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On the downy breath of the sportive breeze,
That murmured all night 'mid the leaf-clad trees,
I was gently borne to a chamber lone,
Where the midnight lamp o'er a scholar shone,
The offspring of genius, whose every thought
With fancy and feeling was richly fraught.
But a dream of ambition was lurking there,
And I turned with a sigh to a scene more fair,
Where the perfume sweet o'er my senses stole:
'Twas the balm of peace to the anguished soul;
It breathed from a flower, a lovely thing
That bloomed in the heart's most sacred spring.
Then the trophy-clad seraphs around me came;
Their harps of glory were sounding its name.
'Twas blessed beneficence, spotless and mild,
And I hailed it immortal with joys undefiled.
In an amaranth wreath, for the brow of, the kind,
It is twined by the orphan, the mute, and the blind,
And it blooms ever fair, as the star of even,
Though drooping and sad with the tear-drops of heaven.


All-hallowing memory, holy, blest,

Comes like the wind-harp's note at even,
Soothing the spirit's sad unrest

With glimpses of its promised heaven.

Fond moment of terrestrial bliss!

In fancy's magic mirror bright,

I feel a mother's fervent kiss,

And hear a father's sweet good night.

*Emotions of a friend, who, after long absence from home, drank the Croton water a few moments before landing at New York.

I've wandered from my boyhood's home,
And stood beneath Italia's skies;
I've trod thy streets, imperial Rome,
And learned how earth-born splendor dies.

In sunny France, 'mid England's bowers,
And Scotland, with its varied view
Of rocky glens and lovely flowers-
Each fairy haunt how well I knew!

And mused o'er Erin's shamrock green,
So precious to each Irish heart,
Till in the faded past were seen

Its glories from the dust to start.

I'm turning from these scenes away

To thee, my boyhood's happy home; To the fond friends of early day,

Like the lone, wandering dove, I come,

And while I quaff the waters bright,
Dear Croton, of thy crystal stream,
Unnumbered airy dreams of light,

Around my truant fancy beam.

Light of my life art thou to me,

Sweet home, my first and latest star;

I never knew how dear thou'dst be,
Till I had wandered thus afar.

So, sacred Nile, thy sons for thee

Would weep in Cashmere's lovely vale,
Look wildly on Marmora's sea,
Nor heed Arabia's spicy gale.

But sigh for Egypt's pleasant stream,
That washed their sunny land the while:
Day's star of hope, night's dearest dream,

Were the sweet waters of the Nile.


"With affections warm, intense, refined,

She mingled such calm and holy strength of mind,
That, like heaven's image in the smiling brook,
Celestial peace was pictured in her look."

THERE is perhaps no manifestation of the human intellect that more conclusively proves its immortality, than our constant discontent with the present, and insatiate reaching forward after objects of desire shrouded in the vista of futurity. Before the budding mind is sufficiently developed to comprehend its responsibility or learn its destiny, the heart is moved forward by an innate impulse, and the pure fancy is impressed with alluring images, natives of a brighter sphere. When in the sunny hours of childhood we sport upon the flowery lawn, sit by the murmuring rill, as it gently meanders along its willowed banks, or chase with fantastic tread the gay butterfly over the rich green meadows, plucking from our path the lily and the wild rose, life seems to us but one scene of charming beauty, unsullied by the snares of sin.

Yet oft from those innocent sports we turn away, our hearts panting for maturer years; and, while glancing to the future, we paint in our youthful ardor

all that is delightful and gay. But, alas! as we gently glide along the current of time and emerge into the busy scenes of life, how oft are our fondest hopes blighted, and mountains of sorrow and disappointment appear in view, rearing their summits to the sky, yet glittering with the tears of earthly pilgrims that have passed over before us. Yet who dares murmur at his lot? He who holds in his hands the destiny of individuals as well as nations, has purposes to accomplish. Whatever he decrees in his righteousness, though it at first seems our loss of all, will ultimately prove our highest good. "For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are my ways your ways, saith the Lord. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts."

No theme or philosophy devised by ancient or modern sages can administer so sovereign a solace to the afflicted or sorrow-stricken soul as an unshaken confidence in a wise, overruling Providence, and an enlightened faith in the doctrines of the everlasting gospel. On the precious promises beaming from that volume our present authoress has securely rested under all her trying afflictions.

Miss Giles was born at New Haven, Vermont, October 2d, 1812. Of her parentage we can gather no information from either her writings or allusions to her life by other authors. It appears that her former biographers, like ourselves, placed no high estimate on hereditary celebrity, or, feared to commit treason

against this age of progression by dragging their readers back over the ruins and rubbish of feudalism and chivalry, to detail the wonderful achievements of her ancestors; but in harmony with the true republican spirit of her own themes, we are content to rest her fame upon the literary and poetic merit of her own productions.

As the years of her youth afford no incidents deserving notice in this connection, we will pass them over to the fourteenth year of her age. At this period, when the mind is just beginning to unfold to the beauties of nature and science, and elating hopes of the future inspire the heart, the blighting hand of disease laid hold upon her, and bowed her tender heart to the sad destiny of having looked upon the variegated colors of creation, the fleecy clouds, the silvery moon, the burnished stars, and the radiant king of day in his meridian splendor, for the last time. The deep sorrow and gloom that must have shrouded her spirits at the time of this melancholy privation, we can justly appreciate, but have no terms to give them utterance. And were all the force of each language, ever spoken by human tongue, concentrated into one short sentence, it would be far inadequate. Her native energies and brilliant intellect were, however, not crushed by this appalling event, nor long suffered to slumber undeveloped. The glorious spirit of the gospel, that in the morning of the nineteenth century has raised up friends to bless every class of suffering humanity, also moved the hearts of philan

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