A HEALTH.

I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness alone,

A woman, of her gentle sex the seeming paragon;

To whom the better elements and kindly stars have given

A form so fair, that, like the air, 'tis less of earth than heaven.

Her every tone is music's own, like those of morning birds,
And something more than melody dwells ever in her words:
The coinage of her heart are they, and from her lips each flows,
As one may see the burden'd bee forth issue from the rose.

Affections are as thoughts to her, the measures of her hours;
Her feelings have the fragrance and the freshness of young flowers;
And lovely passions, changing oft, so fill her, she appears
The image of themselves by turns,—the idol of past years!

Of her bright face one glance will trace a picture on the brain,
And of her voice in echoing hearts a sound must long remain;
But memory, such as mine of her, so very much endears,
When death is nigh, my latest sigh will not be life's, but hers.

I fill'd this cup to one made up of loveliness alone,

A woman, of her gentle sex the seeming paragon,

Her health and would on earth there stood some more of such a frame, That life might be all poetry, and weariness a name.

A SERENADE.

Look out upon the stars, my love,
And shame them with thine eyes,
On which, than on the lights above,
There hang more destinies.
Night's beauty is the harmony
Of blending shades and light;
Then, lady, up,-look out, and be
A sister to the night!—

Sleep not!-thine image wakes for aye

Within my watching breast:

Sleep not!-from her soft sleep should fly,

Who robs all hearts of rest.

Nay, lady, from thy slumbers break,

And make this darkness gay

With looks, whose brightness well might make
Of darker nights a day.

GEORGE P. MORRIS.

GEORGE P. MORRIS, to whom the common voice of the country has given tho title of THE SONG-WRITER OF AMERICA, was born in Philadelphia in 1802. He early commenced his literary career, and in 1822 became the editor of "The New York Mirror," which remained under his control till 1843, when pecuniary difficulties, occasioned by the storm of financial embarrassment which had but shortly before passed over the country, compelled him to relinquish its publication. During this long period, this periodical was very ably conducted, and became the vehicle of introduction to the public of some of the best writers in the country. In 1844, he established "The New Mirror," in conjunction with his friend N. P. Willis, which was soon after changed into "The Evening Mirror." This, after being continued a year as a daily paper, with great spirit and taste, was sold out, and in November, 1846, these two gifted authors started a weekly paper, called "The Home Journal," which has been continued from year to year, with increasing popularity,—a popularity richly deserved, from the taste, elegance, and enterprise with which it is conducted.

General Morris has published the following works:-The Deserted Bride, and other Poems, 1843; The Whip-poor-will, a Poem; American Melodies; two or three dramas; and, in conjunction with his friend Willis, an admirable book entitled The Prose and Poetry of Europe and America. But it is as a writer of songs, which exert no little influence upon national character and manners, and of a few short pieces which, by their elevated moral sentiment and touching pathos, go right to the heart, that General Morris will hold an enduring place in American literature.1

1 "General Morris's fame as 'The Song-Writer of America' belongs to two hemispheres, and is greater now than it has ever been before. You ask me,' says a recent letter from an English gentleman, now representing in the House of Commons one of the most ancient of the English boroughs, whether I have seen General Morris's last song, "Jenny Marsh of Cherry Valley." You can hardly know, when you put such a question, the place he has built himself in the hearts of all classes here. His many songs and ballads are household words in every home in England, and have a dear old chair by every circle in which kindly friends are gathered; and parents smile with pleasure to see brothers and sisters join their voices in the evening song, and twine closer those loving chords, -the tenderest of the human heart. It is no mean reward to feel that the child of one's brain has a chair in such circles, and that the love for the child passes in hundreds of hearts into love for its unseen parent. After all, what are all the throat-warblings in the world to one such heart-song as My Mother's Bible"? It possesses the true test of genius, touching with sympathy the human heart equally in the palace and the cottage.""

For a most beautifully-written critical essay upon General Morris's genius and poems, read "Literary Criticisms, and other Papers, by the late Horace Binney Wallace, Esq., of Philadelphia,"-a volume which does the highest credit to the author as a man of pure taste, correct judgment, and finished scholarship.

* He receives the title of General from his holding the rank of brigadier-general in the military organization of New York.

LIFE IN THE WEST.

Ho! brothers,-come hither and list to my story,-
Merry and brief will the narrative be:
Here, like a monarch, I reign in my glory-

Master am I, boys, of all that I see.

Where once frown'd a forest a garden is smiling,-
The meadow and moorland are marshes no more;
And there curls the smoke of my cottage, beguiling
The children who cluster like grapes at the door.
Then enter, boys; cheerly, boys, enter and rest,
The land of the heart is the land of the West.
Oho, boys!-oho, boys!-oho!

Talk not of the town, boys,-give me the broad prairie,
Where man, like the wind, roams impulsive and free;
Behold how its beautiful colors all vary,

Like those of the clouds, or the deep-rolling sea.
A life in the woods, boys, is even as changing;
With proud independence we season our cheer,
And those who the world are for happiness ranging
Won't find it at all, if they don't find it here.
Then enter, boys; cheerly, boys, enter and rest;
I'll show you the life, boys, we live in the West.
Oho, boys!-oho, boys!-oho!

Here, brothers, secure from all turmoil and danger,
We reap what we sow, for the soil is our own;
We spread hospitality's board for the stranger,
And care not a fig for the king on his throne.
We never know want, for we live by our labor,
And in it contentment and happiness find;
We do what we can for a friend or a neighbor,

And die, boys, in peace and good will to mankind.
Then enter, boys; cheerly, boys, enter and rest;
You know how we live, boys, and die in the West!
Oho, boys!-oho, boys!-oho!

WHEN OTHER FRIENDS ARE ROUND THEE.

When other friends are round thee,

And other hearts are thine,

When other bays have crown'd thee,

More fresh and green than mine,

Then think how sad and lonely
This doating heart will be,
Which, while it throbs, throbs only,
Beloved one, for thee!

Yet do not think I doubt thee,
I know thy truth remains;
I would not live without thee,
For all the world contains.

Thou art the star that guides me
Along life's changing sea;
And whate'er fate betides me,
This heart still turns to thee.

UP WITH THE SIGNAL.

Up, up with the signal! The land is in sight!
We'll be happy, if never again, boys, to-night!
The cold, cheerless ocean in safety we've pass'd,
And the warm genial earth glads our vision at last.
In the land of the stranger true hearts we shall find,
To soothe us in absence of those left behind.
Land-land-ho! All hearts glow with joy at the sight!
We'll be happy, if never again, boys, to-night!

The signal is waving! Till morn we'll remain,
Then part in the hope to meet one day again
Round the hearthstone of home in the land of our birth,
The holiest spot on the face of the earth!

Dear country! our thoughts are as constant to thee
As the steel to the star, or the stream to the sea.
Ho-land-ho! We near it, we bound at the sight.
Then be happy, if never again, boys, to-night!

The signal is answer'd! The foam-sparkles rise
Like tears from the fountain of joy to the eyes!
May rain-drops that fall from the storm-clouds of care
Melt away in the sun-beaming smiles of the fair!
One health, as chime gayly the nautical bells,

To woman-God bless her!-wherever she dwells!
THE PILOT'S ON BOARD!--and, thank Heaven! all's right!
So be happy, if never again, boys, to-night!

WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE.1

Woodman, spare that tree!
Touch not a single bough:
In youth it shelter'd me,

And I'll protect it now.
'Twas my forefather's hand

That placed it near his cot; There, woodman, let it stand, Thy axe shall harm it not.

That old familiar tree,

Whose glory and renown
Are spread o'er land and sea,
And wouldst thou hack it down?
Woodman, forbear thy stroke!
Cut not its earth-bound ties;
Oh, spare that aged oak,
Now towering to the skies.

1 "After I had sung the noble ballad of 'Woodman, Spare that Tree,' at Boulogne," says Mr. Henry Russell, the vocalist, "an old gentleman among the audience, who was greatly moved by the simple and touching beauty of the words, rose and said, 'I beg your pardon, Mr. Russell; but was the tree really spared?' 'It was,' said I. 'I am very glad to hear it,' said he, as he took his seat amidst the unanimous applause of the whole assembly. I never saw such excitement in a concert-room."

When but an idle boy,

I sought its grateful shade; In all their gushing joy,

Here, too, my sisters play'd.
My mother kiss'd me here;

My father press'd my hand:
Forgive this foolish tear,-
But let that old oak stand!

My heart-strings round thee cling,
Close as thy bark, old friend!
Here shall the wild-bird sing,

And still thy branches bend.
Old tree! the storm still brave!
And, woodman, leave the spot;
While I've a hand to save,

Thy axe shall harm it not.

MY MOTHER'S BIBLE.

This book is all that's left me now!
Tears will unbidden start,-

With faltering lip and throbbing brow,
I press it to my heart.

For many generations past,

Here is our family tree;

My mother's hands this Bible clasp'd;

She, dying, gave it me.

Ah! well do I remember those

Whose names these records bear,
Who round the hearthstone used to close
After the evening prayer,

And speak of what these pages said,
In tones my heart would thrill!
Though they are with the silent dead,
Here are they living still!

My father read this holy book
To brothers, sisters dear;

How calm was my poor mother's look,
Who lean'd God's word to hear!

Her angel face-I see it yet!

What thronging memories come!

Again that little group is met
Within the halls of home!

Thou truest friend man ever knew,
Thy constancy I've tried;

Where all were false I found thee true,

My counsellor and guide.

The mines of earth no treasure give

That could this volume buy:

In teaching me the way to live,
It taught me how to die.

GEORGE DENISON PRENTICE,

THE accomplished editor of the "Louisville Journal," was born at Preston, Conneeticut, December 18, 1802. He was graduated at Brown University, 1823, and then studied law; but he never practised his profession, preferring to devote himself to editorial labors. In 1828, he established The New England Weekly Review," at