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TO A LADY,

WHO ACCUSED THE AUTHOR OF FASTIDIOUSNESS.

"Tis not in the tint of the skin,

Though roses and lilies combine,
Nor the form of the eyebrows and chin,
That can soften a bosom like mine;

Nor is it a black, sparkling eye,

Nor a bright auburn ringlet of hair, That can draw from my heart its last sigh, Or cause me to die in despair.

The form may be happily cast

In nature's most delicate mould,

The mind be capacious and vast,

And the heart nor deceitful nor cold:

These beauties may even unite,

With eloquence, dignity, grace;

With manners gay, easy, polite,

To embellish the form and the face:

Yet some beauty the world seldom sees
Would be wanting to fix my regard,
Some perfection more winning than these
To enrapture the soul of your bard.

You may ask what I wish to combine

With the charms in these numbers pourtray'd,

To finish this goddess of mine:

'Tis a beauty which never can fade!

Unsullied by sorrow and age,

'Tis sweet, gentle, melting, and mild; "Tis the soul of the saint and the sage,

With the artless address of the child:

It beams in the glance of the eye,
It melts on the lip in a smile,
It checks the ungracious reply,
It enraptures-but cannot beguile.

But vain is so feeble a lay

My thoughts on this theme to impart, Then throw it as worthless away,

And consult but your glass and your heart.

J. C.

UPON A FLOWER,

WHICH FELL TO PIECES WHILE I WAS

LOOKING AT IT.

UPON a lovely flower I gazed,

Admired its colors bright,

Pleased-all its varied beauty praised,
-Still gazed with new delight.

And while I look'd, its leaves all fell
And floated on the air;

Alas! the touching tale they tell
Of all this world calls fair.

While we admire, it disappears,
And while we gaze, it dies,

And leaving only sighs and tears,
Away it lightly flies.

Another flower, more fair, more sweet,

This one may soon replace,

With fresher charms my eye shall greet,
And bloom with brighter grace.

But who can boast the magic power

'Mid pleasure's brightest host,

To cull the heart another flower,

As sweet as that it lost?

O then 'tis surely wisdom's part,
To seek those deathless flowers,
Which virtue plants around the heart
To deck life's latest hours.

THOUGHTS.

BY PINCKNEY.

E. L. C.

THE mind is capable to show
Thoughts of so dim a feature,

That consciousness can only know

Their presence, not their nature;

-Things which, like fleeting insect mothers,

Supply recording life to others,

And straightway lose their own.

THE TWO PORTRAITS.

On the walls of an ancient mansion in Massachusetts, two family pictures are still hanging, which revive some of the sweetest recollections of my childhood. If a little narrative of the facts connected with them carry half the interest to my little readers, which I feel in recalling them, they may serve for that spell on childhood's ear-a story.

One of these portraits was painted by the celebrated Copley; and the relation of one little fact may serve at the same time to show the power of the artist's pencil, and the excellent character of the gentleman whose features it so faithfully represents.

General Roscoe had been some time in England, when finding himself about to be detained by perplexing and complicated business a still longer time, he sent this portrait home to his anxious family. It was placed on the floor at the extremity of the large hall, and the numer

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