The Prodigals, The Eighth of January, and Quite Correct, which have been played in Philadelphia. A novel from his pen is about to be published.

THE COTTAGE LOvers.

THE mist of the morn is still grey on the mountain;
The violet blooms on the brink of the fountain;
Low murmurs the stream from the mossy rock gushing,
But wildly and loud through the dark ravine rushing.

The pheasant now springs from his dew-spangled nest;
The crescent moon sinks like a bark in the west;
The first streak of morning now breaks through the night,
And mountains and vales ring with hymns of delight.

The horn of the huntsman sounds far o'er the hill,
The voice of the fleet hound is frequent and shrill,
While panting the chased stag appears at the lake,

He swims the dark stream and then bounds through the brake.

How sweet is the woodbine o'er yon lattice creeping,
Which blushingly steals where the maiden is sleeping!
How softly the breeze sounds that kisses the billow!
But softer by far is the sigh on yon pillow.

The dash of a light oar is heard on the lake,
And gaily a voice sings "Awake! oh! awake!
The morning already is gray on the hill;
The crow of the barn cock is frequent and shrill.

And hark, the wood echoes the wood cutter's stroke;
The mocking bird sings on the top of the oak;
The cow-boy is driving the herd to the lake,
The plough-boy 's afield, and all nature's awake.

Oh! come, dearest, come, to the cot of thy lover,
Where souls may be free as the wings of the plover,
And hearts shall be pure as the vestal maid's shrine,
And the day star of true love shall never decline.

The bright face of one at the lattice is seen,
And ruby lips glow through the foliage of green,
Like buds of the vine the wild breezes perfuming,
Ere breath of the morning has kiss'd them to blooming-

The maiden now stands on the brink of the stream,
And looks upon life as a fairy-like dream,

For she hies to the spot where her soul may be blest
With a passion as mild as the dove in its nest.

On the stern of the skiff she is seated in haste,
Her lover beside her with arm round her waist,
He presses her lips as they float from the shore
And they mingle their songs with the dash of the oar.

ART thou a husband ?-hast thou lost
The partner of thy joys-thy woes;
Didst watch her when in anguish tost,
And share the dire conflicting throes
Of agonized mortality,

Till e'en to thee 't was bliss to close
The last fond look of her glazed eye ?

Art thou a father?-hath thy son,
The prop of thy declining life,
Fail'd ere his manly race was run,

And left thee to a world of strife?
Dost thou pursue in cold neglect
The remnant of thy journey here;
No one thy frailties to protect,
Or gray-hair'd sorrows to revere ?
Is it denied thy stricken heart
To gaze upon the face of one,
Who seem'd thy former counterpart,
Recalling ages long since gone?
To see the follies that were thine

When life ran frolic through each vein;

And thus, e'en in thy life's decline

To live the hours of youth again.

From a poem entitled Francesca, written before the author was aware that Leigh Ilunt had preoccupied the subject. This circumstance induced him to withhold it from publication,

Art thou a lover?-is the theme

Of all thy raptures torn from thee;
Hast broke the wild ecstatic dream
And woke to actual agony?

The eyes where countless cupids play'd;
The form as light as gossamer;

The neck where thy warm lips have stray'd—
Say, does the grave worm fatten there?

If so, say, hast thou never known
The joy of gazing on the sky
While nature sleeps, and you alone
Seem roused to thought and misery.
Hast never watch'd the pallid moon,
While resting on some sifted cloud,
Pure as the fretful ocean's foam,
And filmy as an angel's shroud.
Gazed on her while her crescent pride
Seem'd through a sea of pitch to float;
Then from the depth of darkness glide,
And burst to view a fairy boat;
And shed her beams so strong and bright,
That the globe seem'd a chrysolite ?-
"Tis heavenly at that hour to muse,
When sleep is o'er the senses stealing,
And e'en to agony profuse,

Indulge the luxury of feeling.
The features to recall of those,
Who moulder in their last repose;
To chase each image that may rise
In mockery before the eyes,
Until you catch the happy clue

That brings to life the wonted smile,
And gives the cheek its roseate hue
That moulders in decay the while;
Then dead to reason; dead to pain,
You dream an hour of bliss again.

NORMAN PINNEY.

THE Reverend Norman Pinney is a native of Simsbury in Connecticut, and is now one of the Professors in Washington College in that state.

SABBATH MORNING.

How calm comes on this holy day!
Morning unfolds the eastern sky,
And upward takes her lofty way,
Triumphant to her throne on high.
Earth glorious wakes, as o'er her breast
The morning flings her rosy ray,
And, blushing from her dreamless rest,
Unveils her to the gaze of day;

So still the scene, each wakeful sound
Seems hallow'd music breathing round.

The night-wind to their mountain caves,
The morning mists to heaven's blue steep,
And to their ocean depths the waves
Are gone, their holy rest to keep.
'Tis tranquil all-around-above-
The forests far, which bound the scene,
Are peaceful as their Maker's love,
Like hills of everlasting green;
And clouds like earthly barriers stand,
Or bulwarks of some viewless land.

Each tree, that lifts its arms in air,

Or hangs its pensive head from high,
Seems bending at its morning prayer,
Or whispering with the hours gone by.
This holy morning, Lord, is thine-
Let silence sanctify thy praise,
Let heaven and earth in love combine
And morning stars their music raise ;-
For 't is the day-joy-joy--ye dead,
When death and hell were captive led.

TO

How calm is Innocence!-Its glow
Is resting on that cheek's bright hue,
That forehead fair of stainless snow,
And that full eye of cloudless blue,
Like morning on some sleeping sea,
Or hope on dreams of ecstacy.

So full and clear its rising beams
Through that soft veil of Beauty shine,
A pictured soul the vision seems
In purity and peace divine;

And thoughts sink lovelier there to rest,
Like day-beams on the rainbow's breast.

Thine is the smile, whose splendors pour
O'er all those lineaments their dyes,
And tell how deep the boundless store
Of treasured joys from whence they rise
As the blue tints of ocean show
How deep its bosom heaves below.

The rays, which palace in the sky,
Or gild the glittering gems of night,
Are wandering in that clear full eye,
Or lingering on that living light,
As if from heaven they came to bear
Those thoughts like holy treasures there.

Yet on those features' purple light,
That look of peace, that soul of love,
There is a charm far, far more bright,
A soft reflection from above,

Come down from its own sphere to bless
That form with deeper loveliness.

Like some celestial dream, its glow,
Of heaven is on that sainted air,
Soft-mingling with the silent flow

Of holy thought, which rises there; "T is God's own spirit's blessed ray, The dawnings of eternal day.