TO MEMORY.

Come, Memory, and paint those scenes
I knew when I was young,

When meadows bloomed, and vernal greens,
By nature's band were sung.

I mean those hours which I have known,
Ere light from me withdrew-

When blossoms seemed just newly blown,
And wet with sparkling dew.

Yet, ah! forbear, kind Memory, cease
The picture thus to scan!

Let all my feelings rest in peace,
'Tis prudence' better plan;

For why should I on other days
With such reflections turn,
Since I'm deprived of vision's rays,
Which sadly makes me mourn!

And when I backward turn my mind,
I feel of sorrow's pain,

And weep for joys I left behind,
On childhood's flowery plain;

Yet now, through intellectual eyes,
Upon a happier shore,

And circled with eternal skies,

Youth sweetly smiles once more.

Futurity displays the scene,

Religion lends her aid;

And decks with flowers forever green,
And blooms that ne'er can fade,

Oh, happy time! when will it come,
That I shall quit this sphere,
And find an everlasting home,
With peace and friendship there?

Throughout this chequer'd life 'tis mine

To feel affliction's rod;

But soon I'll overstep the line
That keeps me from my God.

A DREAM.

Night o'e rthe sky her sable mantle spread,
And all around was hushed in sweet repose,
Nor silence suffered from intrusive noise;
Save now and then the owl's unpleasant scream,
From yon old pile of ancient grandeur sent,
Broke in, obtrusive on the tranquil hours.
Reflection took my mind, and o'er my thoughts,
Unnumbered visions flit with rapid speed.

I thought on man, and all his childless joys,
From rosy infancy to palsied age-

And yet the sigh of recollection stole,

Then heaved my breast with sorrow's poignant throb; For ah! I feel what some have never felt,

That is, to be in one continued night,

From January's sun till dark December's eve;
And strange it is, when sleep commands to rest,
While gloomy darkness spreads her lurid vail,
That then by being blind I suffer most!
O sight! what art thou? were my final words,
When sleep with leaden fingers seal'd my eyes.
Now free from care and tumult's torturing din,
Young fancy led me from my humble cot;

And far through space, where suns unnumbered burn,
I with her took a grand excursive flight,

Then back again to Erin's hill of green,

I with her wandered; nor did night, nor gloom,
One step intrude to shade the prospects round.
I saw sweet Scarvagh, in her loveliest garb,
And all her trees in summer's dress were clad.

Her honored mansion, seat of peace and love, Gave rapture to my breast, for there I've found True hospitality, which once did grace

The hall's of Erin's chiefs of old;

But soon, alas! the hum of nightly bands
And vagrants, strolling on in quest of sin,
Bore fancy from me with her golden train,
And once more left me in the folds of night.

BEAUTIES FROM "A BLIND MAN'S OFFERING,"

TOGETHER WITH A SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR'S LIFE.

"Offerings there are, of moral worth and talents,
Sacrificed to lust and love of gain,

To envy, hatred, loves inordinate,

And all the baser passions of the soul.

But thine are offerings sacred to the shrine

Of reason, truth and sentiment, replete

With beauties rare, and treasures of the mind."

MAN's nature, like veneering, may be warped to almost every condition in life. It may be bent to angular circumstances, or shaped to infirmities; it may be marred and chafed by care and want; and still present a surface susceptible of the highest polish. Misfortunes which may seem at first almost insupportable, may grow in favor, like Crusoe's pet spider, and at length come to be regarded as old and tried friends, if not positive blessings. Afflictions are but the seasonings of life's dish, and without them it would be tasteless and insipid. Without the ills of life, we should be illy prepared to enjoy its blessings. By opposites, alone, we judge of the nature of things. Contrast is the betrayer of every object in nature. Were it not for darkness, or the absence of light, we should remain forever ignorant of the existence of

light itself. Wrong is the only rule by which we can measure right action; and were there no pain there would be no pleasure. Sorrows are but ill-timed joys-wrong, right inverted—error, reason's blunders

disappointment, only the broken links in life's chain of pleasant associations, and often, from the common ills of life spring our choicest blessings. It is folly to pine at misfortune, while the world is full of time, and effort is fruitful of success. The mind that is truly great, will rise above the petty annoyances of this world, and though the visible universe be shrouded in midnight darkness, knowledge will enter, if only at the finger's ends. True, thoughts, like plants, reach up for the light, but it is the light of truth; and he who is blind to this light, is blind indeed.

Mr. Bowen, author of the work above alluded to, in his reflections on cheerfulness, says: "The smile that wreathes the lip with gladness comes not from the sunshine without, but from within. The physical world is not beautiful until the soul has breathed upon it. The highest happiness of which we are capable can proceed only from the heart that has been sanctified by sorrow." In the same connection he adds: “We can never be too grateful to God for so arranging the allotments of his providence that there is always something in the situation of every one, which exerts an alleviating influence."

The truth of the Roman adage, that all things are not possible to all men, has been verified, we doubt