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Seated in social converse sweet,

The hours sped quickly past:
We talked of C. D.'s perjured oath,

His motives first and last.

And as the kitchen door would ope,

Was the olfactory nerve,
Aye, greeted by a savory smell,

Which would as whetstone serve

Of appetite. Tables and chairs,

All in their places stood,
And needed but their occupants,

To make all very good.

What means that loud, tremendous crasb

Why startle with affright! Why stands aghast yon trembling girl;

With lips so ashy wnite ?

Ah, me! my dear, said Mrs. P.,

Ours is a woful lot;
An accidentour careful girl

Upset the dinner-pot!

Yes, there a most delicious stew

Lies strewn along the floor! I'm sure those boards have never kvows

Such feasting times before.

Each to the other comfort spoke,

For; from a bounteous store,
An humbler meal the table graced:

We ate and laughed once more.

And all agreed with one accord,

That we'd forget it not,
The day on which our hopes fell down

With that said dinner-pote

A few other choice selections may not be without interest to the reader:



I've floated o'er eartis on a beam of light,
As the fire-fly shines in the darkest night,
I've kissed the flowers bespangled with dew,
Then soared aloft to my home of blue.
On a golden beam through a fairy bower
I have sought in vain for a fadeless flower;
Its hue must be bright as a seraph's wings,
When he basks in the smile of the King of kings
. Its fragrance pure as the light above
That beams from the brow of the God of love.
I sought on that lovely sea-girt shore,
Where science and wisdom were blent of yore,
Where, sportive as birds in their leafy bowers,
Young children were twining the earliest flowers
Yet their sires were groaning with anguish keen,
On each manly cheek was the tear-drop seen,
And lone by that shore, where the Grecian wave
Was dashing its spray, stood a chieftain brave.
His people were slaves, and their galling chain
Was rending his soul. Shall it suffer in vain ?
I sought to solace his anguish deep,
And encourage his heart that he should not weep •
And he said, as I whispered: My arm is strong
Unconscious of might, I have wept too long;
My land shall be free as the morntain air,
And the tyrant be crushed in his fadeous lair
But his generous soul with revenge grew dark,
And I wept, though I quenched not its kindling spark.
Where the happy were wrapped in their visions of love,
And the sky-lamps were germing the azure above,


Wrillon for tho aniversary of 1858.

On the downy breath of the sportive breeze,
That murmured all night ʼmid the leaf-clad trees,
I was gently borne to a chamber lɔne,
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,
Thougb drooping and sad with the tear-drops of heaven


All-hallowing memory, holy, blest,

Comes like the wind-harp's note at ever,
Soothing the spirit's sad un rest

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 frond, who, after long absence froin hume, drank the Crotob water a few mon err hefnra 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 now 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 coma

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 immor. tality, 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 child hood we sport upon the flowery lawn, sit by the mur. muring 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 charining beauty, unsullied by the snares of sin.

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

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