if there should be a bonfire of all the learned libraries, especially the divinity, — and that would burn like tinder, most of it. Humanity wants precious few books to read, but the great, living, breathing, immortal, and glorious volume of Providence. " The proper study of mankind " — that this is " man," and God's other Avorks, is not mere poetry. There is truth in it — life — real life ; liow to live, how to treat one another, and hoAV to trust God in matters beyond our ken and occasion. These arc the lessons to learn, and you can find nothing about them in the libraries. I would add a word more for our literature, but toil-worn nnti-slnvery can have little THE TWO MAIDENS. 167 leisxire or fancy for literature while a sixth of the coun- try welters in brute slavery, and the mass of the other five sixths in heartless indifferency, or religious rage, at the feeble attempts making for its disenthralment. Literature shows, on such a country, like the marble gleams on a whited sepulchre, or like finery on a har- lot, — and the gaudier it is, the more painfully unbe- coming. JV. P. Rogers. THE TWO MAIDENS. One came with light and laughing air. And cheek like open blossom ; Bright gems were twined around her haii-. And glittered on her bosom ; And pearls and costly diamonds deck Her round, white arms and lovely neck. Like summer's sky, with stars bedight, The jewelled robe aroiind her, And dazzling as the noontide light The radiant zone that bound her, — And pride and joy were in her eye, And mortals bowed as she passed by. 168 STANZA.S. m Another came — o'er her sweet face A pensive shade was stealing ; Yet there no grief of earth v,e trace, But the heaven-hallo-vved feelin"- Which mourns tlic heart should ever stray From the pure fount of truth away. Around her brow, as snow-drop fair. The glossy tresses cluster, Nor i^earl nor ornament was tlicre. Have the meek spiiifs lustre ; And faith and hope beamed in her eye, And angels bowed as she passed by. Sarah Josepha Hale S T A N Z A S . All, sister, do not think mc sad, That thou hast foiuid me weeping j For (), the spinl's dream is |;lad. In light and beauty sleeping. O, many a brow wirh llowers is wreatlicd, And many a smile is gay, That knows )iot luiU' the blessedness Whieli (ills tliis heart to-day. A < TO A BRIDE, 169 I For, sister, from the home above, A dream, a dream of heaven, Its light and life, its peace and love, To this full heart is given. From many a scene, in -worlds like this. The smile of mirth may glow, Bnt 'tis the -weight of perfect bliss That causeth tears to flo-w. Sweet sister, I have foimd a charm. Than Circe's more prevailing ; It giveth e'en the storm a calm, And strength when hope is failing. And dost thou ask the secret chaim ? "NVouldst try its magic speU ? It is the deathless trust in Him Who doeth all things well. • lone' TO A BRIDE. Blessings attend thee ! May's thou ne'er Be called to shed the sorrowing tear. Nor ever mourn 15 170 TO A BRIDE. O'er youth's sweet hopes, too bright to last, O'er morning dreams, fled quickly past, O'er fond heaits torn. May thy pure spirit never grieve O'er hopes that flatter to deceive — A heartless form ; But may thy heart's star burn stUl true, And safely guide thy spirit through Each Avintry storm. Be happy ! Tliough dark hours may come, Yet ever, through the misty gloom, You still may see Hope's radiant finger pointing high To a bright liome beyond the sky — A rest for thee. Be happy ! Though misfortunes lower, Let no dark cloud thy mind e'er sour, But every day Greet thy loved partner A\-ith a smile, And with fond words of hope beguile The weary way. Hannah M. Bryant, {Manchesttr.) -H BEAUTY OF LIGHT. 171 BEAUTY OF LIGHT. Beautiful to the believer is every work of Nature. \ To him there is a loveliness and meaning in the hiim- blest herb, and smallest insect ; and he knows that, i whenever beauty meets the eye, then should instruc- j tion go to the heart. < But the object which more than all others combines < both beauty and instruction, is light. Beautiful is I light when it shines from the dazzling sun, and beau- '/ tiful when it beams from the milder moon ; beautiful I when it flashes from some dark thunder- cloud, and | beautiful when it twinkles from myriads of evening ; stars. Beatitiful is it Avhen concentred in noonday j clouds, and beautiful when, with scarlet and purple, it | curtains the sunset sky. Beautiful is it in the north, I when its varying colors stream upward in the borealis ; j and beautiful in the south, when it reddens the mid- > night sky from seas of prairie fire. > Beautiful is light when it crests the ocean billow, ! and beautiful ^hen it dances on the rippling stream- \ let ; beautiful when it lies like a silvery robe on the \ placid lake, and beautiful when it turns the foaming ! surge to fretted gold. Beautiful is light when it flashes ; ' 172 BEAUTY OF LIGHT. ■ from the maiden's eye, and beautiful when it sparkles from the diamond on her hand. Beautiful are the varjing hues of light, as they flit and change on the -water-bubble, and beautiful are they ■when marshalled in the rainbow. Beautiful is the light J "VN'hich gUstens from miUions of points and pinnacles in J arctic glaciers, and beautiful when it rests like a glo- < rious crown on Alpine mountains ; and beautiful also [ is light, when it breaks through forest boughs, and holds Avild play with the flitting shadow. \ Beautiful are the coriiscations of light in the labora- \ torv of the chemist, and beautiful is the fireside light ;; when friends around it meet in that dearest of all / earth's cherished spots, in " home, sweet home." \ ' Beautiful is light to the poor man, Avhen it comes ] I through the little lattice to brighten his humble cot, I and beautiful to the prince, when it streams tlurough / gilded casements to illuminate his palace. \ Beautiful is the light of morn to the Persian wor- \ shii^pcr, and beautiful is it after the night-storm to the ^ shipwrecked mariner. Beautiful is it to the cliild of \ guilt or affliction, to whom the night can bring no quiet I rest ; and beautiful, after their undisturbed sleep, is it •, to all beasts, birds, and insects, whose morning voices > unite in one loud thanksgiving for the light. Beautiful is light to the dungeon prisoner, wlieu, < after years of darkened life, he stands beneath the } sun's glnd beams ; and beautiful is it to the invalid, \ EVENTIDE. 173 ^ •\vheii from the couch of sickness he emerges into the I bright ocean above and around liim, and from the > depths of his grateful heart he blesses God for the | Ught. > Beautiful also is light to the timid child, when, after I awaking in darkness, his screams of terror have brought i some taper, and, as though he knew that his guardian <. angel had come to watch his slumbers, he lays his I cheek upon his little hand, even shuts his eye upon > the wished-for object, and sweetly sleeps — for it is > light. I Beautiful is light when it paints the tulip with gold, \ the rose with crimson, and the grass-grown earth with ' living green. Yes, beautiful is every light of morn, of ', eve, of midnight, and of noon ; and grateful for all [ beauty should we be to Him who is the " Father of 5 lights." Harriet Farley. EVENTIDE. The golden gleams Of sunset beams Have bathed the crest of the solemn mount With floods of fire from their heavenly fount, 11- •---'-'gl 174 EVENTIDE. And the dying day, vdth. its fading light, Casts lingering smiles on tlic i'ace of night, The tempest's spire Is tipt with hre And the lambent rays, like an angel's smile. Gild o'er the hallowing, sacred pile. And fading away on its arching dome, Dii'ects above to the spirit's home. The ocean light Blends with the night. As, mirroring back from the dceiiening blue, Each starry gem comes forth to view, And a choral song from the sounding deep Is sweetly murmured to the Maker's seat. The day is gone — Night trembles on To where its last fleet moments ending, In stilly darkness fast descending ; And flitting ghosts ascend the mountain high, To list the music of the stai-ry sky. J. W. p., (Manchester.) .ijr- NEW ENGLAND. 175 NEW ENGLAND. New England, land of liberty, The patriot's pride, the freeman's boast; Thy hills are strong, thy breezes free. And heaven has blessed thy sea- washed coast. Thy sons are greatest of the great. Thy daughters fairest of the fair ; Thy name is known in foreign state, Thy valor proved in freedom's war. Thy commerce whitens every sea, Thy flag waves proudly on the main ; Earth's trampled sons may come to thee In time of need, nor come in vain. Proud, happy land, my native place, Thy record is a brilliant story ; Already hast thou won the race Of nations in the stride for glory. J. M. Fletcher. f. -SI IS' 176 THE VALLEY CEMETERY. .1«1 THE VALLEY CEMETERY. 5 Ye soft sighing zephyrs through foliage and vine ! Ye eeholess tramps from the footsteps of time ! Break not o'er the silence, unless thou dost bear A message from Heaven — " no partings are there. Here gloom hath enchantment in beaxity's array, While whispering voices are calling away — Their wooings are soft as the vision more vain — I would live in their empire, or die in their chain. Here slecpeth, 'mid unfading flowers, tlie dead — Flowers fresh as the pang in the bosom that bled ; Yea, constant as love which outlivcth the grave, That time cannot quench in oblivion's wave. Mourn on, gentle cypress, in evergreen tears, I love thy fidelity, so changeless through years ; The heart hath a flower — hope's blossom above, Reared fail- in tlie realms of Goodness and Love. Ambition, come hitlicr ; tlicsc vaults will unfold The se(iucl of power, of glory, or gold ; Then rush into life, and roll on with its tide, And bustle and toil for its ponij) and its pride. MYSTERY, REASON, FAITH. 177 The spirit wings flitting through the far crimson glow. Which steepeth the trees, -when the day-god is low ; The voice of the night-bird must here send a tluill To the heart of the leaves, when the w'inds are still. J 'Mid graves do I hear them — they rise and they swell, > I A.J, call back my spirit with seraphs to dwell ; ? They come with a breath from the fresh spring time, < And waken my youth, as in earliest prime. ] ) Bright spirits departed ! Ye echoes at dawn ! ' O, tell to which radiant now they are gone ! s And I'll gaze on its luminous track tLU I see > Tioo loved ones in glory bright beaming o'er mc. \ Mrs. Mary M. Olover. MYSTERY, REASON, FAITH. XiGHT comes down over a ship at sea, and a passen- ger lingers hour after hour alone on the deck. The waters plunge and welter, and glide away beneath the keel. Above, the sails tower up in the darkness almost to the sky, and then- shadow falls as it were a burden on the deck below. In the clouded night no star is to be seen ; and as the ship changes her course, the passenger knows not which way is east or west, or } 178 MYSTERY, KEASON, FAITH. I north or south — what islands, what sunken rocks may \ be on her course ; or what that coiirse is or where they \ are, he knows not. All around, to him, is Mystery. \ He bows do"vv^^ in the submission of utter ignorance. { But men of science have read the laws of the sky. | And the next day this passenger beholds the captain \ looking at a clock and taking note of the place of the ' sun, and with the aid of a couple of books, composed ? of rules and mathematical tables, making calculations. \ And when he has completed them, he is able to point > abnost within a hand's breadth to the place at which, | after unutimbcrcd windings, he has arrived in the midst > of the seas. Storms may have beat and currents \ drifted, iDut he knows where they arc, and the precise point where, a hundred leagues over the Avaters, lies his native shore. Here is Reason, appreciating and ^ making use of the revelations (if we may so call them) \ of science. \ Night again shuts down over the waste of waves, ) and the passenger beholds a single seaman stand at the \ wheel and watch, hour after hour, as it vibrates beneath > a lamp, a Uttlc needle, which points ever, as if it were a living linger, to the steady pole. This man knows nothing of the rules of navigation, nothing of the courses of the sky. But reason and { experience have given him Fnitk in the commanding ofliccr of the ship — fnitli in the laws that control her course. — faith in the unerring integrity of the little in- STANZAS. 179 \ guide before him. And so, without a single doubt, he steers his ship on, according to a prescribed direction, through night and the waves. And that faith is not disajjpointed. With the morning sun, he beholds far away the summits of the gray and misty highlands, rising like a cloud on the horizon ; and as he ncars them, the hills appear, and the lighthouse at the en- trance of the harbor, and — sight of joy ! — tlic spires of the churches and the shining roofs, among which he strives to detect his own. Mystery — Reason — Faith ; — mystery is the low- est, faith is the highest, of the three. Reason has done but half its office till it has resulted in faith. Reason looks before and after. It not only ponders the past, but becomes prophetic of the future. Ephraim Peabody. STANZAS. Deep in the caverns of the soul, In solitude long hidden. Are thoughts which many weary years The light have been forbidden. ( 180 STANZAS. Too precious for the idle gaze. They slept in quiet slumbers, But tempests on life's changing -wave Have waked the poet's numbers. Like beacons 'mid the darksome night These gems of mind are sliining, Still luring heavenward earth-bound souls, A.nd kindly hopes entwining. O, it is well, when earth recedes. The spirit-home seems nearest. And suffering's shock but wakes the strain, Of all heart-strains the dearest. The guardian angel oft may come In sorrow's strange disguise, To waken dormant energies. And ripen for the skies. Tlicn bow we meekly to the rod, — Not from the dust it springcth, — And holy, heavenly is the spell Wliich o'or our souls it flingetli. //. a: L., {CiiiKlin.) THE LOVELY DEAD. 181 THE LOVELY DEAD. As vanishes the sunset light, As fade a-way the clouds of night, So flees the breath, When called by death, Of those too fail- to dwell, Whose praises strangers cannot tell. How can with grief the bosom swell, HoAV can dark sorrow's sadd'ning spell Come o'er the heai't. When friends depart. Whose virtues shine with rainbow glow, — Whose proper sphere is not below ! The lovely live, how brief an horn- ! They leave to dwell with Sovereign Power ! They will not here Again appear; Yet earth retains a charm, a grace. From their late presence, on its face ! With holier food no soul is fed Than mcmorv of sainted dead ! 16 < 182 -m DREAM OF THE INDIAN PROPHET. A lofty tower Of mighty power, The meni'ry of the dead doth rise, To join the earth unto the skies ! J. R. Dodge, {Jfashua.) DREAM OF THE INDIAN PROPHET. "Waiirior, I dreamt a dream last night. For I slept by the wizard-tree ; And the shades of the dead stood round my licad. That my spirit froze to sec. And the sounds I heard from earth and flood, Great Cliief, would have chilled tliy hot war-blood. I saw tall barks on the ocean ride — Heard tlieir keels on the billows roar ; And their sails, spread liigh in the stormy sky. Looked down on the red man's shore. They thundered loud from their licry sides. And their flakes sank dcej) in the Indian tides. Strange voices rose fi"om tlicir thronging decks. As descend tlieir glittering crews ; DREAM OF THE INDIAN PROPHET. 183 And the -warrior leaped from the grove where he slept, At the sound of their dark canoes. He shook the folds of his icy shi-oud, And shouted the war-whoop long and loud ! They bore a banner, and said 'twas God's, And they bent to its folds the knee, And they sang a song, as they planted it strong, Along by the foaming sea ; And bright in the breeze, as it danced about, A Cross from the midst of its folds shone out ! They smote their shields with theii" naked blades, And the din rang far and wide — " Wc come -with the sword, in the name of the Lord And the Holy Cross," they cried ; And the eagle screamed from his eyry near. As he caught the flash of the Christian spear. They swept o'er the land with fire and steel, And the forest they purged away, And the she-wolf fled, at then- noisy tread, From the cave where her young cubs lay. The oak in its prime to the earth was cast. Where the feet of the fearless stranger passed. I beheld thy cliiefs in darkness weep O'er their doom, in that frightful dream ; For their champions slain encumbered the plain — ■ Their blood empurpled the stream ; 184 THE USES OF soaRow. And the jackal stole from his secret ceU, And licked the grass where the warriors fell ! Then a sj^irit came on rushing ^^■ings, And his buckler was bent and red ; And his wail arose, at the dim day's close, And bemoaned thy children dead. But the spoiler sped like a torrent past, And stood by the uttermost sea at last. I saw far into the vale of years — But quenched was the bm-ning brand, And the last sad trace of thy warrior race Had gone to the foclcss land ; And the pennons of God glanced far and free, O'er the vine-clad earth and the still, blue sea. J. Q..J3. tVood, (Orford.) THE USES OF SORROW. " Sweet ail- llio uses of adversity ; WJiiih, lilu' the toad, ugly and vemmioiis, Wears yet a precious jewel in Ills lioad." Tjiehe is nothing without its use. Even tlic perplex- ities and trials of life have their advantage. Sorrow USES OF SORROAV. 18-5 has its use, in making us know ourselves. We are sadly ignorant of ourselves until sorrow comes. Our hearts are a labyrinth ; there are chambers in them which have never been explored, and winding passages which have never echoed to a footfall. There are liidden recesses which have never been visited by an inquiring thought ; there are depths which have never been sounded, which never can be sounded but by the line of sorrow. We think better of ourselves than we ought ; but adversity brings us to oui- senses ; it introduces us to self ; it is oiir schoolmaster ; it comes with a rod, compelling us to study our own lesson, and let our neighbor's alone. The lesson it indicates, is found on the page of our own life — in the book of our own heart. How many men have never thought of studying themselves until they were tried ! Confine a man with sickness. Close the grave over one he loves. Wring the blood out of his heart by the ingratitude of his child. Crucify him with calumny. Bare his head to the storm, and let Iris name be defenceless against the barbed shafts of envy and slander ; and if his soiil be left, he -N^iU begin to thinlt ! Who knows the strength of his attachments, until the approach of misfortune ? The love we cherish for our friends ; who appreciates it, before it passes this ordeal ? Who comprehends his affections, while they flow quietly and evenly out toward their centre ? Love does not know 186 rsES OF soRiiow. itself, until its form is glassed in the -wave of sorrow. It must be put upon the rack ; it must be bound to the burning, fiery Avheel of anguish, ere its greatness and ardor are revealed. Our affections, like flowers, must be crushed, ere they will emit their sweetest fragrance. In eastern climes, where the skies arc cloudless, the flo^^■ers are rich in tints and gorgeous dyes, but nearly colorless. It is only in the clouds and mists of a weeping atmosphere like our own, that they are rich in aroma. So the affections never yield their- choicest fragrance until the cloud comes, and they ai'O wet with the rain of sorrow. The sunshine may disclose their beauty, but only the storm can discover thcii- strength. So, also, knowledge of ourselves in other respects, of our virtues and Alices, is imparted to us through the medium of suffering. It is when the great deep of the soul is disturbed and broken up ; when its waters oi-e tossed by the storm, that the pcail and the weed are alike thro^vn to the surface, and cast upon the shore. s Another use of sorrow is that it excites symjiathy J for others. Many a man can trace the commencement \ of the pity he feels for the sad, to some event trying to himself. M'hen my friend died, or some other trial blinded my eyes with tciu's, I experienced a change in my feelings towards others. "NVhen the billows of grief swept over your soul, the retii-ing wave left upon the shore this precious gem. Our sJ^npathY is a Thetis USES OF SOKROW. 187 \ j bone of a sea. He, whose life has been all serene, \ I whose years have passed like the quiet flow of a bean- | I tiful river, knows not the depth and dregs of the cup \ > sorrow offers to men. He does not understand the j < bitterness of the Asphaltic draught. He cannot truly \ > commiserate others until himself has suffered. It is { I true, the hand of adversity " is cold and hard, but it is I the hand of a friend." Its voice is not lyrical and i sweet, but it is the voice of an angel. It compensates J for the pain it inflicts by the knowledge it imparts. i Its influence is such as often to make disaster better ^ than success. ******* ^ By -Rise improvement of them, then, let afilictions I be converted into blessings. O mortal ! Study to ? know their design! Let them make thee wiser and I better ! Derive strength from them, for they conflict ,; with evil ! " And thence, with constant prayers, Fasten your souls so high, that constantly The smile of your heroic cheer may float Above all floods of earthly agonies, Purification being the joy of pain.'' Henry Steele Clarke, (Manchister.') 188 MT childhood's home. MY CHILDHOOD'S HOME. My childhood's home ! 'Tis Avhero mountains blue Are girding it round, like they loved it too, On the shore of a lake, that gloriously lies Like a jewel of God's just dropped from the skies. For that lake-side fair, in youth's early hours, I've left all I loved, my birds and my flowers, And wandered alone by its winding shore, Where I dreamed the dreams I can di'cam no more. Not always alone. There were loved ones near-. Bright spirits of home, to bless and to cheer. Bright idols, adored ! (), how have ye flo^\^l, And darkened the light of our eai-ly home ! On tlic western verge of our ovn\ fair land \ Is one from among our household band, ] Who long ago sought, on Avild Oregon's sliorc, A home wliere his heart might be weary no more. But I turn my eyes to the southern plain. And my soul is athu'st for a flight again : A sjnrit of home is there lowly laid, 'Neath the myrtle and orange bloom shade. i MY childhood's HOME. 189 The fire of liis heart and light of his eye Too early were quenched — but the beautiful die ! And fi-om the red field of his glorious death, A brave soul passed with his parting breath. Tears for the loA^ed one, thou youthful and brave ! Tears for thy early, sad stranger-made grave ! ^ly home, O, it cannot be near to thee now — Colder than mi7ie is the hand on thy brow. Shall I turn again to the home I left ? 'Tis lonely there, for its bright things are reft ! Yet sadly I go, my eyes full with tears. And my soul with the memories of happier years. One fair little girl, in the years gone by. Faded from life, and was laid down to die ; And another, all full of youth's beauty and pride. With the last falUng leaves was laid by her side. 'Neath the willow-trees, by a gliding stream. Are resting the two in their wakeless dream ; The breeze is more soft, and the water's flow Is more gentle there where the loved lie low. One fail- one is left — O, she's very fair, With deeply blue eyes and glorious hair ; With a heart so warm, and a soul so true. That beams from the face it glads one to view. 190 Tilt AVHITE MOUNTAINS. The bloom on licr check — 'tis fatally red, And must thou, my own, lie do%\'n with the dead r Last spLi-it of home, O, linger yet near. All going — all gone ; my home is not here. From all tliat I've loved, thus early passed by, I turn mc away to yon holy slcy. On the weary clouds that so gracefully curl, A car shall be made of their azure and pearl. All slowly and soft, to a pale, pale star, \ Where my o-\\n in love and the beautiful are, \ I'll go to a home all fairer than this — l Bright star of my dreams, thou'st no waking from I bUss ! { Julia ^. ^. Sargeant. > THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. I GAZED upon llu' mountain's top, That pierced in twain the passing cloud, And wondered at its giant form. So dark, magnificent, mul proud. Can this strong mountain from its base lie shaken h\ tlic tempest's shock? -SI I MONADNOCK. 191 Can all the gathered thunders stir This everlasting, solid rock ? And scatter forth its dust like haU r And fling its fragments on the air ? Can aught created wield such strength ? Exists such power ? — O, teU m'b where? They may remove ; tliese mountains may Tremble, and hence forever pass ; These hills, that pillar up the skies, Perish, as doth the new-mown grass. Yea, saith the I^ord, they shall depart, The hills, and all the solid land ; But my sure word of truth remains, My promise shall forever stand. William B. Tappan. MONADNOCK, Upon the far-off mountain's brow The angry storm has ceased to beat, And broken clouds are gathering now, In lowlv reverence roiuid liis feet. l 192 MONADNOCK, i I saw their dark and crowded banks On his firm head in wrath descending, But there once more redeemed he stands, And heaven's clear arch is o'er him bendins. I've seen him when the rising sun Shone like a watch-fire on the height, I've seen him when the day was done, Bathed in the evening's crimson light ; I've seen liim in the midnight hour, AVhen all around were cabnly sleeping, Like some lone sentry in his tower, His patient watch in silence keeping. And there, as ever, steep and clpar, That pyramid of Nature springs ! He owns no rival turret near, No sovereign, but the King of kings. While many a nation hath passed by. And many an age, unknown in story, His walls and battlements on high He rears, in melancholy glory. And let a world of human pride, With all its grandeur, melt away, And spread around his rocky side The broken fragments of decay. Serene liis hoary liead will tower, Untroubled by one tliought of sorrow ; A BllEAM OF AMBITION. 193 He numbers not the weary hour, He -n-elcomes not nor fears to-morrow. Farewell ! I go my distant way ; Perhaps, not far in future years, The eyes that glow with smiles to-day. May gaze upon thee, dim with tears. Then let me learn from thee to rise, All time and chance and change defying ; Still pointing upward to the skies, And on the inward strength relying. If life before my weary eye Grows fearful as the angry sea. Thy memory shall suppress the sigh For that which never more can be. Inspiring all ■within the heart With firm resolve and strong endeavor, To act a brave and faithful part. Till life's short warfare ends forever. miUam B. 0. Peabody. A DREAM OF AMBITION. Methotjght I stood within a quiet vale, that stretched in beauty far away beneath a deep blue east- em sky, where dwelt a matron with three lovely 17 194 A. DKEAM OF AMBITION. daughters. Till now they had lived in qiiiet joy, and peace had filled theu- humble dwelling. But at length the mother died ; and in dying, left to her orphan children the richest of aU eartlxly gifts — a mother's blessing. Long the maidens sorrowed, but time brought a solace to their woes, and when the sjiri^g winds swept the valley green, each heart grew strong and calm. But the scene had changed. A mother's love no longer bound their spirits' Aving, and now the elder and the younger rose, and left the quiet vale, to struggle with the living tide. The elder, with a gleaming eye and spirit wild, sought out the busy world ; and in the crowded city she strove to win a name. Earnestly and patiently, step by step, she rose, till at length, basking in the light of royalty, she sat, a " queen enthroned " beside the proudest monarch of the earth. But she stopped not here. The whisperings of Am- bition could not be hushed, and she lent a willing car, till maddest schemes had filled her heart. With steady hand she povircd for her kin-- tlio fatal draught, and when death had stilled the " life-iloik," she turned haughtily away, for she was then sole mistress of his mighty realm. Secure in queenly state, no threatening arm coidd curb her fiery passions, till her once fair hands were drenched in her country's noblest blood, — till its fruitfid fields became a barren waste, and its purest rills were staim-d with gore. But a yoxith, I A DREAM OF AMBITIOX. 195 •whose proud spirit chafed like a wounded lion beneath the yoke, in a maddened moment struck his dagger to her heart, and freed his country from oppression. My vision changed. Once more I stood within the bosom of that far, sweet vale ; and when I had seen the meek spirit of the mother bid farewell to earth, I was doomed to gaze upon the dying struggles of her second daughter. There had she lived in the quiet of her 0A\ni heart's home, and there with a poet's art had she drank from its be-\\ildering fountains. There skil- fully had she drawn pictiu-es of the sorrows of Ufe, and there had she written of the deep blue sky, the gliding rivers, and the dark, green groves of her own native vale. Ilcr fame went abroad ; her praises dwelt on the lips of kings and princes ; and men loved her for her genius. But Ambition was in her heart ; and when came the angel of death, he found her spirit all unpre- pared for its heavenward flight. Her banner, once waving high, now drooped upon its staff, for upon it rested not the blessing of God, Again my vision changed ; and I saw the younger sister He doAvn among the dark sons of Afr-ica, peace- > ivJly as the tired dove would close its wearied pinions, | Ere she left her native vale she had wandered to the \ feet of Jesus, and, kneeling there, the Holy One had i laid his hands in blessing upon her pure, white broAV. \ With this spirit went she forth upon the sands of dis- { tant climes, to win with love the rude barbarian heart. ! 196 THE YOUNG BRIDE. Around her gathered oft in prayer those dark, be- nighted children, and, as they lifted their dusky brows, their hiunblcd mien and earnest eye besjDoke the awakened soul within. And when her peaceful spirit took its flight, those savage men bowed low, and scald- ing tears fell from checks ne'er wet before but from the fountain spray. She sought not fame of earth, but her story, " Written in light on Alla's head. By seraph's eyes shall long be read ; " while her silken banner, pure and stainless as the robe of Jehovah's self, floats ever in the breeze on distant shore. The vision passed from my view, " but the thoughts it awoke are too deeii to pass by," and oft in after years did I bless my God that the Dream of Ambition had wrought good in my heart. Kate Clarence. THE YOUNG BRIDE. She stood like an nngcl just wandered from heaven, A pilgrim benighted away from the skies, And little we deemed that to mortals were given Such visions of beauty as came from her eyes. Sh- THE heart's guests. 19? '. She looked up and smiled on the many glad faces, The friends of her cliildhood, -who stood by her side, But she shone o'er them all, like a queen of the Graces, When, blushing, she -whisjoered the oath of a bride. We sang an old song, as -with garlands we cro-vvned her, And each left a kiss on her beautiful brow. And we prayed that a blessing might ever suiTound her. And the future of life be unclouded as now. J. T. Fields. THE HEART'S GUESTS. When age has cast its shadows O'er life's declining way. When evening twilight gathers Round our retiring day, — Then shall we sit and ponder On the dim and shado'wy past, In the heart's silent chamber The guests will gather fast. Guests that in youth we cherished Shall come to us once more. And we shall hold communion As in the days of yore. 198 x.'^■->..'s,'^«»J^I TUE UEAUT S GUESTS. They may be dark and sombre, They may be bright and fair, But the heart will have its chamber, The guests Avill gather there. How shall it be, my sisters ? Who shall be our hearts' guests ? How shall it be, my brothers, "When life's shadow on us rests ? Shall we not 'mid the silence Hear voices sweet and low, Speak the old familiar language. The words of long ago r Shall we not see dear faces Sweet smiling, as of old. Till the mists of that lone chamber Arc sunset clouds of gold, When age has cast its shadows O'er life's declining way, And evening twilight gathers Round our retiring day ? Mii. Onte. MUSINGS. 199 MUSINGS. How beautiful to stand by the ocean's side, to look upon its calm blue surface, as -wave after wave leaves tbc sandy shore, and recedes back upon its orbed bo- som. But more glorious it is to gaze into its clear depths, and, tracing the mirrored beauty of the heav- ens, look back upon the ages of the past, which have rolled away since the morning stars first sang together, " Wlien the radiant morn of creation broke. And the world in the smile of God awoke." What mighty reflections crowd in upon the mind ! ; What hidden meanings, what awful teachings, those I flitting clouds and transplendent arch disclose ! Myri- < ads and mvriads of life have entered the sphere of ac- tion, have winged their rapid flight, and passed to silence and to nothingness. Thrones and principali- ties, founded upon the accumulated wrongs of ages, have tottered and fallen 'mid the shouts of their o^ra destroyers. Crowned heads have bowed low. Heroic I legions have perished upon the battle-field, while usurping tjTants have stripped the laurel from their f brow and striven onward in the tide of power. " I*Iar- ble domes and gilded spires " have crvimbled in the 200 MUSINGS. dust. Proud cities lie buried in the lava's flood. Fleets and armaments are rotting in the sounding deeps. But thou, old ocean, 'mid the -wrecks of ages, in rest- less motion keepest, and murmurest forth thy solemn wails on distant shores. " Time writes no wrinkles on thy azure brow ; Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollcst now." In sunshine or in storm, in tumult or in calm, still thou art the same — terrible in thy beauty — ineffably grand and sublime. Ever and anon the winds sweep o'er thy surface, and raise thy crystal billows high, vet again the air is calm, and sweet peace rests upon thy tranquil waters. ***** j^ sacred record, the mind recurs to such a scene as this. 'Twas when the SaAdor and his little band of followers sailed forth upon the deep. Night had closed around them, and Nature had }-ielded to the potent charm of rest. And, as they glided on, a holy stdlncss pervaded the tran- > quil sea, and angel watchers seemed hovering o'er the I peaceful sleepers. But suddenly sounds fall upon the ) ear. Deep thunders peal along the sky. Lightning, / flash upon flash, darts through the heavens. The sea, I before so calm, now rocks in tumultuous commotion. i The surges pile mountain liigh, and threaten each mo- ■^ ment to ingulf the sinking ship nnd the devoted band } together. From dreams terrific they wnke to the terri- I ble realities around. Wild and despairing, tliey gather THE bachelor's SONG. 201 round their much -loved Master. Composed, he marks their trembling forms and visages blanched with ter- ror, and hears the fearfid cry, '< 0, save us ere we per- ish I " calmly. He seeks the spray- washed deck, and surveys the tempestuoiis sea and the warring elements above. What a scene — what a moment was that ! Archangels now might drop theu- lyres and list the tempest's revch-y. He speaks — listen : "Peace, be still," is wafted to the storm-god's farthest habitation. He hears it, and obeys. Instantly the ocean is at rest. The clouds draw off from the brightening heavens, the pale moon peeps from her silvery curtains, and sheds her gentle rays o'er a scene of tranquil beauty. A. M. H., {Manchester.) THE BACHELOR'S SONG. A SINGLE life's the life for me, Bright, sunny isles are there ; I'U dash wide o'er its bounding sea, Nor love nor hate the fair. With fearless heart and manly pride. Against the surging strife. My peaceful bark wiU gallant ride. Untroubled with a -wife. 202 THE bacuelor's song. { Who tamely lets a woman's art His foolish heart intlirall, Will surely learn, too late, alas, That love's a humbug all ! 'Tis all a cheat, a lie, a show, To trap poor silly men — Old maids to Bedlam all may go, And ne'er come back again ! In manhood's prime, 'tis do^niright sin To run such odds for life, 'Mid countless blanks, to only win A useless, worthless wife ; And when, by fate or fortune blest, Which would indeed be worse, The painted, bauble prize, at best, May prove a splendid curse. A wife's a pearl of tempting hue, But stormy waves arc round it. And dearly will a mortid rue The day when first he found it. If all hor locks wcro gloaming gold, Where gems like dew. drops fall, One passing hour of life, frce-soul'd, Were sweetly worth them all. The bird tliut wings the sunny sky, To greet tlic rosy nioru, — . ON A lady's poutrait. 203 The stag that scales the mountain high, When rings the hunter's horn — When he shall seek the crowded jDlains, Or birds their prison-cage, Then I'll be bound in Hymen's chain, To bless a future age. A single life's the life for me, Bright, sunny isles are there ; I'll dash wide o'er its foaming sea. Nor love nor hate the fair. With fearless heart and manly pride. Against the surging strife, My gallant bark will peaceful ride, Untroubled with a wife. F. Ji. A., {Manchester.) ON A LADY'S PORTRAIT. The blissful June of life ! I love to gaze On its sweet wealth of ripening loveliness, And lose the thought that o'er my saddening daj-s Grim care has woven clouds which will depress. In spite of stoic pride and stern resolve, Beauty like this the waste of life redeems ; Round it — their sun — the coldest hearts revolve, "Warmed back to youth, and gladdened by its beams. But, lady ! in that mild, soul -speaking glance, Those lustrous orbs, returning heaven its hue, I greet an earlier friend — forgive the trance ! 'Tis Nature only imaged here so true That, briefly, I forgot the Painter's art. And hailed the presence of a queenly heart. H. OrccUy. LADIES' DRESSES. How many dresses ladies wear — In all of whicli jjride has a share ! The morning dishabille appears, And answers well for household cares , But more complete and full attire Their walks and afternoons require ; To worship the great God of heaven, More rich they dress one day in seven. But when in parties thoy appear, And finer dress they dioose to wear. And when to ball-rooms they advance, NOVEL-READING. 205 And join the lively, giddy dance, More gaudy dress becomes the scene. Where sashes Avavc and spangles gleam. But soon the sprightly hours are past, For pleasures cannot always last ; A cold ensues, and sickness comes, Disorder seats upon the lungs ; A chamber dress is now put on, Nor changed at mom or evening sun ; But mortal sickness soon is o'er — The lady needs but one dress more ! Hosea Ballon. NOVEL-READING. Much novel-reading is bad ; bad both in tendency and result ; positively and conclusively bad, inasmuch \ as it sets forth life and character in a false and delusive <. / light, and unfits the mind for sohd study. But novels, '/ \ it is said, are the works of genius and art, and spring \ \ from a refined and cultivated taste. Be it so ; — yet i^ > is poison less deadly because administered by skilful I ] hands, and perhaps, too, mingled with safe and whole- \ \ some ingredients ? 'Tis said, too, they abound in gen- \ 206 NOVEL-KEADINO. erous and beautiful sentiments — that their style is fas- cinating, and that many truths are inculcated — that lovely and imitable characters are often set forth — that virtue is robed in transcendent purity, and vice in re- voltinj^ blackness — that the one is consigned to infamy, and the other to a glorious renown. "SVould it were so, indeed. Yet the reverse is too often true, where a vicious heroism is exalted, and the sublimest virtues are debased ; where character is set forth, which, to the young and inexperienced, seems stamped with the i impress of heaven, yet, when once stripped of its col- I oring, stands revealed in its naked ghastliness. I Yet, if exclusive novel-reading is bad, may it not J sometimes aftbrd relief to the mind and relax the in- , tellectual system ? True, the overburdened mind needs ; rest ; but, from the multiplicity of books Anth which our I age abounds, cannot enough be found ^Wthout rcsort- I ing to those of doubtful tendency ■ AVliat though the 5 style be charming, and its channel inlaid \\ith glitter- 5 ing pearls ? In this short life, were not time unprofit- ably spent, nay, worse than wasted, in dwelling upon the diseased imaginings of idle or vicious minils r Were it not a crime, thus to stpiander the richest m- lieritance of earth, to feed the weakest passion of our natures? — thus to revel in the idlest dissipations of the brain, when all tlie briglit, tlic true, the beautiful, tlie real ui life arc before us ■ And herein lies the danger : that sin, clothed in tlic NOVEL-EEADING. 207 I sliining di-apery of thought, may, to the eager and vm- t suspecting, exhibit the form and com.cliness of purity ; > and which, if but exhibited as in nature, its hideous- j ness -would be so revolting, that purity and mnocence s would recoil fi'om its sight. But especially does novel-reading disqualify the mind for the more arduous attainments of study, and even create a distaste for the sober reahties of life ; for the mind, accustomed to soar in the cloud-land of fancy, is soon filled with phantoms, which it vaiidy ^ hopes good fortune will make real. Behold that pale i girl, weeping by turns o'er a tale of fiction. There, in her stUl chamber, by her midnight lamp, with a swim- ming swollenness of soul, has she pored over the pre- cious volume, till at length, " The bad all killed, and the good all pleased, Her thirsty curiosity appeased, She shuts the dear, good book, that made her weep, Puts out the light, and turns away to sleep." But ere the "balmy messenger" has come to her pil- ^ low, imagination again wanders over the scenes so < lately presented, the varied actors start from their \ hidings anew, while her ideal heroine becomes identi- < fied with herself, and bewilders her fancy with more I extravagant mockeries than before. ^lorning comes, i and brings no realization of her di'cams. But common ^ life surrounds her, and can she be satisfied : Can she I 208 REMINISCENCES OP CHILDHOOD. engage in the common duties of life ? Her heroine consented to be engaged in no useful employment, nor does it suit her lofty ideas ; and although she may not be able to convert her father to a king, nor her mother to a duchess, yet she can imagine herself destined to shine in palace halls, and move amid the circles of wealth and fashion. She is discontented and unhap- py — dis(j^ualidcd for the enjoyments of domestic life, useless to others, and a burden to herself. Thus drags the current of her life, till, by chance, an admirer and lover turns up, %\hom her enraptured spirit instantly converts to an angel of light. With this romantic and sentimental paragon, she consents to pass her future days ; but alas ! just as her happiness seems well nigh completed, she finds her palace a hovel, her admiier a deceiver, and herself forsaken by all the viituous and the good. Elizabeth, (Manchester.) REMINISCENCES OF CHILDHOOD. New IlAMi'suinE, I love thee — thy rough granite liills, Thy forests and rivers, thy mountains and rills ; Thy snow-blasts of winter, thy zephyrs of spring ; Thy rose-scented summer, all platted with green. .-S. V-^-V^^S-s. --M REMINISCEXCES OF CHILDHOOD. 209 I love, too, thy school-house, moss-covered bj' time, Where aping my ciders I first learned to rhyme, As, weary with playing and scanning the lasses, I sighed like a toper who thinks of his glasses ; Till in process of time my love took a turn, ^ly heart fluttered softly, new passion did burn ; The rosy- cheeked maiden, the boy-girl at play. The child of yesterday was sweetheart to-day. This passion inspu'ed me with poetic lore. Till 'bove Don Juan my fancies did soar ; Still brighter and brighter the flame grew apace, Like the sun in the morn of its diurnal race. Till nothing on earth, in the sea, or the air, So gloriously bright, so enchantingly fair. Yet soon it was clouded — in coldness did set, Forsooth my beloved was catight in a fret. She boldly asserted I had grown too free "With Susan, or Sarah, or Jane, or Hitte. " Ah, well," said I, " lady, do plainly tell us How many more are there of whom you are jealous ? " Quite oft we would have it, day in and day out ; Sometimes in a passion, sometimes in a pout. At last she grew mild, and proniised her favor. If from suspicion m future I'd save her. Yes, thus it was with us — both pettish at first, At last we resolved each other to trust ; And now, whilst I'm writing, a laughing blue eye I. < Is turned from its labors and watches near by. 18 210 BRIGHTER MOMENTS. For tliis, too, I love thee, my own native state ; A flower from thy fields I've plucked for my mate, Whose fi-agranee, still fresh as the iiew-gathcrcd rose, Gives sweet incense to joy and softens my woes. Lcighton, (Manchester.) BRIGHTER MOMENTS. There are moments bright with svmshine, In the checkered scenes of life, "When the soul has ceased its warrings, When 'tis free from inward strife ; When the gushing fount of fceUng Pours her silver- tinted stream, When the smile of love is stealing O'er the spirit like a dream. There aic gems of sparkling beauty In the Avorld around us here, In the joyous path of duty, In aflection's silent tear ; In the twiliglit shades of evening, When the suiibenms quit the vale, In the speaking eye of lovers, When they brentlic the tender talc. THE NOVICE. 211 Yet there are brighter moments, There are gems of purer ray, When we turn our thoughts within us. Than the light of fading day, — Than the tale of youth or maiden, Breathed in passion's thrilling tone ; O, 'tis when we hold communion With our spirits — still — alone. fV., {Jilanchc.^tar ) THE NOVICE, Look ! what a seraph-glance is hers, Whose full blue eyes thrown up to heaven ! That breast no low-born passion stirs, Afar each thought of earth is driven ; I Maid of the bright, the angel brow. Where is thy fancy roving now ? — Among those peaks of softest hue. Where twilight's pur]^)le feet have strayed ; O'er yonder sea of starless blue. Where all day long the clouds have played ; Turning to earth a transient gaze. As on a thing of by-gone days ? \ 212 THE NttVICE. Or, from their moonbeam revels led, Charmed by that gentle face of thine, Perchance fair spirits round thy head With plumes of dazzling whiteness shine, And linger there, to smUe and bless, Lost in a dream of loveliness ! On yonder summits, gathering fast, Hope may unfold her laughing band ; Or Bome glad image of the past Wave from the cloud a sliadowy hand, And bid thee twine again the bowers Affection wove in earlier hours. She heeds thee not ! The choral song. That dies unnoticed on thine cars. The voices of the sainted tlirong, Who chant the hymns of other spheres. Have lured her raptured soul on high. Amid that bright-eyed company. Tread softly on, and dare not break The holy spell which binds her there ; For who, sweet maiden, wlio could woko Thy spirit from its trance of prayer, Or bid thy soul from realms of liglit To these daik scenes wing back its flight ? Samuel T. IlilJri(Ji. ia^ I AM DREAMING. 213 I I AM DREAMING. I AM di'eaming, I am dreaming, I've been dreaming all the day — Weeks they seem one lengthened dream I am dreaming life away. I am dreaming, I am dreaming, My dreams are — O, so sweet ! — Such be-nitching converse that I hold, Such spirits that I greet. I am dreaming, I am dreaming, My thoughts I can't define. So mystic is the changeful hue That floats my spirits' shrine. I am di-eaming, I am dreaming, Upward, up away ; I catch a \T.sion of the soul — O, such a brilliant ray, That, could I bring it back to thee, 'Twould fire thy soul -with light, — Would set thy heart-locked music free, - Unchain liis spirit's flight. ^w-^.rs..^■r^.»m| m- 214 THE GKEEX MOUNTAIN' MAID. Yes, I am dreaming — none may know The hidden beauty bound Within my vision's spirit's sphere, The home my soxil has fomid. M. H. Jl. THE GREEN MOUNTAIN MAID. 'TwAS a beautiful spot where the vine-covered cot of the mountaineer stood in the edge of the wood. X There the forest bird's song echoed all the day long, " > / and the mountain stream played in the depths of the ! \ shade ; while the graceful young fawn cropped the > \ f J herbage at dawn from tlie wide-spreatling laA\-n. 'Twas • a beautiful spot — 'twas a beautiful cot — and surely i there ne'er was a maiden more fair, nor a maid more i rare, than tlic maid that dwelt tlicrc. Sliidl I picture } this niaid of the greenwood and glade, as she was in > the day when old •• Allen " held sway, while his iron- ( nerved men wore the jiridc of the glen ? She was ! neither too tall, too sliort, i\or too small, nor so light i nor so airy us the form of a fairy. > But the pride of the glade was the rosj -cheeked maid, witli eyes quite as blue as tlic summer nky's hue, and tlie tresses of brown, lloating gracefully down, and | } THE GREEN MOUNTAIN MAID. 215 nestling below on a bosom of snoAV. She could warble and sing like a songstress of spring ; she could spin and could sweep, and could mow and could reap — could ride the gray steed at the top of his speed, and J had sported a trifle with her father's old rifle. And I this bouncing young maid of the evergreen shade was / chaste and refined, and had such a mind as you seldom ^ ■will find among the gay maids of haughtier grades. J A lover she had, who would have been glad to cap- ' ture her heart by his scheming and art. O'Handy his > name, and a dandy by fame, who, though wrinkled and parched, was whiskered and starched, and displayed quite a rare and ciiified air. Well, he knelt at her feet and began to entreat, while his great bosom beat with unmerciful heat ; and he told such a tale as he deemed would not fail to make her beheve that he could not deceive. "While thus he knelt pleading, while thus interceding, he thought by her smiling that his words were be- guiling. But he found the conclusion a hopeless de- lusion ; for that maid was unlinking his scheming — was thinking ; and she thought in a twinkling she'd give him a sprinkling of the well-pei)pered ointment of black disappointment. Ere he drew to a close she turned up her nose, as you may suppose, just as high as she chose ; and, scorning his prose, through his pleadings she broke, and thus 'twas she spoke : — " O, great is youj fame ; O'Handy by name ; from i 216 THE GREEN MOVNTAIX MAID. I the city you came with your heart all a-flamc ; and you < < thought, in the shade of mountain or glade, to capture 5 i a maid uy pomp or parade. O, save all your tears, ? your hopes and yoiur fears, yo\ir ' ducks ' and your < dears,' for some other ears. All men are agreed you're a nice man indeed; but your figure's too lean, you're too gaunt and too green ; and that is not all, you're extensively tall ; your nose is too big, you've a voice like a pig, and you wear a huge wig, while your upper lip seems just the shade of your dreams. Now my answer you know, there's the door — you may go ! " Still he lingered to i)lead in his love and his need, ( and he boasted or told of liis tiller and gold — of her > station in lil'c wlioni he chose for a A\ife. But he | found 'twas no part of a mountain maid's heai-t to bear j insiilt and wrong from an eye or a tongue. That maid | could not brook such word and such look, and she \ caught do\\Ti a broom that hung in the room, and hit | him a blow that made the blood flow not gracefully slow. lie lit on nil four, just out of the door, all cov- ered with gore. Then he sprung to his feet, and, ex- ceedingly meet, he beat a retreat to cover his defeat ; — disappeared o'er the green, and was never more seen — 5 and ever since then, city- dandified men have learned l to beware of the Green Mountain Fair. j J«.-fjih C J^'eal. ] < TO AN IRISH BOY. 217 ■m i TO AN IRISH BOY. [Walking one afternoon with a friend on Washington Street, we stopped a moment at a window, to examine several pictures, ^ among which was a representation of a beautiful landscape. I Standing before us were two little Irish boys, whose tattered gar- ', ments bespoke their familiarity with scenes of poverty and woe. < After gazing silently at the picture, the younger exclaimed, in the < native poetry of the Irish brogue, " Ah, and look ye away there, and see the beautiful water, and the green trees, and the birds a-flying over them."] Ay, gaze and worship at the shrine Of Nature and of Art ; The poetry of licaven is thine, Its sunlight in thy heart. Thou'rt standing in the crowded mart Of fasliion and of strife. Yet in its cares thou tak'st no part, In pleasures or in strife. The jewelled casements gleam around. Yet from that painted scroll A holier light is beaming on The mirror of thy soul. 19 218 TO AX IHISII BOY. Perhaps thou'rt living o'er in dreams, As memory leads tliee back, The happiness of childhood's scenes Across the ocean's track. Or art thou wishing that some sprite Of fau-y-hauntcd glen Would come and kindly bear thee back To Erin's isle again ? Ah, no ! They arc not thoughts like these That s-well thy tlorobbing breast, But whispered strains of harmonies By angel accents blest. Then gaze thou on, poor little boy. And drink thy sjurit's fill From that pure scene of summer sky. Of rivers, vale, and hill. For tliough 'luitl gloom tliy lot is cost, God hath in kindness given The love of all things beautiful. To light thy path to heaven. A. A. J. \ THE SUNBEAM. 219 THE SUNBEAM. A SUNBEAM stole to the dreai-y earth. With light on its airy ■wing, And it kissed the flowers in gleesome mirth, With the breath of early spring. And on it passed, through the meadows green, Where the tiny grass-blade sprang From the dark brown bosom of mother earth, And a song of spring it sang. It crept to the heart of the early flower, In whose eye a tear-drop lay, Where it whispered words of magic power, And it wept no more that day. On, on, o'er the hills, to the rivulet wild. That laughingly flung its spray. The sunbeam flew ; and it gently smiled As it passed on its gladsome way. And the foam-beads looked, 'neath that sumiy gaze, Like the gems of the mountain mine ; But the ray had sped on its lightsome wing To the forest of waving pine. 220 CHARACTER. And a dirge-like song from the forest came, Of voices \vild and fi-ee, And the song they sung was ever the same, Of strange, deep melody. And the sunbeam kissed, in childlike play, The crest of the lordly pine, And the castled rock, so hoar and gray, That had seen the march of time. But a storm-cloud came athwart the sky. And the sunbeam was withdrawn. Yet it perished not — for the good ne'er die, But they wait for a brighter dawn. Lucy, (JUanclifiiUr.) CHARACTER. The greatest of all mistakes, at the outset of life, is the mistake of presuming on the favor of mankind without earning it. To youth the world will jiardon much. Its indiscretions and obliiiuitios are overlooked 'e with siuprising charity. But youth soon passes away ; CHAKACTER. 221 and Avith it passes away also the lenity of judgment, the kind alloAvance, -with which its follies and errors are regarded. The man is measured by a severer standard, and awards are meted out to him on sterner principles. The high posts, the permanent distinctions of life, its great prizes, are all purchased by weary years of toil. It is true, in a country like ours, the patient cultivator of himself the diligent student of the abstruser and less inviting principles of things, may be sometimes outrun and distanced by nimbler, more bustling, and less scrupulous spirits. But let him con- sider that, whilst the monarch of the forest is slowly maturing to his noble stature, generation after genera- tion of the grasses and weeds that shaded his infancy wither and rot at his foot. In a quarter of a century many shining names grow dim, many budding honors are blighted. But one man in a hundred lives to come to any thing. We are too anxious to reap before we sow. " The husbandman waiteth for the precious fruit of the earth, and hath long patience for it, until he re- ceive the early and latter ram." The objects which young men propose to themselves can hardlj^ be too great ; but they may be too near. Impatience is the sin of youth. Unity and steadiness of pursuit are the true secret of ultimate success. It is, however, an animating thought, to the man of patient, iron industry, that, if its great rewards must all be eanied, they are seldom withheld. The market 19 * J 222 CHARACTER. \ seems overstocked ; and a young man's spirits sink \ vnX\\m him at the thought of so many to contend with, \ and so little to be divided among them all. But the J rarest of aU things in the world is character — the s growth of personal pains, and sacrifices, and trials. J Every place and every calling wants it. It is never seen begging bread. Any price wUl be paid for it. To the young man, then : Be encouraged. Time is not wanting ; opjiortunities wait for you ; means are ] within yoiu" reach. The cultivation of all your powers \ is possible to you ; education, in its truest sense, is I practicable. Only resolve ; begin ; begin somewhere ; < begin now. Husband your resoiirces ; seize the fugi- I tivc moments. Open the eye and the ear ; assume that \ any thing can be learned ; doubt not that every thing '> can teach. Slirink not from the arduous ; despise not \ the humble. Be not ashamed to be ignorant, nor i afraid to inquire. Months and years roll round faster < than Ave think. And the thoughtful man, the patient / cultivator of himself, is rich in knowlcdLrc and in merit j before he is aware. > And then think of the reward, — tlie conscious- ^ ness of mind, the inward sense of a manly spirit, the i feeling of a moral dignity, — resources in our own na- ture beyond the reach of accident, oxit of the dominion of power, a part of ourselves, independent of life, im- perishable, immortal. Fortunate man, favored above the ordinary mercy of heaven, who, in this free loud, SONG OF THE TACTORY GIKL. 223 and in this clear, bright day, has life yet before him, and sees the -way still open for him to eminence and happiness. Ckarks B. liaddack. SONG OF THE FACTORY GIRL. O, SING me the song of the Factory Girl, So merry, and glad, and free ! The bloom on her cheeks, of health how it speaks — O, a happy creature is she ! ^ She tends the loom, she watches the spindle. And cheerfully toileth away ; 'Mid the din of wheels, how her bright eyes kindle. And her bosom is ever so gay. O, sing me the song of the Factory Gui, Who hath breathed our mountain air ; She toils for her home, and the joys to come To the loved ones gathered there. She tends the loom, she watches the spindle. And she fancies her mother near — How glows her heart, and her bright eyes kindle. As she thinks of her sisters dear. 224 SONG OF THE FACTORY GIRL. O, sing mc the song of the Factory Girl, "Who no titled lover doth oa^ti, — "Who -with treasures more rare, is more free icoxa. care Than a queen upon her throne. She tends the loom, she -watches the spindle, And she parts her glossy hair ; I kno-w by her smile, as her bright eyes kindle, That a cheerful spirit is there. O, sing me the song of the Factory Girl, Whose task is so easy and light ; She toileth away till the evening gray, And her sleep is sweet at night. She tends the loom, she watches the spindle, And 0, she is honest and free ! I know by her laugh, as her bright eyes kindle, That few arc more hajipy than she. O, sing mc the song of the Factory Girl, As she walks her spacioxis hall, And trims the rose, and the orange that blows In tl>o window, scenting all. She tends the loom, and watches the spindle. And she skijjs in tlie bracing air ; I know by her eyes, as their bright lights kindle, Tliat a (juccnly heart is there. O, sing me tlie song of the Factory Girl — The honest, and fair, and true, — K- THE LOVED AND LOST. 225 "Whose name has rung, Avhose deeds have been sung, O'er the land and waters blue. I, 5 She tends the loom, she watches the spindle, < And lier words are cheerful and gay ; \ O, give me her smile, as her bright eyes kindle. And she toils and sings away. J. H. Warland. THE LOVED AND LOST. I SHALL not see again a brow So pure and proud as thine ; It seemed an altar, formed to glow 'Mid thoughts and dreams divine. I shall not meet again an eye So eloquent and bright ; The stars that gem the evening sky Alone recall its light. I ne'er again a voice may hear Of such a 'witching tone, Or bask beneath a smile so dear As thine, my lost, my o^mi. a^. 226 HIGUEK. My beautiful, my cherished flower ! Thy footstep's lightest fall Stirred in my heart a magic power, And made earth musical. • I know not why I yet live on. Since thou art fled afar ; The glorj' of my life hath gone AVith thee, my moi-ning star. But thou, my bird, hath spread thy plumes, In better, brighter spheres ; Far from the dreary shade of tombs, The bitterness of tears. O. W. Whitticr. H I G 11 E 11 . HiOHEu ! It is ft word of noble meaning — the in- spiration of all great docils — the sympathetic chain that lends, link by Unk, tlic impassioned sovil to its zenith of glory, and still holds its mysterious object, dancing and glittt'ring amojig the stars. Higher ! lisjis the iiilant that clasps ita paieut's II- HIGHER. 227 knees, and makes its feeble essay to rise from the floor. It is the first inspiration of childhood, to burst the narrow confines of the cradle, in -which its sweetest moments have been passed. Higher ! laughs the proud schoolboy at liis swing ; or, as he climbs the tallest tree of the forest, that he may look down upon his less adventurous comrades ^^■iih. a flush of exultation, and abroad over the fields, the meadows, and his native Adllage. Higher ! earnestly breathes the student of philoso- phy and nature. He has a host of rivals, but he must eclipse them all. The midnight oil burns dim, but he finds light and knowledge in the lamps of heaven, and his soul is never weary when the last of them is hid beneath the curtams of the morning. And higher ! his voice thunders forth, when the dignity of manhood has mantled his form, and the multitude is listening vrith delight to his oracles burn- ing with eloquence, and ringing like true steel in the \ cause of freedom and right. And when time has I changed his locks to silver, when the maiden gather- I ing flowers by the roadside, and the boy in the field, '/ bow in reverence as he passes, and the squire and the ^ peasant look to him with honor — can he still breathe ) forth from his heart the fond wishes of the past. I Higher yet ! He has reached the apex of earthly S honor, yet his spirit bums as warm as in youth, though I with a steadier and paler light; and it would even I 22S LINES. S 5 borrow -vvings and soar to heaven, leaving its tenement i to moiilder among the laurels he has wound around ) it for the never-ending glory to be reached in the I presence of the Most High. > J. P. Chase, (^Manchester.) LINES. O, CAN there be a brighter state "NMiere mind its thii'st shall satiate, Where every ■wish and every thought Shall to one common i=icene be brought ? Go, watch the student's burning eye When he is told that he must die, That classic lore and history's page ShiUl never more liis thoughts engage ; That he in vain has wasted hcidth. And, deaf to j)lcasure and to wealth, lias cherished liere tliosc jewels fair. That death shall from liis bosom tear ; He'll point you to those fairer flowers Tliat bloom amid cclesliid bowers, Where streams of knowledge How for aye, And founts of pleasure ever play. THE MAN I LIKE. 229 Within the tomes that mortals find, He never found a perfect mind : Now heaven's bright volumes open lie, To Avin his fond, impassioned eye. His spirit there'll delighted see The bro-ws he kissed in infancy — The brows that in celestial clime With brighter wreaths seraphic sliine ; And genius-lighted thei-e shall be Forever lost in ecstasy ; And godlike mind shall ever rove In novelties' ethereal grove. Yes, in that hour when nature fails, And visions bright his spirit haUs — In accents soft tlieir voices come. And beckon to his spirit's home. Olke, {Manchester.) THE MAN I LIKE. I LIKE the man who vdll maintain A dignity and grace ; Who can be social when there's need^ And always knows his place. Si' 230 THE MAN I LIKE. I love the man whose blandest smile Is seen at home, " sweet home," "WTio, when his daily task is o'er, Has no desii'C to roam. I like the man whose piercmg glance "SVill make the guUty start, As though he had the power to search His very inmost heart. I like the man whose generous soul Pities the orphan's Avoe ; Who never lets the needy one Unaided from him go. I'd have him generous, good, and just. As God made man to be ; The noblest work below the sun Is such an one as he. And now I've told you whom I like. And you may think the same ; Sliould Mr. Such-a-onc come along. That I Avoiild change my ntuue. Clara, ^Manchester.) LEGISLATION. 231 \ LEGISLATION. The legislature has just been here, and dispersed. They are gone. I miss them a good deal. My garret window looks right out upon the great State House yard, where they used to swarm coming out. I go through it going home. I shall miss the squads of members standing ruminating, legislatively, by the gravelled paths — ruminating and nominating at the corners, on^the flights of steps up to the State House. I tised to hear, as I passed near the house, the sonorous eloquence of some orator in debate. I shall miss it now — and the long rows of hats in the great ^\^.n- dows — all gone — all stUl. Well, they have held a session. They have legis- lated. They had a governor — who had liis council. They sat, and deliberated, and governed. I saw the governor and his counsellors. They looked same as any body. A little grave — not much. They laughed, I saw, some of them. Bought apples of the boys at the State House door — eat them — spit round on the s steps — same a.s any body. The legislature spit a good J deal. The stone steps are pretty much stained by it, a 232 LEGISLATION. kind of tobacco color, where they went in and out. And little wads l)-ing about, the size of those dorbugs — looking as if the general court had been che^^ing upon them. All gone now, and it won't cost a ten-dollar ^ bill to clean all up, and make it as wholesome as it was I before the session. They have really done the people I service — no dispute. They took the yeas and nays a \ number of tunes, to my knowledge. I went into the \ gallery up above, a number of times, — a place pre- l pared for idle and for low-spu-ited people to go to, — I and I looked down and saw what they did. They took the yeas and nays of the enthe body severiU times. Once they got them wrong, and the head man declared the count both ways — once for, and once agamst. They rectified it, though. All these records are kept a record of, for public use. And they gave the go-by to several laAvs that seemed to me as if they would have been very bad ones, if they had passed. They contrived to " postpone " them " indctinitcly," as they called it, which I imagine means putting them by pretty permanently — nt least for the present, and till another session comes round. O, they do a good deal for the pul)lic. If it hadn't been for them, those laws would not have been " indefinitely postponed." They couldn't have been. Nobody but the general court has the power to postpone n law indctinitcly. The people couldn't got a bill " indefinitely postponed," if it wasn't \ for this general court. It is a very rare power, as well lEGISLATIOX. 233 ^ > as salutary. I thought I should like to sec them post- pone some more of their bills. But then -we must have laws. And -we must have fresh ones. They must be made or touched over every year, or they Avould grow stale and common. The people -would find them out, after a whUe, and would lose theu- resj^ect for them. They don't know any thing about them, now, and have a great respect for them, and place great reliance on them. The lawyers know aU about them, and so do the judges. They passed one law, I am told, doing away with great trainings. They didn't quite pass it. It wasn't " indefinitely postponed " — but then the governor got the bill, and carried it away -wifh him in his pocket. Another way they have of preventing the passage of bad laws, and shows the importance of having gov- ernors. If we hadn't had a governor, the bill destroy- ing the trainings couldn't have been prevented, in this way, from becoming a law, and we should have had no musters. Now we shall have musters. The governor, I am told, put that bill into his pocket, and that stopped it at once from becoming a law. For a biU, if it has passed ever so many houses, is no more a law, when it gets into a governor's pocket, than so much white paper. And the houses can't get it out agam, either of them — nor both of them. Not if they were unan- imous and concurred, both. If it gets into the gov- ernor's pocket, they can never get it out agaui. And 20 * 234 I SING TO HIM. \ i he can pocket all the bills they caii make. And if he \ should take it into his head to, they couldn't pass any laws. It is a great thing to have governors. JV. P. Rogers. I SING TO HIM. I SING to him — I dream he hears The song he used to love, And oft that blessed fancy cheers And bears my thou^s/^^ -11 THE BROTHERHOOD OF MAN. 237 THE BROTHERHOOD OF MAN. The great fact tliat is beiiig developed in the present age is, The Brotherhood of the Human Race. Hereto- fore, man has given the highest significance to the in- tellectual element of his nature. He has put forth those iJowers of mind by which he judges of the causes of things, and the consequences of events ; by which he discovers the nature of the elements, and learns to control their forces, and subdue them to his use ; by which he is enabled to fathom the events of the past, and philosopliize upon the aifairs of the futui-e. In- \ tellectual power is that by which man stands before > us clothed in the mysterious might of historian, phi- J losopher, and poet ; opening the abyss of the past, re- ) vealing the deep secrets of nature, and creating a world \ of imasfination, and filling it with beautiful forms of ', things unknown, giving to each a " local habitation and > a name." It is this gift, too, that overshadows the \ inventive genius of the world. It imj^arts to it a tough > faculty for thinking, and beholds the curious improve- \ ments in the arts and the implements of industry / which have added so much to the conveniences of life, < and augmented so vastly the sources of human happi- \ ness. These all spring forth, like the full-armed !Mi- ^ 238 THE BliOTHLKHOOD OF MAX. nerva, from the laborf? of capacious intellect, aiid help to give cligmty to human nature. But another element is now manifesting itself in our world, which imparts a diviner significance to human life ; — the moral element in man's nature — that wliich unites him with God and his fellow-man. It is the I develojjmcnt of this mor;d element in man, that begins to gladden the present, and gives such bright promise j for the future. Man, with a heart and a soul — man, >' the brother, the cliild of the common Father, a mem- i bcr of the same family, possesses a centralizing force, > and we are di-awn unto him bv a power " we could not \ resist if we woiild, and would not if we could." Tliis new fact of the brotherhood oi our race, is breaking the bondage of selfishness, and is di'awmg the individ- ual closer and closer into harmony with the great whole. Touched by its magnetic influence, man now feels the force of sympathy, gentleness, and love, and begins to see, and act, and live, as a brother of the common family. He realizes the connecting link that binds liini to tlie lowest state of humanity, and, under- neath aU its outward forjns lie sees a common nature, and feels the throbbings of a common sympathy. Every thing is prolific witli the j)roofs of this liigher ^ development of man's natiiie. "NVe lieliohl it in the ( bounties of his benevolence, in the depths of his love, i in the ministrations of his mercy, and in the wide | reach of his charity, wliich breaks away fi'om the ; 5 THE BllOTHEKHOOD OF MAN". _ 239 ^ bounds of coiintry and kindred, and sends up its peti- I tions, and puts forth its energies, in behalf of the whole race. It goes -nith him, and garnishes his brow with beauty as he passes along the path of prosperity ; it walks with him side by side in adversity, and, like a ministering spirit, it leads him along the track of the pestilence, gives him the glory of its own spirit, and makes him a minister of mercy to suffering and stricken humanity throughout the earth. And all this, because man begins to feel the ties of a common brotherhood, and is learning that the individual is one, and one only, of a great family. But perhaps the best development of this divine idea may be seen in the reforms of the age. It infuses into them all the spirit of universality. It pleads for the right, and speaks boldly agamst the -\\rong, in high places and low. It throws around the sinful the chain of sj-mpathy, and lifts him from his degradation and his crimes — it cries out against blood and death, whether on the battle-field or the scaffold, and asks for repentance, and mercy, and forgiveness — it lifts its voice on the floor of congress, and the \ slave in his chains hears it, and is hopeful and glad — < it is borne on every breeze, and whispers peace and \ love. \ The Brotherhood of the Human Race ! Let this truth ( spread abroad, with its all-absorbing power, cementing < the broken links of humanity, uniting the interests of 24C TO A n.VCHELOK. our race, uiitil all sellislmess and wrong shall be done away, and man, universal man, shall rise to that stand- ard of perfection destined by a beneficent Creator. B. jV. Tillotson, {ManchMter.) TO A BACHELOR. [The following is inserted as an offset to the Bachelor's Song. Its authorship is unknown to the editor.] Don't tell me you haven't got time. That other tilings claim your attention, There's not the least reason or rhJ^nc In the wisest excuse you can mention. You may dream of poetical fame, But the story may chance to miscan-y ; The best way of sending one's name To posterity, dear sir, is to mtUTy ! At once, then, bid your doubtinj;; good-by. And disini.ss all fanta.stic alarms ; I'll be sworn you've a girl in your eye That you ought to have li;ul in your arms ! Some beautiful maiden — God bless her ! — Uneiicumborcd with pride or witli pelf — Of every true charm the possessor, Aud given to no fault but yourself. TO A BACHELOR. 241 I could give you a bushel of reasons For choosing the " double estate ; " It agrees with all climates and seasons, Though it may be adopted too late. Then delay not a moment to win A prize that's truly worth -ninning — Celibacy, dear sii-, is a sin, And badly prolific of sinning. Then there's the economy clear, By poetical algebra shown ; If your wife has a grief, or a tear. One haK, by the law, is your own. And as to the joys, by division. They somehow are doubled, 'tis said. Though I never could see the addition Quite plain in the item of bread. Remember — I do not pretend There's any thing perfect about it. But this I'll maintain to the end. Life's very imperfect without it. 'Tis not that there's poetry in it. As doubtless there may be to those AVho know how to find and to spin it. But I'll warrant you excellent prose. Don't search for an angel a minute, For suppose you succeed in the sequel, 21 242 THE NE\Y HAMPSHIRE GIIILS. After all, the deuce would be in it, For the match would he highly unequal. Tlie angels, it must be confessed, In t?us world are rather uncommon ; Yet I wish you a blessing twice blest — Go marry a beautiful woman. THE NEW HA Mrs HIRE GIRLS. See how yon smiling sisters stand To greet the sons who roam ; Each daughter waves her snowy hand, To give the " welcome home ! " See how they form, with lips and eyes, Hope's radiant band of pearls ; Match if you can, beneath the skies. Our de;u- New Hampshire gii-ls ! What though the autumn rahi-drops fi-ecze AVherc those we love were born ? They win thcii* beauty from the breeze, Their vigor fnun tlie morn ! The tempests rouiul tluir dwellings shout, And howls November's storm ; For us their (ires are never out, Whoso hearts ore always warm. MY FIRST LOVE. 243 Go forth, poor exiled youth, away, Where other maidens dwell ; Come back, v.-hen aU your locks are gray, To those you loved so well. Come back, though time has left yoii poor, And all your sands have run — There stands your mother at the door, To clasp her darling son. God bless the troop whose nightly prayers Rise up for those wiio roam, God bless them, 'mid their daily cares — Those guardian saints of home ! Forget not, then, to mingle here With wit and song your pearls, Aiid give the swelling heart's full cheer For our New Hampshire giiis ! J. T. Fields. MY FIRST LOVE. What nature, if it possess the iota of a man in its composition, can resist the combined influences of an easy cliair, a Spanish, and a glowing coal fire ? I have been sitting for the last half hour, with my feet upon the fender, cogitating upon the strange perverseness of 244 MY FIRST LOVE. human nature, till every particle of anger and misan- i thropy, drop by drop, has oozed from the inner man, \ and, m lieu thereof, a qxiiet and forgiving and generous I spirit has settled upon the shattered altars of my affec- ^ tions. Surelj' " man is the paragon of animals." One ^ moment exclaiming -with the bitterness of Hamlet, ^ " Man delights me not, nor woman neither ; " the next, ^ willing to embrace the universe in his lovo, and turning I aside " to let the reptile live." Whose heart has not f bled beneath the dagger thrusts of sarcasm and cal- p umny ? Who but, goaded by some besetting sin, has ^ added to his brother's burden of human ills ? I Alas ! how little the world know of the length, ^ breadth, height, and depth of the vast thi-ong that i move ai'ound us ! How can our neighbor fathom the > abyss of our hearts ? How read the hiatory of fur- 's rowed brows, or rightly interpret the reserved air and \ heartless mien ? j Thoy onll mo a baoholor, and so I am ! lUit I M-as > not always tho wolf upon the roof to bo railed at by \ every passing kid. I have had my fancies — yos — and my loves too. They have been sacrod romiiiis- concos — almost breathing spirits, with which I have communed, and cherished in my heart of hearts as too holy for the profane comment of humanity. Hut the spell is broken, and I cast them forth, like loavos and fishes, to be devoured by tho famishing curiosity of tho multitude. iBhv^/VNN ^n MY FIRST LOVE. 245 But I was not ahvays as I am now. Once I had a loving spirit, and, as girls are more lovable than any thing else, it was natural that I should love them most. My first flame Avas a little miniature of the charming sex, generally of half a dozen summers, y.-ith. large melting blue eyes, plump rosy cheeks, and, of course, sunny hair. How many, many times I have crept stealthily beneath the wooden benches of our old schoolhouse to where she lay sleeping, that I might gaze more closely upon her innocent face, and bend my cheek to catch the soft breath that stole from her Hps. Poor cherub ! I have stood many a time since by her little grave, and read over and over again the words upon her gravestone, until the letters, stone, and sod blended into one, and memory glided back through the long vista of years, checkered by errors and blasted hopes, untU, a child again, I knelt fondly by the fairy form, long since mouldered to dust. O, how beautiful she was in her death- sleep ! There was nothing in her simple muslin frock, and thick-clustering ringlets inter- woven with the mjTrtle, to teU. of the charnel-house. Her cheek even was not pale, and smiles lingered upon her lips. Heavily the clods rattled upon her coffin ; and when the weeping mourners and careless multi- tude had all disappeared, I retvu-ned to the spot, and prostrating myself upon the broken sods, wept in the fulness of my sovl. I had never seen death before, and now she, the dearest idol I had known, was its 21 « 246 MY FIllST LOVE. victim. Tlien, tales I had heard of living burials were recalled, and ■\\-ith fresh agony I remembered how life- like she had looked, and listened breathlessly for some moan of returning consciousness. Alas ! nothing was heard but the throbbings of my oviTi burstmg heart, and I groaned aloud, " She Ls dead — dead." The cold stars came out one by one, and then the moon looked sor^o\^•fully iovm upon the new- ly made grave. But still I lay there, dreaming of the hours we had played side by side in cliildLsh inno- cence, of all the kind words she had spoken, the toys she had given mc, the flowers I had toiled to gather for her, the lessons we had conned ; then came sooth- ing recollections of the infantine prayers we had mur- mured with hands xmited ; and, as I unconsciously sobbed forth, " Thy will be done on earth as it is done in heaven," softly, but distinctly, I heard my amen echoed, and the voice was Mary Lee's. I liad gone to that grave a boy, but I returned from it a man. My very being was changed. I am much ] older now ; but every pulsation of my young heart is \ engraved upon memory as with living fire ! Still in > i my ])rivatc di-awcr, in a fancy envelope cut by her own I hands, is a ringlet of soft fair hair — 'tis tlic hair of { Marv I'Cc I Tears ? Well, let them fall ; thcv arc the i lirst I liave shed for years, and my soul will be p\irer I for them, llow mysteriously early aJfoctions cling to i our SpilitS ! ^n Old Bachelor. H- ■we'll meet again. 247 "WE'LL MEET AGAIN." I ASKED if I should cherish still Those di-cams and hopes of earlier days. When scarce I knew why on her face I loved to gaze. The hill looked down with calm delight, While silence slumbered on the plain ; She only said, " Good night, good night ! We'll meet again." Those random gifts should I preserve, And deem each one of love a token. The chance-plucked leaf — the sylvan flower. Which she had broken ? O, would she linger in her walks A moment by each favorite tree, And gather violets from the turf, As if for me ? A blush — a smile — that tone so slight, I bent to catch — but all in vain ; I only heard — " Good night, good night ! We'll meet again." H- ^- — ~^~g 248 CONQUEST IS 0UK3. And -would she think, -when groves were bare, How kindly, in that solemn hour, My holiest thoughts would cluster round The withered flo^^■er r Her glaucc met mine — their deep reply Those glistening eyes could not retain ; Her glance told all : " Good-by — good-by ! Fair girl ! we'll meet again ! " Samuel T. Bildrcl'i. CONQUEST IS OURS. CoxauEST is ours — o'er land and sea Fling ye the banner out ; Conquest is ours — the eagle bira Her drooping pinion lightly stiiTcd, "NMiilc from afar the sound was heard, Conquest is ours ! Conquest is ours — a star has set, A star in ficedora's crowni ; Far in the west, and over nil, lied war has hung its darksome pall ; No mirth is hoard in Mexico's liall — Conquest is ours ! i/'VS.-V'VVS-^'*. CONQUEST IS OUBS. 249 Conquest is ours — in homes as fair, Where hearts as true As yet Ne-\v England ever knew, Hushed is the song and revel now ; Grief sits enthi-oned on many a brow — Conquest is ours. Conquest is ours — a nation stands With mourning chaplets in her hands ; And by an injured people's hate, She vows that she vn}l desolate This northern land, so proudly great — Conquest is ours. Conquest is ours — nail to the mast, Where they will wave in Freedom's blast. The " stars and stripes," and write at last In words of blood, that all may see We've had a glorious victory, Conquest is ours I H. JV. L. HAMPTON BEACH. There is beauty here — with " flashing eyes and footstei^s free " — buoyant, gladsome hearts, and spirits light as air — beauty such as Nature made ; as yet un- m- 250 HAMPTOX BEACH. affected by the fooleries of fasliion and of art — unprac- tised and untaught, save m the generous imiDulses of the soul. Here, too, is the beauty which society has made — enchased in gold and sUver -workmanship — that which shines but to conquer, and conqiicrs but to torture. Gallantry is never wanting here — -with fomi and step all tinn — -with gentle inclination of the head and graceful wa^ig of the hand, ready to serve ac- cording to the laws of chivalry. And here is the pohtician, with head well filled with facts, and pockets loaded dovm with speeches — the merchant, too, from his counting-room, and the me- chanic from his shop, have come, each to snatch a day of rest and prepare anew for the labors of life. From city and from country they have gathered, from the upper and the lower ten thousand of society, and mingle here as members of one household and one brothci'hood. But it is not with man alone that wo hold converse here, but with nature in her grandest aspect. If ever there is a moment of deep thought, of grand and sub- lime emotion, it is when we stand by tlie ocean side and gaze upon its ceaseless roll of Avuters. The sea is full of subjects for thought and feeling. AVho can meditate, unmoved, on the treasures which liont upon its bosom, or arc entombed within its depths r Think of the ocean sprites, which romance and mythology have ctdlcd \ip from " the deep, deep sea," or which HAMPTON BEACH. 251 I i I have walked in beauty on the " breast of the billow." \ Tliiiik of the sailor-boy, away from the home of his ] youth and the ♦' friends that to hun were so dear," going down to his silent but pearl-decked grave to sleep beneath a coral monument with the " immortals of the sea." Fancy clothes his lone resting-place with beauty ; but there is a sadder thought in the ck- cumstances of a death at sea. The wild commotion of nature all around — the gentle hand — the silent tear — the quiet footstep and the voice of love — these are not there. The sea is full of majesty. How the mind is sub- dued by it, as if it were the visible presence of the Deity ! In its composure, what an emblem of the beauty and purity of heaven ! In its uproar and agi- tation, with what magnificent awe does it fiU the soul ! — obeying neither King Canute, nor any other king, save One. O secret sea ! " Thou hast pearls of price untold To light thy airy cells, And splendid wrecks and mines of gold 'Mid rainbow-colored shells." J. O. Adams. '@ 252 STANZAS. STANZAS, I LOVE the memory of that hour "When first in youth I found thee ; For infant beauty gently tlirew A morning freshness round thee ; A single star was rising there, With mild and lovely motion ; And scarce the zephjT's gentle breath "Went o'er the sleeping ocean. I love the memory of that hour — It wakes a pensive feclmg, As when Avithin the winding shell The playful winds arc stealing ; It tells my heart of those bright years, Ere hope went down in sorrow, "When all tlie joys of yesterday Were painted on to-morrow. Where art thou now r Thy once-loved flowers Their yellow leaves aic twining. And bright and beautiful again That single star is sliining. But where art thou : The bended grass A dewy stone discloses, And love's light footsteps print the ground Where aU my peace reposes. Farewell ! My tears were not for thee ; 'Twcre weakness to deplore thee, Or vainly moirrn tliine absence here, Wliile angels half adore thee. Thy days were few and quickly told ; Thy short and mournful story Hath ended like the morning star, That melts in deeper glory. 0. IV. B. Pcubody. THE COMING OF WINTER. Hark ye ! for I come from the cold-streaming north, With the blackness of tempests I hurry me forth, And the sound of my pinions ye hear in the sky — Lo ! where I am coming ! I am nigh — I am nigh ! My wing is of fleetness and speedeth in wrath, To blight and destroy on its desolate path ; And far as I swoop over valley and hill. Old Earth in her mantle wags darkened and chill ; \ 254 THE COMING OF 'WIXTER. ( And they of the forest and they of the plain, I Lie crimsoned and scattered like warriors slain ; ? Their host it hath perished on mountain and lea, ^ As sleets of the winter that fall in the sea. \ O Autumn ! how dreary and dark is thy shrine ! i For the breath of my nostril hath blighted thy vine ; i Thy garland is faded, thy proud reign is passed, ( And thou must lie down -with thy sister at last ! \ But, maiden, I'll work thee a burial shroud, I All dark as the teuipcst and broad as the cloud ; i And far as I sweep on the desolate lea ^ I'll waken a dirge o'er thy sisters and thee, J And thou shalt repose, like a death-smitten bride, ^ AU reft of her glory, her passion, and pride. i My trump on the mountains ! my trump has been heard, } And the deep, dim forests its ccliocs liave stu-red, ' And the billow that roared to the land from the main 5 I've chained to its rock with an adamant chain ; ( And the far-soxinding breaker, so fearful and wild, 5 I'll tame for the sport of the mariner's cliild. I O, heiu-d yc the cry of the poor and the lone, I As their tliin checks bled to my fingers of stone ? } 'Tis abroad ! 'tis abroad ; and the legend of fear i StUl floats like a cui-se to the reveller's car. \ As I rode in the storm on the bitter cold aii", I I heard through the darkness a cry of despair ; '>m S TUE COMING OF WINTER. 2-55 J i — — I ] It swept on the blast from a hut on the moor I ', To the rich man's dwelling, and knocked at his door. '^ He heard not the call, for the viols were loud, J \ And the heat of the dancers was rapid and proud ; \ I He heard not the cry that was uttered in vain, ) I And bade them strUie up with a merrier strain. i I The feast it was spread on the sumptuous board, i j And the song it was sung, and the wine it was poured, ' Nor dreamt they the vrail through the casement that \ i passed | AVas aught but the shriek of the wandering blast. J { But when the far mountains tlic red morn had dyed, '? And the rich man came do-\\ai from his mansion of J pride, / His heavy eye fell on a golden-haired child I That sat on his threshold that bleak moni, and smiled ! | He called to it kindly — it spoke not a word, J And he shook like a leaf by the autumn wmd stirred ; | For her blue eye looked with a passionate stare, ; And the Avhitc snow was wreathed -with her beautiful ] hah. . I One little hand held the rude cloak to her form, .' ^\^lile the other was raised in rebuke to the storm. ' She heaved not a sigh, and she breathed not a moan ; > Her bosom was marble — her heart it was stone 1 J The suffering smile on her fair cheek that lay ; Had parted her lips in its innocent play, ; 2-56 IMMORTALITY. For her pure spirit passed from tliat threshold of sin, While her meek car was turned to the viols within ! Lo ! my brood, -where it sweeps fi-om the far frozen pole ! Up ! haste ye away to the famishing soul ! s Wait ye by the gates of the poor and forlorn, > "SMicre the young mother weeps o'er her earliest born ; I Av, wait and be blessed, till ye pass to that shore 1 Where the cry of the orphan is lifted no more ; \ Wlierc a princely reward to the righteous is sux-e, I And the Fatheii of mercies remembers tlie jioor. J. Q. A. fVovd. IMMORTALITY. We foUow a beloved one to the grave. The voice, to whose words of wisdom or to whose innocent prat- tle we have often listened, is silenced ; the eyes that | beamed upon us in love, aie closed ; and the Umbs of I beauty or strength are stiff and niotionlcss. We pay the last tribute of respect, deposit the lifeless clay, and return to our desolate home. How naturally does the question arise, Shall wo ever behold that one again ? Is there future being to man ? Question philosophy, which has ever claimed to be '1 IMMORTALITT. 257 man's guide, and what is the reply r Tm-n -we to her oldest instructors, who lived in the dayspring of the ■world — the -vvise men of the East. They recognized, indeed, the doctrine of the soul's immortality, biit it was only as a part of the great soul of the universe, issuing from it at man's birth, and reabsorbed into it at his death. Consult the Grecian sages. Many of them wholly denied the soul's future existence. Those who did not alternated between hope and fear, speaking at one time as from the skies, and at another uttering the language of the sepulchre. Some few maintained that the soul would for a while possess an individual being after death, now sleeping in the chambers of the de- parted, and now going forth to dwell in the bodj' of a man or of a brute. But even these believed in ulti- mate absorption. Nor was Roman philosophy less con- jectural and uncertain. Cicero, its brightest ornament, I who reasoned well and cogently upon the subject, after ^ ^ stating the many and conflicting opinions which had < been held, thus remarks : " Which of them is true, > God only knows, and which is most probable, is a very great question." Alas ! heathen philosophers, and all mere human philosophers, are here distressed with painful and perplexing doubt. However eagerly and laboriously they may have sought to learn man's fate, as he drops into the grave, vain and fruitless have been their efforts. Interrogate reason. She teaches that the soul is dis- 22 * il- m 258 IMMORTALITY. tinct from the mutter of ^vluch the bodj- is composed ; that, uiililve matter, which, however it is changed, and into whatever forms of beauty it is cast, remains inert and senseless, it can think, and that its thoughts move more raiiidly than the speed of light. Intimate as is its connection with the body, yet is not the latter neces- sary to its action, to its enjoyment, or to its suffering i The powers of the one are sometimes just sinking into decay, when the faculties of the other are displaj-ing their utmost vigor. She asks, then, and asks with great pertinency, Why should death, which is but the dissolution of flesh and sinews and bones, be the de- struction of the living agent r Xay, she goes farther. All created beings that we know, from the smallest in- sect upwards through all grades, reach tlie highest improvement of which they arc capable. But man does not, if he lives not agi'.in. May Ave believe that God thus deals with his noblest workmanship r Has a Being of infinite wisdom bestowed such lofty mental endowments and vast capacities, as characterize man, upon the creature of a day ? Inquire of nature. Her xiniversal voice speaks forth in the instinctive horror with which all, even the hum- blest and the most debased, recoil from the thought of annihilation, in the ardent longing for perpetuity of being, and the strong presentiment of it whicli thoy feel. Man's immortality luis always been the common belief of the mass. It has sprung, perhaps, fiom the IMMORTALITY. 259 obvious necessity of a future rigliteous retribution, in- asmuch as none such takes place upon the eai'th. Hence it has ever been connected -with an impression that the good and the bad would dwell in different abodes. Poets have used this common belief to -weave the Avildest jiictm-es, and philosophers have made it the foundation for the most absurd and dreamy specula- tions. Still it has existed in the minds of men, and no force of argument, no subtile sophistry, has been able to eradicate it. Listen to revelation. Even its ancient teachings hint, not very obscurely, at the great truth, and many glim- merings of it appear in its historic and prophetical w^rit- ings. The light which they shed upon it, indeed, was dim and flickering ; yet was it brightness itself, when compared vdib. the gloom of Pagan teaching. The immortality of the soul is clearly mirrored in the mission of Christ. It were surely absurd to suppose that such events as his coming into our world, so heralded as it was by angel bands, so A^ondrous in all its aspects, and his death, which robed the heavens in mourning and made all nature groan, would have transpired to save the soul, if its being yyexQ limited to time's short space and circumscribed by the narrow bounds of earth. The hosanna of praise that was heard upon the plains of Bethlehem, the homage that was paid to the infant Redeemer by the Jewish world in the persons of the shepherds, and by the Gentile 5 260 IMMOIITALITY. ■world in that of the wise men ; the voice of Jehovah proclaiming his sonship at the baptismal waters of Jor- dan, and upon the mount of transfiguration ; nay, every drop that he sweat in the garden, and every groan which he uttered upon the cross, then, louiUy declare man's imraortalitj' to man. It stands forth, prominently, in his teachings and in those of his disciples. Hear him, as he unanswerably replies to the materialists of his day ; " As touching the dead, that they rise, have ye not read in the book of Moses, how in tlie bush God spake unto liim, say- ing, I am the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob ? God is not the God of the dead, but the God of the living." Hear him, as lie encoxir- ages his disciples in the prospect of predicted persecu- tion by the words, " Fear not those \\ho kill the body, but aie not able to kill the soul." Kill the soul ! The suicide may put an end to his eartlily existence, the murderer may cause life's pulse to cease its beating, j and fanaticism may do what it Avill to tlie body ; but the soul no human power can touch. No less explicit is the language of his disciples, A primary article in their creed — one wliich nerved them to endiue aflliction, to face persecution, to die upon the sci-.fi'old or at the stake — was this : •' Absent from the body and luescnt with tlic Lord." Thoy were assured, and tlicy have assured us, that death has no power over the soul. Nay, in tlioir view, to the Chrin- IMMORTALITY. 2G1 tian, it is the friendly hand Avhich opens its prison- door, and permits it to soar to its native sky — the removal ; of the barrier which keeps it Ixom its higliest honor, its ;■ > truest, piu-est bliss. 5 < Who were they -whom John saw, when before him i ; appeared in vision at Patmos a great mnltitude which s J no man could number, of all nations and kindreds, and > ) peoples and tongues, standing before the throne of the I / Lamb, clad in robes of white, and bearing palms in I ' their hands r "Were they not the hosts of the re- '. '/ deemed, who, "come out of great tribulation," now I J live in bliss ? Whom did he see beneath the altar ? ( J Were they not the souls of those who were slain upon I I earth for the word of God and the testimony which I ( they bore — Christ's martyred ones, who now dwell I I where bigotrj' cannot reach them, where persecution > > and suffering have forever ceased ? < I We are not, then, left to spoil out the soul's immor- \ > ' I tality by the light of nature, nor are we called to fol- < ^ low the dubious fancies and the conjectural uncertain- > ties of philosophy. It is attested by a voice from < heaven, it is affirmed by Him whose word is eternal truth. T. 0. Lincoln. .....|5l 262 THE volunteek's farewell. THE VOLUNTEER'S FAREWELL. >> One cheer for our fatherland, ere we depart, ^ As the Switzcr's o■^^T^ mountain-home dear to the I heart ! > One sigh for the sad ones — the loved ones — -vvc leave ; > Then, brothers, awav, for 'tis foUv to grieve. | I We ai-c leaving the laud of the mountain and pine, We are bound for the land of the orange and vine, Where the blossom perpetual enamels the sod, And the incense of nature breathes ever to God. But, alas ! 'tis the land of the despot and slave. Awaiting the aid of the free and the brave ; > Though grandeur and beauty clothe mountains and plains. There liberty languishes — anarchy reigns. Then onward ! the laurels that others have won Arc blooming for us in the clime of the sun ! The arm tliat's invincible still wields tlie blade, And he that " sinrciKlcrs not " calls for our aid. On, brothers — our vows were plighted to-day To glory — tlie mistress who calls us away. OUR FACTORY GIRLS. 263 To the bridal we hasten ; where fiercest the fight The war-god is waiting to witness the rite ! s Our couch we may press 'mid the rush of the storm, ; And the battle's blue smoke may our bridal-wreath \ form ; \ But the soldier's remembrance is hallowed and dear, < Though the laurel may deck — not the brow — but the i bier. Mrs. S. R. A. Barnes. OUR FACTORY GIRLS. It has been the business of an honorable senator in congress to institute comparisons between the factory operatives of the north and the black slavery of the south — to allude to a class of " day laborers," as being subjected to a " horrid tyranny, compared with which the southern slave is happj' indeed," seven tenths of whom are females — New England females — educated from early childhood in the school of liberty ; and, having learned the lessons and imbibed all the principles of a just equality, they acknowledge no man as a master. Possessing all the elements of a laudable independence, they scorn the tp-ant, and despise slavery in all its horrid and complicated forms, as being the 204 OUR FACrOKY GIllLS. <'upas of the moral -vvorld, under -svhose pestiferous shade all intellect languishes, and all virtue dies." The senator, however, would allude to our northern laborers in a spii-it of commiseration. For tlus we thank him. Such a sjonpathy is most kind ; but, in truth, we must say, that we require neither his sj-m- pathy nor his influence in alleviating our condition. AVe are the arbiters of our o\ beauty alone — for this dwells only in the lustre of a weU-c\iltivated mind — but for their moral, religious, and scientific attainments ; and, judging from long experience, I have no hesitation in saying, that in point of health, general intelligence, and all that pertains to the moral and social vu-tues, as a class, they will not suffer in comparison with any others on the globe. That I may be sustained in my assertion, you have only to visit our mills. Go into any or aU of the \ different departments of labor, and you will not only be greeted with bright eyes and smiling faces, but you will observe that neatness, order, and the utmost cir- 't i cumspection prevail ; and, my word for it, your ears \ will not be pained with words of crimination, or with < boisterous faultfinding ; but, on the contrary, w-Ul be \ < found the utmost courtesy and mutual good feelings, < and a scrupulous regard for each other's interests. ^ '"^ 23 266 OUR FACTORY GIRLS. I Should you visit us, you ■wUl find us busily engaged in our usual avocations. Nor do wc Avish to disguise the fact that we are the " sons and daughters of toU." We have been educated from our infancy in the habits of industry, and we have learned to discover in labor J — free labor — a dignity, which, in our view, makes ^ even toil itself an intmisic virtue. Literally it may be said of us, that we " eat our bread by the sweat of the brow." But, " we do not live on bread alone." There are various sources from which wc can derive nutri- ment for the mind as well as the body. "NVe attend religious worship. Most of us are teachers or scholars in the Sabbath school. AVe have also access to exten- sive libraries, and frequently attend popular lectures before the lyceum. Besides, we take " tlie papers," even write for them occasionally, read poUtical speeches, and censure and applaud as wc please the efforts of our public servants in congress, as their political principles do or do not comport with oiu" ideas of right and wrong ; and, when stigmatized as slaves, we take an honest pride in hurling back the foul aspersion into the very face and eyes of him who dares to utter it. And here let me admonish the senator, tliat he has under- taken an herculean task, if he think'< to fasten upon •> the Yankee girls of New England the opprobrious ( epithet of " slaves," by any comparison wliioh he can ] conjure up, or dream of in liis philosojihy. I A'tiHcy I'. IleaUy. \ THE OLD GRANITE STATE. 267 THE OLD GRANITE STATE. "When our old state was new, Now some two hundred years, The people were but few, As by story plain appears ; But the folks were real gritty, As all our records show. Though they'd neither town nor city, Two hundred years ago. Their rocks were truest granite, Thcu- hills of mountain size. The soil, none nobler man it Beneath more genial skies. The red man soon knocked under, And tlic knocking wasn't slow ; It was real Yankee thunder, Two hundred years ago. The moose browsed o'er the mountain. The Avolf prowled through the dell, The wild deer sought the fovmtain. And the bear his Avintry cell ; iK]-- 268 TUE OLD GRANITE STATE. The salmon leaped the -waterfall, And, ^\-ith shad, were " all the go " • So plenty, that they'd come at call, Tavo hundred years ago. The times hare strangely altered, Since our history began, But Old Time has never faltered In reproducing man. And the product has been glorious, As every age -will show, Though things were less uproarious. Two hundred years ago. We'd true New England mothers, To give us a fair start, "Who'd compare with any others In the skill to make us smart, "With our fathers we'll not {quarrel — As to pa, we're not below ; Though the birch usurped the laurel, Two liundred yeai-s ago. When our old state was new, 0\ir Uainiiii; was but small, Witli the masters very few. And scarce mistresses nt all. 'B A SKETCH. 269 " Young ideas " were taught " to shoot " But at Indians, bears, and so, "With little foretaste of such fruit. Two hmidred years a^o. Oeorso Kent. A SKETCH. Almost every body in this state knows General Wil- son by the famUiar but not very elegant cognomen, " Long Jim." Still, there is more meaning, appropri- ateness, in it than a fastidious ear might be aware of. "Long "he certainly is — though not an Anak, nor stretched to the immeasurable length of •' Long John of Chicago." And, to his credit be it said, he is one of those unsophisticated and unstarched men who may be Jimmed without offending their delicacy or detracting from then* dignity. There are some such men who boast no royal pride, but pass along, in re- publican simplicity, claiming the humblest citizen as a brother, and saying to the highest, as Black Hawk did to the president, " I am a man, and you are anoth- er." " Don't thee and tJiou us," said the pompous justices of England to the plam, blunt Quaker, Fox. " Use such familiarities to ovir servants, but not to > 23 * > 270 A SKETCH. magistrates," said they. And a good deal of that royal stifFciiing has crept down into the veins of these dem- ocratic times. The Quakers used to take Washixgtox by the hand, while president of the United States, and address hun, as Penn had the king before, simply as <' George." The great man seemed rather pleased with I a greeting which bespoke the fi-atemizing affection of } home, and often reciprocated it A\-itli the like simplicity iof a brother. Some little sprig" of aristocracy, better furnished with broadcloth than brains, Avould have re- l sentcd a familiaritv that made him but "common ? clay." > But not to dwell on these things, it must be admit- i ted that General Wilson is distinguished, in an cmi- / nent degree, for simple, xmostcntatious habits in lus < intercourse, and unvarying courtesy of demeanor. He probably feels that he is a man, and not an ape. Not a mere buckram fop or dandy — one of those precious tilings, so numerous in sunny weather, that " Present a body wliirli, at most. Is less suljstantial tlian a ghost." Had Robert Burns been an orator instead of a poet, I there would have been a very striking resemblance be- ^ twoen him and General "Wilson. And there is reason \ for this ; for the latter is of Scottish descent, and his veins are full of Scotch feeling and fire, tempered with that earnest, Ii-ish enthusiasm, wliich lie derives from A SKETCH. 271 one branch of his ancestral line. Those who knoAv any thing of the noble-heai-ted, strong--s^■illcd poet, •will see very strong points of resemblance between them. The same •vvild scenes of natiu-e, the same " Land of the mountain and the flood, Of d irk brown heath and shaggj- wood," first opened alike to their youthful eyes. Bums, in his boyhood, followed the plough, and pressed his wild, free I feet to the old Caledonian hiEs ; wlule the American ^ boy bent to the same rustic empiojTaent, and learned ) freedom Uke bim in our beloved Scotland. The same ^ free, generous, and impetuous spirit that swelled in the s bosom of one, now characterizes the other. Alike in disdaining the pompous foUy of lordly life and the " rattling equipage " of wealth and fasliion, the same glorious spirit of independence that Burns worshipped, as "lord of the lion heart and eagle eye," is equally the, idol of the New Hampshu-e orator. If the music of the one feU like a transcendent charm upon the Scottish ear, no less potent, in a dijfferent capacity, is the voice of the other to stir the pulse or win the heart. The same martial fire, the same restless and indignant hatred of tyranny, that burned in the Scotchman's veins, now runs in the American's. Compare them physically, and the same resemblance is apparent ; — ^^ith an exception, however, for the eye of Bums was the most distinctive feature of his face. 272 A SKETCH. Poetry lingered in its radiance ; and -when the bard felt the struggling of that mighty nature within him, his eye is said to have burned and kindled -with an " al- most insufferable light." In General Wilson, the same feature is often lighted up vdth terrible power. To a stranger, General Wilson would not appear the lion he actually is when aroused and in the midst of one of his impassioned strains of eloquence — as Lamb has said of books — that is eloquence. He wo\ild then be taken for some hard-faced ploughman, ungifted \\-ith that •' mighty magic " which puts a tongue iu every thing and leads an assembly captive. I have attended public meetings when he was to address the people, and noted the curious inquiries and sage remarks of those who had never before seen him, and knew nothing of his powers as a speaker. Plainly attired, and in the most unstudied manner, he would enter the house and sit in modest carelessness awaiting the gathering of his audience. No stranger eye would be fixed on him as the hero of the scene. " \Mierc is lie ■ " would be the inquirv. " There he is — that coarse-looking man, bending forward, witli the aspect of a long ' Vermont Jonathan,' " would be the reply. " T/iat General Wil- son ? — why, ho don't look as though he could say any tiling. See tlicre ! I guess your phrenology is all knocked in the head now. lie looks like an old plough-jogger." Such would be the comments. Hut he speaks — at fu-st with that simplicity and courteous ) V A SKETCH. 273 ^ i phraseology that distinguishes the gallant man always, j He stretches himself up — raises liis stentorian voice as 5 he -warms with his subject — period upon period goes I rolling out upon the audience, and echoing back and \ up like the ocean tones of the sea. The orator seems j laboring and dashing forward like one of those " oak i leviathans " of the deep, crushing the haughty waves ; beneath its keel, and wrestling onward against tlie > tempest. It is then vou begin to realize the awaken- ; ing of that " dormant thunder " which you so little i di'eamed was sleeping in that awkward form and un- > promising aspect. You are borne onward by the im- I petuous current, or stirred by some startling picture of | political folly or aggravated wrong, until it would seem | as though the old dead had been summoned back to I rebuke the Uviug. > But in all tliis there is no ungenerous taunt — no > > flippant blackguardism — no impeachment of liis oppo- > nent's motives or abilities, but an exhibition of the > > loftier and better feelings. In tliis respect General \ AVUson occupies a more elevated position than most of ,' the political orators of the day. He scorns the tricks '' and slang of the demagogue. He never descends to > them. His language is chosen with even the nice taste | of the scholar ; and while his periods oftentimes ex- ', hibit a peculiar beauty and finish, they arc fuU of encr- \ gy and charmed -with fire — "as lightning lurks in the | drops of the summer clouds." He never caters to that •> 274 STANZAS. vulgar appetite Avliich riots in abusive cijithct and un- manly detraction. Nor does he ever stoop to repel the base attack and calumny so rife in partizan wai-fare. But he stands up lilce the storm-defying pillar, that mocks alike the fury of the tempest and the wave, and he bears his head aloft into the sunslune and bids them beat on. Moses Ji. Carlland. STANZAS. Adown the track of bygone years, From ■\vlicncc our lives have sped, How many fair and grand ideas Aniong its tombs are dead ; Though once in smiling beauty born, And nurtured in the mind, ITiey'vc passed like clouds in dewy morn. And left no trace behind. If every errant, flitting thought, That sweeps the teeming brain In tiMUjiting show, could all be caught And bound in memory's chain, ^^ ^^^f^\\ Ik) i .^., ULTRAISM. 275 O, what a store of precious lore, To hold in stern command ! — More dear than piles of golden ore, Or pearls from ocean strand. They come, they go, those flitting forms, Wc loved so passing well ; Each treasured glance, each breathing tone, Has left its magic spell — Yet, O, the tluronging memories That live witliin the past ! — That come in dreams too beautiful — Too beautiful to last. ULTRAISM. The great mass of mankind arc groping their way m the dark, not daring to push forward thcii- investiga- tions and researches with that spirit, promptness, and | energy Avhich truth demands. They skim along the surface of the great ocean of truth and eternal princi- i pies, pleased with what a superficial effort brings to ^ their knowledge and understanding. This is the con- | dition of the world, and the only diifercnce between ^ 11- 276 ULTKAISM. the masses and the ultraists, as they are called, is tliis : While tlie fonncr are satisfied -with tlicir superficial kno-vvlcdgc of men and things, the latter probe the matter to the quick, and v;i]l not reluiqviish theu- la- bors until they fully master the subject under consid- eration. The ultraist goes beyond his fellows. He soai's higher, digs deeper, and extends Ids observations further than the multitude. Hence he is called a vis- ionary, a A\ild schemer, a fanatic, an idtraist. But to the true man these are no terms of reproach. They are but -words of cheer and encouragement, as caii be clearly illustrated by a thousand facts drawn from the ponderous pages of history. Men may be ultra in science, polities, religion, and letters ; and yet, when the world comes to understand the views and opinions which are thought to malie men ultra in their notions, it will sanction and approve { them all. Nay, farther. The world will adopt them ; and call them all its own, and wonder that it sliould so I long have been kept in ignorance. How many men of ; science have been denounced as being ultra in their opinions. When Copernicus, alter long and wearied I hours, months, and years, broached the simple doc- i trine that the sun was tlie centre of the soliu- system, and that tlie earth was a secondary body, revolving i around it at a great distance, and turning daily upon j its own axis, lie was persecuted and denounced as an ] ultraist, and his doctrines were roprescnicd as danger- ULTBAISM. 277 ^ m- ous to the church and community. And yet the Co- pernican system of astronomy is the true one, and is now universally adopted. The world, following in the footsteps of Copernicus, have all become astronomical ultraists. What a comment on human blindness and bigotry ! As an example of religious ultraism that has now become popular, look at the sublime and glorious sys- tem of Christianity, which is rapidly working its way to the hearts and consciences of men. When its Founder made his appearance on the earth, clothed vrith. the plain simphcity of the truth, and armed with the simple power of the gospel, he was mocked, per- secuted, insulted, and slain, merely because he was an ultraist. He looked at things as they were, called them by their right names, rebuked the evils and vices of the age, and plainly declared to men the true system of earthly greatness and glory. How was he received ? Let history answer. His ultra doctrines, as they were termed by the ignorant and superstitious crowd, brought dowai upon his head all the vengeance of kings, priests, and the rabble. With one voice they cried out, " Crucify him ! crucify him ! " and accordingly he suffered all the terrible agonies of the cross, between two malefactors. In a lilie manner, his ultra disciples suffered martyrdom and death in the most cruel and horrible forms. And yet these ultra doctrines, as they were reproaclifuUy termed, have lived and flourished 24 J 278 ULTRAISM. for more than eighteen centuries. And this very day, there are thousands and naillions who embrace these doctrines, in the love of tinith, and who glory in that providence of God Avliich gave the world such a sub- lime system of faith and religious practice. O, how much of good has been done in the world by the holy mission of Christianity ! How many broken and sor- rowful hearts has it healed up with its balmy truths ! How many orphans' and ■widows' tears has it dried away ! And how much of Cliristian love and peace has it begotten in the heai-ts of men ! The world owes its great moral Founder a debt of everlasting gi-atitude for the gift of Christianity. But there is one more proof that ultraism is only the demonstration of the truth before the people are prepared to receive it. By a combination of the most singxilar and remarkable circumstances recorded in the annals of history, the continent of America was dis- covered and settled liy Europeans. For long and weary years, om* hardy forefathers endured the toils and la- bors of a new country, exposed to the ravages of fam- ine, disease, and a sleepless enemy. They knew no rest or peace, except that peace of mind which flows from conscious integrity and virtuous actions. They came here to enjoy the freedom of religion and poli- tics. Escaping from the immediate jurisdiction and oppressions of a cruel monarchy, they soon began to sec and feel the necessity of social and political reform. > ULTRA.ISM. 279 > I > They began to realize the beauties of human equality and freedom, and ardently to desire a more just and ^ liberal government. A collision took place betM-cen the colony and the mother country, -which was pro- tracted through a seven years' war, and wliich termi- nated in the glorious victory of the American forces. A new government was established uj)on principles as immutable as truth itself. The fundamental truths of that constitution which is now the admiration of the Avholc world, were denounced as ultra and visionary in the extreme. And yet these ultra political doctrines have stood for more than fifty years as monuments of human wsdom. They cannot die. Our coimtry may fall into the dust, and take its place among the dead rejiublics of the old world ; but the ultra doctrines of the immortal Declaration of American Independence will live as long as the great heart of humanity shall beat and the sons of freedom shall cherish the love of liberty. Human rights and human equality begin now to bo understood, and the doctrines of self-government arc so univorsally bolievod, that no one thinks of call- ing tliem ultra in their nature or tendency. The sign- ers of this Declaration, once denounced as ultra politi- cal aspu-ants, are now admired and loved as the fathers of American Kborty. Away, then, with the foolish and timid idea, that ul- traism is a term of reproach and disgrace. It is not so. The term ultraist, used in the sense in which we employ <, 280 THE DOOMED RACE. < it, moans only the man who has seized hold of the ; truth, -wliile the multitudes are groping about in dark- I ness. AVc ILliC such ultraism as tliis, and our heart is < rejoiced that there are ultra spirits abroad in the world, I preparing it for the more speedy and general diifusion \ of scientific, political, and religious truth. Joscoh Kiddar. THE DOOMED RACE. Ay, true ! yc have waned lilic the phantom hosts Of morn on the misty lea ; Your arrow's sharp hurtle hath left our coasts, The plash of }-our oars our sea ; Where Metacom strode in liis chieftain pride The wig^^•am is seen no more ; And long, long ago hath the council-fire died On the Old Dominion's shore. Your trail o'er tlie green AUeghanian vales Is tlie track of the evening dew, And the war-whoop that swells on the praiiic gales Is the wail of the faint and few. Ye know ye are doomed — a perishing race, I.ikc the leaves of the nutunui blast ; Ye know that the Saxon is wailing your jdace, And yc must belong to the past. H^ THE KESTLESS HEART. 2S1 The arm of the red chief is Aveary of blood — His heart is forgetting its hate ; Too long hath he striven to baffle the flood Of swift and remediless fate. He bows to the current he may not stem With a spirit aU. torn and crushed ; And he will find pity where men condemn, "When his dying moan is hushed. Alas for ye, people of little light ! Your prowess so stern and wild, Your few simple virtues will pass, and night Envelop the forest child ; And historj' alone in some mouldy arch Enshrine the lost Indian brave : — O, sad is the thought that mind's triumph march Must be o'er a niition's grave ! Mrs. Case. THE RESTLESS HEART. The hurry and bustle of the day had given place to comparative quiet, for it was midnight in the imperial city. The Forum was deserted, except by a few scat- tered sleepers, who reclined around the statues, or in the shadows of the porticos. The Jew had crouched 24* .^ 282 THE KESTLESS HEART. av,-ay in liLs comfortless abode — the brawling gladiator was shut in his nightly prison. The husbandman had returned to his vDla with the proceeds of his sales. i There was no hum of buyer or seller in the bookstalls < of the SigUlaria, no gay laughter from the baths, no i shout from the Campus Martins, no merry peal from the public schools. Occasionally, a figure glided silent- ly along, a chariot whirled s^viftly by, or a reveller, reeling homeward, sang fragments of Fescennine songs. Here and there the rays of a lamp streaming through the lattice revealed a copj-ist still grasping his reed, or the journalist preparing the news-sheet for the morrow, and sometimes, too, a weary student came forth firom the library of liucullus to breathe the air of the Cir- cean gardens. All Avas still in the palace of Cirsar. The banquet was over. The mii-thful echoes had died in the stately hall, and the jewelled wine-cups gleamed f;dntly amidst the withered garlands. The guests liad de- parted — some to tlieir cell-like dormitories, some to the cool marble tloors, or the brim of the soothing fountains. For that brief hoiu- even the slave was at rest. Tlie porter and liis dog lay down together. The captive Greek, the sullen Sard, the dark-hued Numid- ian, tlie supple child of the Asian coast, followed undisturbed tlie changes of a dream, l)right, perchance, Avilli tlie tc'iu])Ie of Feronia and tlie cap of Ubcrty. Closing a suite of lofty rooms was one yet more THE RESTLESS HEART. 283 elaborately finished and more lavislily adorned. In it was no trace of the early Komans. Their stern sim- plicity had vanished before the sudden influx of for- eign -wealth. Planned for luxurious ease and elegant retirement, it provided alike for the softness of the Oriental and the highest wants of the scholar. Upon one side lay the garden, separated from it by curtains of briUiant dyes looped up to admit the wind freighted with perfume. It had been wandering at will over the sweet domain, where, grouped in glo-\\ing clusters, twining about sculptured pillars, or climbing over the cur-ving brim of urns and vases, grew flowers of every tint, and vines with their clasping tendrils. There twinkled the glossy foliage of the ilex — there stood the richly dyed arbutus and the graceful myrtle. There bloomed the orange and the lemon, the anemone and the bright cistus, the rose and the violet, the aloe, and the red gUliflower of the rock. There waved the palm, there rustled the gray olive and the bee-loved lime. And all was so fair, so fresh, with the sjiray-drops forever falling from the innumerable jets, and the tran- quil moonlight brightening as with a thought of love each stem and leaf, each bud and blossom. In between columns of transparent alabaster came the beams also. Silently they stole over the mosaics of the floor — silently crept along the marble walls — silently kindled the rare paintings, each a nation's boast — silently lingered amidst the carvings of the arched and pan- 284 THE RESTLESS HEART. ellecl roof. Partly in strong relief, partly in deep shadow, stood noble busts and faultless statues, and upon stands of careful workmanship were piles of exquisitely finished trifles, gathered with violence from conquered jirovinces. A table, covered with the evidences of literai-y toil, was drawn quite to the edge of the garden, and beside it was an open capsa, filled with choice writing imple- ments. At a little distance stood a massive chair, whose framework of scented w'ood was wholly covered with curious patterns inlaid with ivory and gold. In it sat the master of the mansion — the master of Home. The quivering leaves of a neighboring orange-bough made a perpetual dance of light and gloom over liis features, yet it was easy to sec that he was still in his prime. His complexion in youth, even femininely fair, was bronzed by sun and storm ; but he still wore the air of unrivalled elegance which had made him the admiration of the Iloman fashionables. Still his lips retained their voluptuous, passion- breathing swell. Still his fiery eye glanced witli the stern authority which dazzled and controlled. " The vow of my boyhood is fulfilled," he said at lenaitli. " I am lirst in Rome. The world is at mv feet. Ihitain and Gaul, Spain and ^lacedonia, Syria and Numidia, all, from the misty home of the nortlicrn storms to the burning suns of the far south, lie sub- dued before me. I have triumphed ! I sliidl never THE RESTLESS HEART. 285 be forgotten ! When my chariot shall have disap- peared from the Capitol, when my statue, riven from its sphere, shall have lost its inscription — ' Caesar the demigod ' — a}', through all time, shall the ambitious man, be he statesman, general, or scholar, study my career and emulate my victories." There was exultation in the speaker's mien, but it passed away. The voice of flattery was afar ; the shout of tlie miJtitude echoed not in the stillness. Only the tender, thought-inspiring Night looked on the proud imperator. Softly she embraced him ; grad- ually she led liim from thoughts of the world's great- ness, and the world's glory, back into himself. With gentle force she compelled him to listen to the voice of his prisoned soul. Alas ! it spoke but of disappoint- ment, of weariness, of regret. Always in advance of the step just attained, it still struggled upward, and found nothing whereunto to cling. It called aloud for the true, the lofty, the imperishable. It refused to acknowledge, as its doAver, the baubles of an earthly heritage. Dimly conscious of its affinity with the pervading spirit of the universe, it demanded luiceas- ingly a higher goal. As the setting of the sun leaves the snow-crested hill-top cold and lone, so from his place of pride vanished the fitful splendor cast on it by the visions of his v^"ild ambition. Restless and un- happy, he exclaimed bitterly, " Has the fierce struggle, the indomitable "will, the unflagging toil, the blood of iS- V *^ -^ •• "S. -^ N.-»^s. -s 286 THE KESTLESS HEAUT. five hundi-ed battle-fields, the sack of a thousand cities, brought me but this r It is a mockery — a dream — a fable ! Can thLs be aU ? " He peered eagerly into the future. A star might, perchance, shine upon it, fraught Avith a nobler prom- ise. His restless heart, might it not be quieted : His vague, yet pa'isionate yearnings, might they not be stilled r No ; for that was tlie j)roud man's punish- ment. His youthful A'igor, his fresh affections, his strength of purpose, had been given unto e;u-th, and of earth's fleeting joys must he partake, yet remain unsat- isfied. The path up to truth and virtue might not be trodden by such impeded footsteps. Vanity and pride, the Avorld-Avorship tliat had grown intense with time, were mightier than the momentary impulse. On would they urge him through the coming yeai-s, still seeking, still pursuing, still casting osido the toy which had faded in tlie grasping. And tlic end I Afar in tlic darkness gloanicd rodly tlie flames of his funeral pile, Thoy breathed scorcliingly upon him — they cropt uround and ombr.iccd him. He shuddered at his mortality, for his soul was suUied. From the goal he had attained, ho looked upward, upward to the goal lie niiglit have won. With a slight shiver, lie drew buck in thi' stately chair, whicli was tlic synibol of his high office, and covering his face, he c.\clnimcd s once more. " It is a mockery — a dream — a fable I I Can this bo all r " TO Tlli; YOUNG. 287 i The morning star trembled on the horizon. The eastern sky kindled into light. The sun shone glori- ously upon Rome, and changed to gold the waves of the yellow Tiber. Again the busy multitude poured like a flood through this vast mart of nations. Again ] the passions of men, strengthened by repose, started into activity, and violence and deceit were rife in the great city. Forgetful of the sober thoughts of his midnight musings, Cajsar went forth. Again he ad- dressed himself to the task of conquest ; and the his- torian who records his wearmcss of spirit, also chron- icles his insane ambition with its dark reward. M. G. Sleeper, {Haverhill.) TO THE YOUNG. It is well at times, and often, for the young to pause J and consider well the season of youth, and exercise < that prudent forethought so necessarj' to insure a safe '/ and happy voyage over the sea of human life. The { inexperienced pilot, when first the freighted vessel is S placed in his care, will often cast a forward glance I upon the sea, to catch, if possible, the first ajipcarance > of danger, in order to avoid what might otherwise 'w-^'^.'^^^lS| 288 TO THE YOUXG. have caused his ruin. So the young, standing in the vestibule of this busy world, just ready to launch off upon the open sea, should cast forward and catch the fu'st sound of the distant breakers, and avoid the rocks and quicksands that lie in the way. So wisdom dic- tates ; for however bright the morning of hfe may ap- pear — though the sky may be cloudless and the sea unruffled — yet, as the ocean at times is swept by the wing of the tempest, and its waters ploughed into movmtain waves, so the sea of human life must be disturbed by the tempests of cUsappointmcnt, and the stoi-ms of misfortune wUl roll over it, milking ship- "vvreck of the miwise and improvident, and, to some extent, blasting the hopes and anticipations of the wisest and best. " Life is a se.i — how fair its face, How smooth its (iimjiliiig waters pace, Its can<>|)y how pure ! But rocks below — and tempenU sleep Iiisiilious o'er the plassy doei>, Nor leave an liour secure." There is a work to be accomplished in the morning s of life — a work of jiaraniouiit importance. I aiu aware that the season of youth has been, and now is, too generally regarded as a sort of play-day — a period having but little responsibility, care, and labor. In youth, we look forwaid to the tunc when life shall as- -S '/ TO THE YOUKG. 2S9 ? sume a deeper significance, and become a scene of earnest toil and elfort. Until then, we have nothing to do. So the young live in the futvu'c, and are thought- less of the present. But in opposition to these views of the season of youth, in my judgment there is no period m human existence possessed of such relative importance, and so full of interest, as tliis. In the first place, it is Important because it is the starting point in life — the period when we all begin to live. In every human enterprise, it is essential that A\e begin aright. To commence wrong, in any under- taking, promises poorly for future success. The first step controls the second, and the second aff"ects the succeeding one, and so on through life. An error at the beginning of life may prove much more dangerous and fatal than the errors of our later years. They may pave the way for greater sins to follow. They may be the small beginnings of a great " comedy of errors," w-hile mistakes at the close of life will lead to but few succeeding ones. In solving a mathematical problem which requires a long, complicated process of additions, subtractions, multiplications, and divisions, a mistake of one figure only, and that of the least relative value, at the beginning, may prove a serious error at the close of the process. That blunder, slight at first, runs through the entire work, increasing at every step, lead- > ing to other and greater errors, and in the result the j 290 TO THE YOUNG. magnitude of the wrong is truly fe;irful. Had that mistake occurred near the close of the process, its re- sult would have been less. So the errors of our youth, though tx'ivial in themselves, may run through the whole problem of life, increasing in magnitude all the while, so that what in the morning of life seemed like a little cloud, no larger than the hand, may multiply and spread until it shall darken the whole heavens. Let the young, then, beware of the smallest sins. Shun all error and wrong in early life — so shall thy future years be bright and peaceful, and blessings shall follow thee to the grave. Secondly. Again, youth is exceedingly important, because it is the most dangerous period in life. Temp- tations come upon the young with a fearful power. Every period brings its own peculiar temptations, but none like that of youth. Then the voice of the charmer is powerfully dangerous ; tlicu the feelings are fresh, buoyant, and strong — the passions ai-e all un- subdued — the intellect and moral powers are unde- veloped — the habits are unestablisluHl, and tlie young tread the path of virtue with inexperienced and, alas ! too often >vith hesitating steps. Happy, thrice happy is that young man wlio stands firmly on the rock of virtue, resisting successfully tlic syren influences of all worldly temptation " Woman is sheltered by fond arms and loving counsel ; old age is i)rotected by its experience, and manhood by its strength ; but the TO THE YOUNG. 291 young man stands amid the temptations of the -world, like a self-balanced tower. Happy he who seeks and gains the prop and shelter of morality." Finally, let no one regard the season of youth with indifference. Let the young improve it well, and lay up treasures for coming years. «' In the morning sow thy seed, and in the evening -withhold not thy hand." I will close with the following beautiful extract. Read it, ponder it, and learn its lessons. " It was New Year's night. An old man stood at his wmdow and looked, with a glance of fearful de- spair, up to the immovable and ever-blooming heavens, and down upon the stUl, pm-e, white earth on which no one was so joyless and sleepless as he. His grave was near him. It was covered -with the snow of old age, and not with verdure of youth, and he had brought with him from a whole rich life nothing but errors, sins, and diseases, a wasted body and a desolate soul, a breast full of poison, and an old age fuH of re- pentance. The beautiful days of his youth came back to him like spectres, and brought him again to that lovely morning when his father first placed him on the cross-way of life which leads, on the right, on the sunny path of virtue, into a broad, quiet land, full of light and harvests, and which, on the left, plunges into the mole-walks of vice, and into a cave fuU of poisonous distillations, hissing snakes, and dark, sultry vapors. 292 TO THE YOUNG. " Alas, the snakes -were hanging on his breast, and the poison-drops were on his tongue ! He knew now where he -v^as. Distracted with luiiitterable grief he appealed to Heaven : ' Give me back my youth, O fa- ther ! place me again iipon the cross-road, that I may choose otherwise.' But both his father and his youth were gone long ago. He saw igncs fatui dancing upon the marshes and disappearing in the cemetery, and he said, ' These are my days of foUy.' He saw a star fall glittering from heaven, and vanish on the earth. ' That am I,' said his bleeding heart, and the serpent- fangs of repentance struck deeper and deeper into his wounds. His inflamed imagination pictured to him flying night-walkers upon the roofs, and the windmill lifted its arms threatening destruction. A skull, left behind in the house of the dead, gradually assumed his features. In the midst of this struggle, the music for the New Year flowed down from the steeple, like far-off" church melodies. He was moved. He looked around the prison and over the far-reaching earth, and thought of the friends of his youth, who now, happier and better than he, were teachers of the earth, fathers of hap])y families, and blessed of men, and he ex- claimed, ' (), I also, like you, might slumber m itli dry eyes, on this first niglit of the New Year, if I had willed it. Alius, I too might be happy, my dear parents, if I had fully obeyed your exhortations ! * " In tiie feverish remembrance of the spruig-timc of | m > TO THE YOUNG. 293 his life, the skull with his features seemed to him to raise itself. At length, by that superstition which sees in the New Year's night the spirits of futurity, it became a living youth. " He could behold it no more. He covered his eyes. A thousand hot tears streamed from his eyes and were lost in the snow. He sighed, in accents scarcely audi- ble, ' Come back, youth, come back ! ' And it did come back. It was all a horrid dream. He was yet a youth. His errors only were no dream. He thanked God that he was still young, and that he could leave the walks of vice and retui-n to the sunny path which leads into the land of harvests. Return with him, young reader, if you are standing on the wrong path, that this terrible dream become not in the future your judge. If you then call, « Retm-n, beautiful youth,' it wiU not return." B. M. Tillotson. 25 * \ -~^ — gl 294 THE PILGEIM OF THE "WORLD. THE PILGRIM OF THE WOELD. The world's wearj' pathway — I've wandered it through, Some bright-glancing meteor ever in view ; And fair forms of fancy were beckoning mc on, But, ere I oould grasp them, the charmers were gone ; And small seems the worth of the joys I've possessed, Now life's journey is o'er, and the PUgrim must rest. Men's histories scanned, on the first and last page The yearnings of youth and the anguish of age Alike are impressed ; and what boots it, between, Perchance, in thy record a triumph has been ? As vain were thy efforts that joy to retain, As imprison the sunbeam, or fetter the main. Beauty and Love — O ! their cmblcnxs arc flowers. Their date of existence is numbered by hours ; And Friendship's wai-m smile with the swallow has flown. And Fame with the popular breathing is gone ; And Gold in the grasping is dimmed by thy cares, 'Twas Hope lent it lustre — that hope is thine lunr's ! ■m < NEW HAMPSHIRE. 295 j Thus fair as the siren, but false as her song, The -world's painted shadows that lure us along. Like the mist on the mountain, the foam on the deep. Or the voices of friends that wc greet in our sleep. Are the pleasures of earth; and I mourn that to heaven I gave not the heart which to folly was given. Sarah Jane Hale. NEW HAMPSHIRE. Hail, land of the Mountain Dominion ! Uplifting thy crest to the day, Where the eagle is bathing his pinion In clouds that are rolling away. O, say, from the Pilgrim descended Who ti-ampled on Albion's crown, ShaU we, by thy cataracts splendid. Refuse thee a wreath of renown — A wreath of renown from thy evergreen bough, Entwined with the oak that adorncth thy brow r \Vhat though, on the mountains that bore us, The fern in her loneliness waves ? Our forefathers tilled them before us, And here will we dwell by their graves ; 296 NEW HAMPSHIKE. And beloved of thy blue-eyed daughters, Ever true to the brave and the free, We'll drink of the gush of thy waters, That leap m the sun to the sea. Huzza to the rocks and glens of the North ! Huzza to the torrents that herald them forth ! Ye hills, where the tempest hath billowed, O, glance to the vales of the sun ! Where hearts, on iniquity pillowed, Melt not o'er the deeds they have done ! Where Slavery's merciless minion. Is scourging the slave with his rod, While Liberty foldeth her pinion, And mournfully murmurs to God ; Where the dew on the flower, and the mist on the flood, With voices that startle, cry, "Blood ! brother, blood ! " Thank God, that the scourge and the fetter Have never dishonored thy flag ! And, but for thy shame that the debtor Is dragged from his home on the crag. Thy fearless and puritan spirit Might speak, willi a cry of disdain. To the valleys whose children inlicrit 'llie slave in his collar and chain ! NEW HAMPSHIRE. 297 Let the woes of the bondman dissolve thee no more, Till thy bolts are Mithdrav.-n on the penniless poor. Peace to us is evermore singing Her songs on thy mountains of dew, "While still at our altars are swinging The swords that our forefathers drew. But O, may we never unshcath them Again where the carnage awaits. But to our descendants bequeath them To hang upon Liberty's gates, Encircled with garlands, as blades that were drawn By the hosts of the Lord, that have conquered and gone ! All haU to thee. Mountain Dominion ! Whose flag on the cloud is unrolled, Where the eagle is straining his pinion, And dipping his plumage in gold. We ask for no hearts that are truer. No spirits more gifted than thine, No skies that are warmer or bluer, Than dawn on thy hemlock and pine. Ever pure are the breezes that herald thee forth. Green land of my father ! thou Rock of the North ! J. Q. A. Wood. 298 FREE THOUGHT. FREE THOUGHT. Now-A-i)AYS, when so many are tliinking, and so many arc writing ; at a time when great tlioughts are shaking the social world — when olden creeds are paling in the searching light of da^vning science, it ill | becomes any one to set up the bounds of thought and ! expression. Whenever and wherever a word is to be > said, or a thought to be \ittered, 'tis a gross and mis- j crable assumption that dictates its reception. Much as | we prate of freedom — intellectual freedom — freedom | of thought, will, and action, but few, very few d.vue | bring out their own true thoughts to the open light ; j for should they do ^dolcnce to popular sentiment, the | crowd, the populace, the sect, the order, all are tloicn ' upon them with nn avalanche of denunciation. I For this rea.son, so few genuine writers arc among { > us ; and while so many arc babbling and warring among the tombs and shades of unmeaning dogmas, but few dare proclaim the trxithful inspirations of their own hearts. A sorry picture society presents : the many, perched ujion tlic motmtain-topa of their own delusion, stoutly maintaining the beliefs and opinions of tlieir kind ; while tho jfcw, yot powerful, deferring E" FREE THOUGHT. 299 the impracticable questions of eternity to its own sure revealings, have fixed themselves upon the more cer- tain grounds of science and philosophy. Still, others there are, more strong, standing on the broad line of truth and reason, -whose electric thoughts sweep out upon the world, and fall with a strange spell upon the hearts and minds of men ; — all, all intent upon their own diverse schemes — all have their adherents, all their devotees. With this view, that looks out beyond sect, or clan, or neighborhood, would not true wisdom mcline us to the Hberal side, to give a wide berth to the feehngs and sentiments of all ? Indeed, this is 7iot a question of pi-ivilege, but of riyht ; and the time has now come when men may speak out freely, and not fear the frowns of synods. Without this freedom, without a just regard to individual opinions, society were but a grand scheme of associative tjTanny, and to oppose its edicts were madness. But better things prevail, and time hastens when mind will be fully fi-ee. True lives exist — true thought is growing. It will one day find a tongue. It will speak. It will be heard — it will be regarded. Society, it is true, is infiicted with a host of maladies ; but they are not so deep or dangerous as many sup- pose. They arc not past cure. In fact, men are betler than we call them, better than they seem. " 'Tis soci- ety, not man, that sins." This truth is not sufiiciently m- ii- 300 rUEE XHOUOHT. regarded — not sufficiently understood. Men are not all bad — co^vards and conformists, by custom ; by na- ture, noble, independent, and strong. A web of cir- cumstances surround and control tliem. Yet there's a soundness at the bottom ; there's an iiicH sense in man not apparent to all ; and, despite the servility of society, there is still latent in the mind a respect, a love for the very spirit that scorns and defies its pow- er ; and even now, every exhibition of heroic independ- ence but raises our regard to the loftiest admiration, before which the time-serving conformist of the day sinks to utter crawling. Thus much has been said, not with a view to show, but to use and application. Indeed, in this age of books and steam, whoever writes -without a thouyht or an object before him, had better be about something else — had better keep his wares at home. Living together as wc do, as communities, as associ- ates, as friends, there arc many means and uses for the cultivation of social uitcrcourse. To this end a nu- cleus is formed, and the attracted elements are dra^^^l together. It little matters the means, if the accom- plislmient is good. To this spirit that unites, that brings together, that gives play to the liveliest feelinga and faculties of the soul, I most cliecrfully subscribe ; but witli that other spirit, tliat prescribes thought, that restrains speech, and is forever descanting on tlie sins of others, I've no sort of sympathy whatever. It FUEE THOUGHT. 301 i makes no one better, it begets no love, it does no good. The rule by which I would abide, and by which I would have all abide, would be to do right our- selves, and let others believe, think, and talk as they may. But adopt and extend this rule, and mtercourse, which is now so sectional and restrained, would be free | and in^dgorating ; but do this, and society, which now \ looks so wintry and forbidding, would put on the hues > and pleasantness of spring. I There is no need of all this cutting up, splitting, | assorting, and dividing the human family after the i distmctions of men, No need of partition walls ; no | need of hedges ; no need of lines. Out with them ! | they are false, invidious, and hateful. Be truthful, be \ generous, be free, is the song that Nature sings ; and | who would break those tuneful harmonies — would | stop those inspiring notes, would hurry up the discord- ant elements of earth — ay, cast asunder the angel band that shout around the throne of Heaven r F. Ji. M. \ 302 THE DAUGHTEK OF THE ISLES. THE DAUGHTER OF THE ISLES. [Lucy Goudale Thurston, daughter of Rev. Asa and Mrs. Lucy Thurston, (missionaries at the Sandwich Islands, where she was born,) arrived at New York, on a visit to the land of her fathers, and immediately after sickened and died, at the age of seventeeu years and ten months, leaving a sure and sweet hope of accept- ance through the Redeemer. The biographer of this interesting girl remarks, " Hers was a peaceful home. AtTection made it happy, and regiilar and varied occupations added zest to its enjoyments. When, with her mother and sister, she walked along the shores of the broad Paritle, and listened to tales of her fatherland, and of a Christian land, lier heart never sighed for the far-off* region she had brightly pic- tured in her imagination ; and she returned with a contented spirit to her quiet home at Kailua."] F.vin claxiKhtcr of the sunny isles, Th.it sit like soverci;^ns on the sea, How shall I weave a song of smiles For her who never smiled on rac ? Or how of graces may I speak, That never yet have blest mine eyes ; The dewy Up, the virgin check Of one that's past beyond the skies ? THE DAUGHTER OF THE ISLES. 303 I know that Fancy's pearls may shine On Beauty, and, like pearls, be cold ! That Flattery's flowers round Wit may t^n-ine, And die on bosoms they enfold ; And well I know the exalted Mind, That late informed thy perfect clay, Would not -with Love or Wit be shrined Nor be adored in servile lay. I know that Death invests the fiiend With worth Existence never knew ; And to defects we love to lend The veil that gives them Virtue's hue ; But thou need'st not our glimmering light, To shine on thy regretted tomb ; Nor flowers of verse — whose path was bright, Whose life was one bouquet of bloom. And thou, beyond as well the songs As wailings of a world like this. Art mingling with the sister-throngs That early fled away to bliss ; As far removed from paltry praise, Which vainly would thy notice win, As from material wants and ways — As thy pure spirit is from sin ! w- 304 THE DAUGHTER OF THE ISLES. I love to think thy tender age Was wed to Nature's wondrous book ; And that thou didst upon its page Of flowers and shells and planets look ; Aiid yet, from flower, and star, and sea, A very child — did'st turn away, To seek the glances dear to thee, In thine own quiet Kailua. I love to think how free thou wast From Fashion's lore, that taints our kind ; That still is purchased at the cost Of kingdoms — a transparent mind ! And sigh to think earth has so few — Such price is for refinement paid — As thou, to simple Nature true, A guileless and a trusting maid. I sigh for her ^^•ho nobly brought Such wc;ilth from Honolulu's strand ; And him wlio, senduig, meekly tliought With such to bless its father-land. And yet 'tis well, tliis tropic gem All polished — though to tlieso unknown — So early shines, a diudcm. Where shines the rainbow-cinctured throne. m^ THE DAUGHTER OF THE ISLES. 305 Thanks for the record of thy worth, Traced by Aifection's modest pen ; Tears gave I to its earnest truth, Though counted not -with weeping men. And better thought I of ray race, Redeemed by excellence so rare ; And richer seemed abounding Grace, That sought and dowered such lovely heii-. With books that may not perish be These pages numbered ; youth shall know How to perfection's symmetry The daughter of the Lord may grow ; And here, as mirrored in a glass, May see how fair the saint may shine, "Who lets this world unheeded pass, And svirely seeks a world divine. Farewell I I weep that flower so young, The nursling of a gentle sky, Should on our shores be coldly flung. In all its loveliness, to air. And yet 'twas ordered by His will, Who wisely hath events decreed — Thou wast but lent ; ye griefs, be still ! He but recalled when he had need. W. B. Tappan. > ^'^^ 26 * ~" 5 306 THE LOTED AND LOST. \ THE LOVED AND LOST. How beautifully true is the scriptural compai'ison of life to a flower, which springeth up in the morning and blooms, but iu the evening is cut down and < ■withers away ! Its exceeding bcaiity and comeliness, ^ its delicate tints, rose-colored and golden, its -virgin I buds and blossoms, and the incense which it lavishes \ from its fragrant urn upon the summer air, as it leans | forward for its gentle kiss — what are they all, and what do they avail ? Alas, they are as nothing. Ila- \ diant though it be with Nature's sunniest smile, and ; arrayed in her loveliest attire, the little flower which J lifteth up its head so proudly at moni, bows to the { blast, is stricken down, and withers away, wet with > the dews of night. And so it is with life. W'c hardly i enter the world, flushed with bright hopes and luitici- j pations, ere we are summoned by the angel of death to I leave it. A\'e hardly t;iste its enjoj-mcnts and its \ pleasures, ere the cup is dashed from our lips forever. The eloquent lip becomes pale and mute at the moment •we are drinking in its honied accents. The bright eye grows dim, and the strong arni motionless, while we are witnessing their power and conquests. The bril- ~^ — (S ii^ THE LOVED AND LOST. 307 liant intellect flashes upon us, dazzling and delighting ? the world, and in an instant is gone. The loved one ! clings to us in the bloom of life, folds her hands about | our neck, and the next moment lies lifeless in our ! } arms. Honor and Station, however high, have no ? / power to arrest the hand of the destroyer. The silver I i locks of Age bow before him. Youth and Innocence I > smile and plead to him, but he delights to feast upon ■ their very smiles and dimples, and Beauty, " As, with embroidered scarf and golden zone, She sweepeth by towards her jewelled throne," — Beauty, the impersonation of all that is lovely and excellent in woman, is touched by the icy finger of Death, falls to the earth, and becomes the food of worms Tft^'^^^^i^'^^ It is hard to part with those we love, and it seems lilie tearing away the heart-strings, to surrender them up to the cold chamber of the tomb. Notwithstanding all the consolation which religion or philosophy brings to the wounded spirit, still, the loss of those to whom we are endeared unmans one, if he has a throb of kindly feelings in his bosom. Cold and heartless in- deed must be that philosophy — born of Christianity it cannot be — which weeps not over the remains of the loved and lost. The tear gushes to the sealed eye from the desert-heart -within, Avhcn smitten by the hand of Omnipotence, as the waters gushed from the 308 THE LOVED AND LOST. rock ill the -wilderness, when the prophet smote it A^dth his wand. To see the lip jjale in death, yet wreathed with a living smile — to feel the brow cold and icy, and the eye, like tliat of Medora — " O, o'er ihe eye Death most exerts Iiis might. And hurls the spirit from her tliroiie of light — Sinks those blue orbs in tli;u long, last eclipse. But spares ua yet the smile around her lips." — all this moves us, unless we have a heart of ada- mant. And then the light-bounding step, so familiar and pleasant to hear ; the voice of welcome, at morn- ing, noon, and night; the eye that weeps over our misfortunes, and fills with tears of joy at our success ; the smile at all times, and always happy, and bright, and cheerful ; the earnest jirayer for the little ones ; the care and Avatchfulness over them ; the devotion and unceasing attention, the clinging love and more than earthly affection by the side of the sick couch at midniglit ; how can we forget tlicm, or, remembering, forbear to weep and mourn tlie loss of those who pos- sess them ? I may err, and yet I cannot but regard the tic which binds the liusband to the wife of his bosom ns the golden thread of life, and the affection which springs from tliat relation as the holiest iiiul jmrost of all the passions. Indeed, it embraces within itself, and cen- tres u])Oii the very heart's slirinc, the p\n-er and better THE LOVED AND LOST. 309 attributes of them all. The undymg .strength, the tenderness and gushing ardor, of other affections are admitted. Their developments are dehghtful, and what a s-weet, mellow radiance do they spread over the pathway of Ufc, as it were a golden ray from the throne of heaven itself! The love which exists be- tween young hearts, in the hey-day of life, has been sung and felt, and pronounced ecstatic. The love of sister for sister, or brother for brother ; of a brother for his sister, his early playmate, and the sharer of his sports and his sorrows, and the return of that love fi-om the sister's heart ; the love of a mother for her child ; ay, and above all, the love of a father for his daughter — how sweet, how endearing are they all ! But that affection which exists between a young wife and the object of her earliest love, the creature of her virgin heart, is chaster, purer, and hoUer than all. Indeed, it is all in one ; and when the tie which binds them is broken, when the young mother is stricken do^vIl to the cold earth, and death feasts upon her lips, her dimples, and her smiles ; when the young father is snatched away from the side of her, the mother of Ms children, and the being of his tendcrcst love, what a void is left ! What agony, what grief, press upon the spii-it of the surviving one ! We feel as though a golden harp, to whose scraijhic tones we are listening, had suddenly stopped, while we strain the ear to catch its magic sounds. The survivor, for the moment, seems m- 310 LIVING AND MEANS. to die, and tlie living heart to lie in the cold tomb with the dead and gone. The presiding spirit has vanished from the family chcle ; and the bereft, as the household gods lay scattered around, no longer to be gathered up by that presiding one, removed from earth to heaven, exclauns in the touching language of Ruth, the beau- tiful gleaner of Bethlehem, " Whither thou goest I •will go, and where thou lodgest I -will lodge. Thy people shall be my jjeople, and thy God my God. Where thou diest will I die, and there will I be bviried." J. H. Warland. LIVING AND MEANS. The world is full of people who can't imagine why they don't prosper like their neighbors, when the real obstacle is not in banks nor tariffs, in bad public policy nor hard times, but in their own extravagance and heedless ostentation. The young mecliauic or clerk marries and takes a house, which he proceeds to furnish twice as expensively as ]io can afford, aiid then his wife, instead of taking hold to lielp him earn a UvcUhood by doing her own work, must liavo a liired servant to help her spend his limited earnings. Ten years afterward you will liud liiui struggUug on under m LIVING AND MEANS. 311 a double load of debts and children, Avondering wliy the luck was always against him, while his friends regret his imhappy destitution of financial ability. Had they from the first been frank and honest, he need not have been so unlucky. Through every grade of society this vice of inordi- nate expenditure insinuates itself. The single man, " hu-ed out " in the country at ten to fifteen dollars per month, who contrives to dissolve his year's earn- ings in frolics and fine clothes ; the clerk, who has three to five hundred dollars a year, and melts down twenty to fifty of it into liquor and cigars, are paral- leled by the young merchant who fills a spacious house with costly furniture, gives dinners, and drives a fast horse, on the strength of the profits he expects to realize when his goods are all sold and his notes all paid. Let a man have a genius for spending, and whether his income is a dollar a day or a dollar a minute, it is equally certain to prove inadequate. If dining, winning, and party-giving won't help him through with it, building, gaming, and speculating will be sure to. The bottomless pocket v,-ill never fill, no matter how bounteous the stream pouring into it. The man who, being single, does not save money on six dollars per week, will not be apt to on sixty ; and he who docs not lay up something in his first year of independent exertion, will be pretty likely to wear a poor man's hair into his grave. 312 LIVING AND MEANS. When the Avorld shall have become Aviser, and its standard of morality more lofty, it will perceive and affirm that profuse expenditure, even by one who can pecuniarly afford it, is pernicious and unjustifiable ; that a man, however wealthy, has no right to lavish on his owti appetites, his tastes, or his ostentation, that which might have raised hundi-eds from destitution and dcspau- to comfort and usefulness. But that is an improvement in public sentiment which must be waited for, while the other is more ready and obvious. The meanness, the dishonesty, the iniquity, of squandering thousands unearned, and keeping others out of money that is justly theirs, have rarely been urged and enforced as they should be. 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