Came rustling through the neighboring trees, And such, said I, is Beauty's power! But in thy form, thou Laurel green, In life she cheers each different stage, And lights the eye of age. A Castle in the Air.*-PROFESSOR FRISBIE. I'LL tell you, friend, what sort of wife, The rose its blushes need not lend, Give me a cheek the heart obeys, Its feelings as they rise; Features, where pensive, more than gay, 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, But still her air, her face, each charm, With mind her mantling cheek must glow, Ah could I such a being find, By Hymen's silken tie, To her myself, my all I'd give, 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; My voice should soothe each rising sigh, I'd watch beside her bed. Should gathering clouds our sky deform, My bosom to its bolts I'd bare, Together should our prayers ascend, 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, And, when life's little scene was o'er, The Consumptive.-ROCKINGHAM GAZETTE, No, never more-my setting sun 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- And deep the sigh that Memory heaves, As autumn gales on yellow leaves, No, never more-I may not view The glorious heaven, the ocean's blue, The evening's beauty, once so dear, That bears the glowing thoughts above, No, never more-when prisoners wait And see, beyond their dungeon gate, On the fair earth and sun-bright heaven, No, never more-and now, farewell! And soon, above my green-roofed cell My heart hath found its rest above; 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 What wenders of the secret earth Thy race, by savage war o'errun, Sunk down, their very name forgot; By Friendship's hand thine eyelids closed, The stars have run their nightly round, And many a season o'er the ground And wilt thou not one moment raise Thy name, thy date, thy life declare- Perhaps a Helen, from whose eye O, not like thee would I remain, The freshness that my childhood knew. But has thy soul, O maid, so long 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, 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. |