POETRY. FOR THE TALISMAN. Amid the gloom that shrouds this mortal life, And while they guide our roving footsteps here, A kindred heart-our woe would be complete. Friendship, 'tis not thy pleasing name alone, But 'tis thy latent powers we wish our own. And what is friendship? not a sudden fire That will a moment warm and then expire; But constant, bright, and calm, the light she sheds, Leaves an unfading impress where it spreads; Nor time, nor distance can the marks erase, For purity and virtue guard the place. Friendship is heightened when its sacred flame To heav'nly love is joined, a nobler name; When hearts whose thoughts in the same chan nel flow, I know the bright, the Heaven-illumined way, And I would follow where thy footsteps lead, But earth's enchantments--natures long delay, Still lead me wandering, or my flight impede. O Father! if thy will has so decreed, Break these vile chains that hold my soul from Thee! That I, with spirits pure, in union sweet, May know, and love Thee, through eternity. THE MOTHER. "Nay! youthful mother, do not fly, Though pleasures lure and flattery court thee; Sooth thy sick infant's mourning cry, And wake the smile that must transport thee. Life has no charm, so deep, so dear, As that soft tie thou blindly leavestNo love so constant, and sincere, As that which fills the heart thou grievest. In all the bloom of beauty's pride, In all ambition's vainest splendor, Ne'er was thy woman's heart supplied With bliss so pure, with joy so tender. Can'st thou forsake that joy so soon? Can'st thou forget the lips which blest thee, When bending o'er this precious boon, The Father wept, while he caressed thee. Is it for gauds of dress, and dance, Thou can'st renounce a claim so holy, To win the warm insulting glance, And woo the praise of idle folly? Then go !--a fair, but fragile flower; A dazzling, heartless, careless beauty, To risk thy fame-to lose thy power That power which dwells alone with duty. Go! and thy bosom's lord offend, Consign thy suff'ring babe to sorrowDeath, the kind nurse, its woes will end-Thy boy shall grace his arms to-morrow." THE SWEETS OF INIQUITY.-A celebrated Lawyer of Boston, once concluded an eloquent harangue to a jury against a prisoner, with "He bared his arm gentlemen-he bared his arm to Heaven, and--stole the sugar." Railway.-A petition for a railway signed by thirty-six sugar bakers, of London, each of whom is worth 100,000l. was presented to the house of Commons at the present session. WORCESTER TALISMAN. Published every other Saturday morning, by DORR & HOWLAND, Worcester, (Mass.) at $1 a year, payable in advance. Agents paying five dollars will be entitled to receive SIX copies. Letters, intended for THE TALISMAN, must be post paid to insure attention. GRIFFIN AND MORRILL....PRINTERS. THE Worcester Talisman. NO. 11. AUGUST 23, 1828. POPULAR TALES. FOR THE TALISMAN. It has been confidently affirmed by some people, that no person was ever carried to the ne plus ultra of human folly, that of writing poe try, until driven to it for the purpose of spinning little ditties "made to his mistress' eyebrows." I cannot judge as to the correctness of this assertion, but I am fully convinced that it will not prove correct vice versa; that is, that being in love will not always constitute a poet. In my younger days, it was not the established custom for every boy who could hold a goose quill, although his head would not reach the dinner table, to be throwing out his simple cogitations, in measured lines, before the public. A poet was considered as much of a curiosity as a white native of Abyssinia, but alas, they flock upon us like the locusts of Egypt. Still I am a friend to some of them. I have always been an admirer of poetry, it seems so nearly allied to the feelings, the passions, the very pulses of my heart; and, entre nous Clarence, during those days of which I have been speaking, I often found myself indulging in a reverie of poetical enthusiasm; but, as often, when the spirit had subsided, did I discard the offspring of my brain, and commit them to the merciless element. One evening in May I was sitting at my window to enjoy the balmy softness of a refreshing air. The unsullied brightness of a beautiful moon was playing in the sky of spring, and a thousand stars were lighting their little lamps to bear her company. The odour of the new-born rose was on the winged air, and 1 heard the soft, but tremulous notes of music, touched lightly by the fingers of Julia, upon her sweet-toned piano, starting, wavering and dying away in melody, upon the breeze. If any thing can cherish a poetical imagination, it is a scene like this. To me, a lover, it was poetry in itself. I could read whole volumes in the scene before me, and seizing a pen, I endeavored to transcribe a portion of it, but after a tedious tearing of brains, I was completely nonplussed to find that, had I published them, the most illiterate pedestrian would throw them from his fardel. I tore them VOL. I. into a thousand pieces, and waiting until my Julia the renovated earth Is bursting out in gladness, How changed the landscape, the young Year The zephyrs playing through her tresses. And thou'rt like her, life's joyous spring Her dreams of peace before thee. Thou'rt born into a world of cares, The resting-place of sorrow; His lot of woe to-morrow. Its bright side only meets the eye, Where grief has left its dye. Julia, this spring shall fade away, And summer come with flowers; But many a sunny summer day Is interspersed with showers. But yet, I would that thou might'st go "Well sir," he continued, after I had read them, "when completed, I discovered to my sorrow that they were imbued more with the spirit of philosophizing morality, than of fickle passion, and partook of a greater degree of sober reflection, than of giddy thought. Under such circumstances, I did not venture to forward them to my fair Dolabella. I now entirely surrendered the idea of ever becoming a poet, for the simple reason that I believed the strain in which it run would not please the fastidious taste of a criticising public. A few weeks subsequent to the above event, as I was slowly walking at noonday, beneath a shadowy line of spreading elms, an acquaintance came up to me with a countenance that depicted sober sensations. After exchanging civilities," "Well sir," said he, "Miss Dolabella has gone." "Indeed, left town sir? 'tis news to me." "A departure of greater moment than that, especially to yourself; the bands are published between Solomon Dunlap and Dolabella, sir, good bye." "How," exclaimed I," is it possible that she has given her hand to that homespun Jackanapes? "Tis actually true," said he and passed away, leaving me to my own reflections. Had I seen the moon falling it would have given me no more of a shock. I crossed my arms, leaned upon my cane, and stood rivetted to the ground in paralytical phrensy, for half an hour. 'Tis true, Solomon was a man of unspotted character, of stern integrity, superior talents and sound judgment. In a word his character was contained in his christian name. Yet I could not imagine how a young lady should admire one who seemed so unversed in etiquette and gallantry, and a person too without a fortune. But sir, I had not seen so much of the world as I have now. From this time, I passed along through a series of years, continually harrassed by circumstances of a similar nature to the foregoing, the recital of which would be uninteresting. Suffice it to say, that as I have passed through more mature years, secluded myself in a great measure from the airy world, and studied the varied characters of mankind, I have discovered that woman has been endowed with the same faculties as man, that she possesses reason and sense as plentifully as he, and that she has a judgment fully competent to an accurate discrimination between solid sense and flippant folly." Here he ended, but my story is not finished. There has resided in our village, not from time immemorial, but from time beyond my memory, several females of a dubious and uncertain age. Although a mystery hangs over the truth, yet we may safely say, that "To be candid they are past eighteen, But this matters not. They have ever been distinguished for their politeness and urbanity abroad, and moreover for their neatness at home. To me, they have always appeared as a perfect microcosm, each one a little world of herself, yet destitute of one property essentially necessary to all order in the universe that property, the discovery of which has rendered a Newton immortal, the power of attraction. It is universally known that man, in his presumption, has endeavored to "correct old time and regulate the sun," and in doing this has given to stated years the addition of another day. It is also known that there are certain privileges and immunities granted to a particular class of people upon that extra day. The morning of the twenty-ninth of February came, as other mornings come; it changed not the aspect of business in our village, it was not noticed more particularly than previous mornings. The sun rose as formerly, the wind blew the same, man was still subject to nature's changes, could withstand the cold no better, could parry the strokes of worldly sorrow no more effectually. 'Twas mid-day, the mail had arrived and departed. I walked into the office, but one who invariably met me with a friendly grasp was not there. His place was vacant, and something ominous was in the circumstance. I left the place with an accelerated step, and hastened to the spot in which he was generally to be found. Upon entering, what should strike the eye but poor Nathaniel wrapped in a profound reverie, withdrawn entirely from all outward scenes, and dreaming, perchance, upon the halo of bliss that was hovering around the days of futurity. He sat reclining in his chair, with his head thrown back and eyes firmly fixed upon the ceiling. One hand was thrust into his pocket, while the other grasped an epistle, bearing the superscription of "Nathaniel Charles Emberton, Esq." Upon entering, I noticed his unusual appearance, and in the impulse of the moment hastily exclaimed "Nat!" "Pshaw now," said he with eyes still elevated and immoveable, "that is an uncouth manner of speaking for you." I walked to the table at the opposite side of which he sat, and with a profound bow uttered "Mr. Emberton." "Ay my love, that is more appropriate; what would you my love?" I began to be alarmed, "my love," such an expression had never escaped his lips before, in my presence. "He is surely in a trance," said I, and being frightened, I stepped around the table and seizing his arm, gave it an unmerciful shaking. "What would you my love!" again escaped his lips. Clapping a hand upon each side of his head, and giving it a hasty horizontal motion to and fro, he was soon aroused from his stupor. "Ah Clarence, good morning," and the letter was crushed instantaneously, with a hundred folds into his pocket. "I did not perceive that you entered, a very fine day, take a seat," and various similar expressions were uttered, to counterbalance his embarrassment. The sequel is drawing nigh. Dolly Dellville, taking advantage of the privilege to which, from long custom, and the unanimous voice of the world she was entitled, had forwarded the little billetdoux that was treated so unhandsomely, to my friend. Preliminaries were immediately settled, and the high sun of the summer solstice lighted the bride and bridegroom to Hymens altar. Things have altered in some respects at Mr. Emberton's, but whenever his friends called upon him, they are cordially received and handsomely entertained. The parties appear to be perfectly happy in the union, and may look forward, with propriety, to a life of undisturbed felicity. CLARENCE. HABIT. foster-father of vice, and he that is desirous of "Make her a slave-steal from her rosy cheek venge is sweet to the oppressed-it is an attribute of human nature, and we are half inclined to pronounce him worse than a slave, who is wronged and insulted with impunity. And shall woman, when slighted and forsaken The vices of half mankind steal on them imperceptibly. Step by step we become initiated into the mysteries of crime, the heart gradually bocomes callous, and the voice of conscience cries out unattended to. Aristotle Any thing but coldness and neglect will be says, when you have a good thing endeavor to borne by woman patiently. This she cannot keep it; Plato says, he whose hours are whol- bear, and in the language of Lavater, "those ly, profitably, and not unpleasurably employ- who love the most intensely, can hate with eed, is a happy man, and we say let such shunqual bitterness."-Say what you please, reany lethargy that may come up on their inclinations, as well as any disposition to be dissatisfied. Among the most blasting and ruinious of vices, none is more deplorable than intem. perance. Yet the course of this is so insidious-so completely wrapped in delusion, that its victim never knows how near he is to the precipice, until he is launched into the vortex of its ruin. A habit of occasionally drinking pleasant beverages, finally becomes a habit of taking spirituous liquors, and this like those of snuff-taking, tobacco-chewing, and other disgusting propensities, cannot be dispensed with until the sacrifice is too great for human nature to suffer. A man can become habituated to almost any thing, however depraved, and after some exercise a murder would be perpetrated as readily as a dog killed. The force of practice, is the most subduing influence under Heaven. We some time since, read of an idiot who became so habituated to counting audibly the numbers that a clock struck throughout the day, that when the clock was removed, he could repeat them with as much accuracy as before. Indolence is ever the "Een as a vine the oak has shaken off, Bend lightly to her tendencies again?" Never! it is not the nature of a high souled creature to be taunted, neglected, and oppressed-perchance by the man for whom she has given up all worldly honor-tamely and submissively. It is therefore we hear of faithless wives the vicious and neglected habits of their husbands have chilled and estranged their affections-an innate feeling of pride, and an innate sense of shame conspire together in rebellion, turning the gushing fountain of their devotion into waters of bitterness, and crying out revenge! But how shall a woman be revenged? The world is full of calumny--a single step from the path of honor, and she is lost forever. Too timid to stem the torrent, there are but two paths. Misery and shame on her part for a satisfaction of her revenge, or quiet resignation to her wretchedness, until the thread of life is prematurely nipped.Such are invariably the results of habitual estrangement from the domestic fire-side, and a torpid carelessness, as to the affections and sympathies of the heart. The formation of a man's character--the regulation of his business, and the quiet of his family, are all materially operated upon by his habits and propensities. Every one of common understanding can discriminate between those which would be condusive to health, wealth and happiness, and those of an opposite character; and it is a wise step in early life, if every married man, from the moment of his entering upon the responsible duties of a husband, would determine to indulge in no propensities which could possibly detract from his domestic felicities, his appreciation of his wife's society, or his taste for the pure and genuine satisfactions of connnbial life.--Phil. Album. LOVE. || LOVE! What is it? Is it of the earth, earthly,' or is it of Heaven? neither! 'Tis the shadow of nothingness :--it hath no real habitation, and scarce a name; an ærial fancy floating between heaven and earth, without enough of either in its composition to secure for it a resting place; poets and girls have dreamed of it--wise men in their hours of folly, have philosophised upon it: they have almost grasped it, and whither has it fled? Where is the echo of last night's song--or the mist of this day's morning? Gone--vanished! it was nothing; it came from nothing; it has performed its little errand, and returned whence it came. Love has been defined as the mutual sympathy of congenial souls; the offspring of hearts cast in the same mould.-'Tis a sweet fancy and becomes well the dreaming enthusiast; but will it endure? has experience ever converted the dream into reality? Remove the bands of time and place, the strongest bands which hold together the sheaf of human sympathies, and how soon are the scattered straws floating on every breeze! Let the canker of obloquy, the rust of adver. sity disfigure the mould, and with every departing trace of beauty vanishes a portion of that feeling which gave it all its loveliness, and all its sympathy of form. It has been de- || fined as the refinement of friendship: but if so, 'tis but the gemshorn of its original lustre ; the precious metal which loses all its value, all its native richness in the hands of the refiner; the ore pilfered from its native mine, and debased by its mixture with impure alloy. Friendship has an existence elsewhere than in the imagination, for experience has proved it so; it has dared danger and death-outlived the whirlwind and the storm-passed through the fiery furnace unhurt-undiminished in its original vigor, and unshorn of its splendor, but danger or death, the whirlwind or the storm of suffering, is the 'death blow of love; the sunbeam which dispels the mist from the eyes of its credulous and infatuated disciples; the fairy wand at whose touch, the imaginary temple and its ideal diversity crumble into nothingness. I have heard a story of the infallibility of love; of its constancy; its long endurance; and thus it ran. Alice Wharton was one of the loveliest beings that ever gladdened existence with her smiles; young and artless, she fascinated all who ever beheld her, by the very spell of her simplicity. She was the betrothed of one worthy of her; a being of nature's true nobility:-their vows of eternal constancy had been mutually pledged; their offerings placed upon the same shrine; and their aspiration, had ascended in one mingled tone before the altar of their imaginary divinity. Alice was the first to desert the shrine of their ido! worship; the vengeance of its offended dignity fell heavy upon her lover, in the garb of penury; Alice was among the first to desert him, and add another to the long list of love's frailties. Not so with him the ideal passion still lived in his bosom; his heart still clung to it--and in the false Alice all his hopes still were concentrated. Time passed on, and retribution in their form of diseases descended upon Alice; the lustre of her eye was dimmed; the rose vied no longer with the lily upon her cheek; beauty had fled and, presto! love followed after. Alice was soon forgotten, and her quondam lover as happy as ever. And this is love! all-powerful undying love! powerful as propensity or beauty, and perishing with either.-Bachelor's Journal. MATERNAL INFLUENCE. The mental fountain is unsealed to the eye of a mother, ere it has chosen a channel, or breathes a murmur. She may tinge with sweetness or bitterness, the whole stream of future life. In the moral field, she is a privileged laborer. Ere the dews of morning begin to exhale, she is there. She breaks up a soil which the root of error, and the thorns of prejudice have not pre-occupied. She plants germs whose fruit is for eternity. While she feels that she is required to educate not merely a virtuous member of society, but a christian, an angel, a servant of the Most High, how does so holy a charge quicken piety, by teaching the beart its own insufficiency! The soul of her infant is uncovered before her. She knows that the images which she enshrines in that unoccupied sanctuary, must rise before her at the bar of doom. Trembling at such tremendous responsibility she teaches the little being, whose life is her dearest care, of the God who made him; and who can measure the extent of a mother's lessons of piety, unless his hand might remove the veil which divides terrestial things! "When I was a little child," said a good man, "my mother used to bid me kneel before |