Came rustling through the neighboring trees,
And bore her boasted charms away.

And such, said I, is Beauty's power!
Like thee she falls, poor trifling flower;
And, if she lives her little day,
Life's winter comes with rapid pace,
And robs her form of every grace,
And steals her bloom away.

But in thy form, thou Laurel green,
Fair Virtue's semblance soon is seen.

In life she cheers each different stage,
Spring's transient reign, and Summer's glow,
And Autumn mild, advancing slow,

And lights the eye of age.

A Castle in the Air.*-PROFESSOR FRISBIE.

I'LL tell you, friend, what sort of wife,
Whene'er I scan this scene of life,
Inspires my waking schemes,
And when I sleep, with form so light,
Dances before my ravished sight,
In sweet aerial dreams.

The rose its blushes need not lend,
Nor yet the lily with them blend,
To captivate my eyes.

Give me a cheek the heart obeys,
And, sweetly mutable, displays

Its feelings as they rise;

Features, where pensive, more than gay,
Save when a rising smile doth play,

The sober thought you see;

Eyes that all soft and tender seem,

And kind affections round them beam,

But most of all on me;

This is a beautiful domestic picture. Without being an imitation, it reminds us of Cotton's Fireside.-ED.

A form, though not of finest mould,
Where yet a something you behold
Unconsciously doth please;
Manners all graceful without art,
That to each look and word impart
A modesty and ease.

But still her air, her face, each charm,
Must speak a heart with feeling warm,
And mind inform the whole;

With mind her mantling cheek must glow,
Her voice, her beaming eye must show
An all-inspiring soul.

Ah could I such a being find,
And were her fate to mine but joined

By Hymen's silken tie,

To her myself, my all I'd give,
For her alone delighted live,

For her consent to die.

Whene'er by anxious gloom oppressed,

On the soft pillow of her breast

My aching head I'd lay;

At her sweet smile each care should cease, Her kiss infuse a balmy peace,

And drive my griefs away.

In turn, I'd soften all her care,

Each thought, each wish, each feeling share;
Should sickness e'er invade,

My voice should soothe each rising sigh,
My hand the cordial should supply;

I'd watch beside her bed.

Should gathering clouds our sky deform,
My arms should shield her from the storm;
And, were its fury hurled,

My bosom to its bolts I'd bare,
In her defence undaunted dare
Defy the opposing world.

Together should our prayers ascend,
Together humbly would we bend,

To praise the Almighty name; And when I saw her kindling eye Beam upwards to her native sky,

My soul should catch the flame.

Thus nothing should our hearts divide,
But on our years serenely glide,
And all to love be given;

And, when life's little scene was o'er,
We'd part to meet and part no more,
But live and love in heaven.

The Consumptive.-ROCKINGHAM GAZETTE,

No, never more-my setting sun
Hath sunk his evening rays;
And this poor heart is nearly done
With hope of better days.

I feel it in the clay-cold hand,

The hard and fast expiring breath; For now, so near the tomb I stand,

I breathe the chilling airs of death.

No, never more-it all is vain-
But O, how Memory leans
To see, and hear, and feel again
Its youth-inspiring scenes!

And deep the sigh that Memory heaves,
When, one by one, they all are fled,

As autumn gales on yellow leaves,
That wither on their woodland bed.

No, never more-I may not view
The summer vale and hill,

The glorious heaven, the ocean's blue,
The forests, dark and still-

The evening's beauty, once so dear,

That bears the glowing thoughts above,
When nature seems to breathe and hear
The voiceless eloquence of love.

No, never more-when prisoners wait
The death-call to their doom,

And see, beyond their dungeon gate,
The scaffold and the tomb,

On the fair earth and sun-bright heaven,
Their gaze how fervently they cast!
So death to life a charm hath given,
And made it loveliest at the last.

No, never more-and now, farewell!
The bitter word is said;

And soon, above my green-roofed cell
The careless foot will tread.

My heart hath found its rest above;
The cares of earth are passing by;

And, O, it is a voice of love,

That whispers-It is time to die!

Lines to the Western Mummy.-W. E. GALLAUDET,

O STRANGER, whose repose profound
These latter ages dare to break,
And call thee from beneath the ground
Ere nature did thy slumber shake!

What wenders of the secret earth
Thy lip, too silent, might reveal!
Of tribes round whose mysterious birth
A thousand envious ages wheel!

Thy race, by savage war o'errun,

Sunk down, their very name forgot;
But ere those fearful times begun,
Perhaps, in this sequestered spot,

By Friendship's hand thine eyelids closed,
By Friendship's hand the turf was laid;
And Friendship here, perhaps, reposed,
With moonlight vigils in the shade.

The stars have run their nightly round,
The sun looked out, and passed his way,

And many a season o'er the ground
Has trod where thou so softly lay.

And wilt thou not one moment raise
Thy weary head, awhile to see
The later sports of earthly days,
How like what once enchanted thee?

Thy name, thy date, thy life declare-
Perhaps a queen, whose feathery band
A thousand maids have sighed to wear,
The brightest in thy beauteous land-

Perhaps a Helen, from whose eye
Love kindled up the flame of war-
Ah me! do thus thy graces lie
A faded phantom, and no more?

O, not like thee would I remain,
But o'er the earth my ashes strew,
And in some rising bud regain

The freshness that my childhood knew.

But has thy soul, O maid, so long
Around this mournful relict dwelt?
Or burst away with pinion strong,
And at the foot of Mercy knelt?

Or has it, in some distant clime,

With curious eye, unsated, strayed, And, down the winding stream of time, On every changeful current played?

Or, locked in everlasting sleep,

Must we thy heart extinct deplore, Thy fancy lost in darkness weep,

And sigh for her who feels no more?

Or, exiled to some humbler sphere,
In yonder wood-dove dost thou dwell,
And, murmuring in the stranger's ear,
Thy tender melancholy tell?

Whoe'er thou be, thy sad remains

Shall from the muse a tear demand, Who, wandering on these distant plains, Looks fondly to a distant land.