They said they were my sisters dear, My spirit to their blessed abode, Then think not of the mournful time Colonization of Africa.-BRAINARD. ALL sights are fair to the recovered blind; 'Tis somewhat like the burst from death to life; When all the bonds of death and hell are riven, And mortals put on immortality; When fear, and care, and grief, away are driven, And Mercy's hand has turned the golden key, And Mercy's voice has said, " Rejoice-thy soul is free!" Fable of the Wood Rose and the Laurel.- IN these deep shades a floweret blows, With modest air it hides its charms, "Thou worthless flower, Go leave my bower, And hide in humbler scenes thy head: Where roses are, Go, leave my bower, and live unknown; ...." And dost thou think"-the Laurel cried, A drop of dew incumbent hung "And dost thou think I'll leave this bower, The seat of many a friendly flower, The scene where first I grew Thy haughty reign will soon be o'er, But know, proud rose, When winter's snows Shall fall where once thy beauties stood, My pointed leaf of shining green Will still amid the gloom be seen, 66 To cheer the leafless wood." Presuming fool!" the Wood Rose cried, And strove in vain her shame to hide; But, ah! no more the flower could say; For, while she spoke, a transient breeze 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, An could I such a being find, 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 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 |