light, joyful activity from one flower to another, comparing their manifold forms and colors with speechless astonishment; when, full of pleasure, he breathes the sweet odor of the rose, then will I seat myself among the flowers, and pressing the tender boy to my heart, say to him: Behold! my child; these beautiful meadows were not many weeks since covered with snow; these green trees stood unadorned, as if withered; the whole horizon appeared to have perished with cold, and looked as if we too must finally perish. But a good spirit, rich in love, who lives above yon sky, and who finds his pleasure in filling all living creatures with joy, has had compassion on us, and has led hither the warm, enlivening sun. Soon as he smiled upon the earth, the trees became green, and a thousand flowers sprang from the tender grass, to please our senses, and to furnish innumerable animals with food. And wherefore does the great Lord of the heavens love us so dearly? Hear, my child, how greatly we are blessed. All that you see around you, the heavens and the earth, belong to GOD, for it is by that holy name we know our great invisible benefactor. All these delightful things these meadows, these green woods, these warbling birds, these animals, and man himself— all that you see, all that is, and lives, at one time had no being: we also would not have existed, just as you a few years since were not in existence, had not that Being created us, and all around us. And now, he loves us because he is our parent, and he has promised us to increase the measure of our joys unceasingly, so that we but love him in return. He has placed us in this agreeable habitation, and here gives us every day new proofs of his goodness, so that we may love him, and continually exert ourselves to become better, in order that he may ever continue to do good unto us; for being himself complete excellence, he abhors that which is evil.'

It

In this manner will I nourish his young and inquiring mind; but only with the milk of truth, as is meet for his tender age. I will accustom his heart to love truth and goodness only: such is the best preparation of the human soul for religion, which is the highest perfection of our nature, and the fountain of happiness. Whosoever loves goodness, must love him who is its source, and despise every thing that opposes his progress toward perfection, because his capacity for loving him is increased, the more perfect he becomes. And so will I form you to each perfection, dear darling of my heart! when from your earliest years I direct you toward truth, and order, and goodness. In this respect, my maternal love shall have no limits. will not, like that of childish girls, who become mothers too early, inasmuch as they themselves are in some measure uneducated, it will not, from a weak indulgence, gratify your inclinations, if, in their most distant consequences, they could tend to your injury. It will be firm in controlling the infirmities of your disposition, and in suppressing the slightest display of our natural wickedness of heart. I will not forget that you are not a creation of my own, although I am called your mother; but will remember that a higher power has confided you to my care, that I may lead you to him. What a triumph will it be to me, to offer you, upon the great day, to that Creator whose graciousness has supported my exertions, and has made me a useful instrument to advance his glory upon the earth!'

In such reflections are the mental emotions of that maternal heart

poured forth. To be such a mother, is the pinnacle of female glory. Renounce vanity and extravagance, ye fair ones! Cultivate your understandings, and enlarge your hearts, that the noble thought of becoming useful members of society may have place therein. By such means, you will do greater honor to the stations which you desire to occupy; our children will be less like apes, and the world justly entertain the hope of a better race of men.

II.

WHAT is that you read, Ædon, which excites so pleasant a smile upon your countenance, and drives sleep from your senses, although the stars already begin to disappear? The odes of Anacreon! You are charmed with this favorite of Nature, in whose songs the most refined voluptuousness and unaffected simplicity are united. A smiling reverie betrays to me what is now passing in your mind. You see the world from a luxurious point, apparently composed of groves of myrtles, beds of roses, and eternal spring; smiling maidens, fawns, and dancing nymphs, and nightingales, whose delightful warbling invites to love. It was, romantic youth, a vision like this, which the rival of virtue displayed to Hercules, as he sat at the threshhold of life, and reflected, as you have not yet done, upon the rules by which he should govern his conduct. Hear, (if phantasies have not led you so far from the path of wisdom as to transform Anacreon into a sage in your eyes,) hear the voice of a friend, who at an early period escaped from the concealed and alluring dangers to which you are now exposing yourself. A youth of a poetical temperament, to whom Nature has granted a refined taste for her beauties, and a superfluity of imagination, more than any other person needs the monitions of some cautious friend. The more extended the dominion of imagination, the more confined is the authority of reason. And the understanding must of necessity rule in a creature, who is superior to the most exquisite animal. The advice that I will give has nothing harsh in it. You shall roam through every region of beauty, and confess that there are charms more alluring than rosy cheeks, and milk-white bosoms; that there are joys more elevated than those which spring from the lips of maidens, or from the clattering of goblets; that wisdom, virtue, and innocence, deserve our highest admiration and love.

But what do I say? What do these names signify? What is wisdom? What is innocence? A new language has been invented in our times! Anacreon is a sage, and Leontius innocent! It was not thus that men acted, and thought, when Plato and Xenophon were teachers. Learn from these, from a Plato, or a Shaftsbury, the real essence of truth and nature, and give yourself — I conjure you, by that love of pleasure which rules your breast, by the undying struggle of your heart for happiness-give yourself but half as much trouble to learn to think understandingly, as one of your innocent nymphs takes to array her charms to the best advantage. Shall wit, shall politeness, and good humor, be loved, without inquiring whether a good use is made of these gifts of nature? Shall Ovid cease to be detestable for his faults, because his beauties are numerous? What a confusion of ideas! What a perversion of nature, and the true condition of things! Wit, when it is not the handmaid of virtue, is a demon, clothed in the garments of an angel of light. It robs with a guilty

hand the chaste beauties of nature, that it may waste them in adorning the deformities of folly. If, Ædon, you are so sensitive to the pleasures of imagination, have innocence, integrity, and religion, no graces? Or is it impossible to consider them in a pleasing view; in their most advantageous light, and delightful colors? But these thoughtless teachers of the art of eating and drinking, these Anacreons, have imbued you with a taste for frivolous gayety, which makes you indifferent to the serious and pious muse. Shame upon your unnatural and degraded taste! Enlarge your mind, and learn to be serious, if you wish to view the world in its true and most excellent light. A pious ancient designated immoral poetry justly, when he called it the wine of the devil, wherewith he intoxicates thoughtless souls, and changes them, as if with a magic potion, into the most degraded beings. But eloquence and wit, if they are employed in wise hands, for the service of truth, are ambrosial fruits, a pleasant and wholesome nourishment to the mind.

How great an obligation does he not confer upon mankind, who discovers new charms in virtue; who induces us to love the severest duties for their own sake? Who replaces our phantasies with great, useful, and divine lessons, soothes our passions, and by that inclination for pleasure which usually urges us from virtue, leads us back to its practice? If you feel within your bosom a poetical fire, let your ambition excite you to the attainment of laurels like these, or remain silent. For a time will come, when the voluptuous sages will think more justly, and desire that they might have been deprived of their genius, when they composed their sensual odes, inviting, in Lydian tones, to softness and slumber upon the bosom of Venus. Let the sentiment of the wise Greek influence you, Ædon. The muses are never more beautiful, than when they are the handmaids of Virtue.

In the still hours of midnight, as my soul, clothed in shadows, wandered abroad, I overheard, with that inner sense wherewith we hear the hymns of nature, and the yet lower voice, which applauds or condemns each thought and action, a contest between two genii, who hovered over the head of the slumbering Maïa. One, it was easy to discover, was a good angel, and her guardian; but infernal splendor, and a mien of malicious wickedness, betrayed the other to be one of those spirits who roam abroad during the hours of darkness, seeking to contaminate the pure hearts of the innocent. Each soul, O Maïa! is watched by two genii. One, its friend and faithful guardian, is unceasingly engaged to guide it unharmed through the mazes of life. He operates by means of a secret influence in the noblest part of the soul, where he strengthens the understanding, and from thence sways the willing heart. The voice of his beloved to the youth enslaved by her charms, or the stammering of the infant which smiles at her bosom to the doting mother, conveys not so much delight, as does his heavenly, soft-breathing voice excite in the heart, when he rewards a good deed with internal applause, or sings to the soul, wrapped up in reflection, a song of triumph. To rest under the shadow of his wings in the consciousness of innocence, is more grateful than to bathe in an ocean of sinful pleasures. From him it comes, O Maïa! when by

means of a wonderful secret emotion, you are warned not to give thoughts a place in your mind, that might disturb your calm serenity. From him comes the remorse that you feel upon your nightly couch, when you have sacrificed a day at the altar of vanity; or, from too great weakness, have, against your better judgment, participated in follies that custom cannot justify. Happy will be your lot, if you do not drive away from you such a protector, nor open your vulnerable heart to the malicious demon who hovers ever near you, and seeks opportunities to find an entrance into your soul.

And how easily may this happen, since he possesses, like deceitful wit, the dangerous power of assuming all manner of appearances? Oftentimes he conceals himself beneath the aspect of a pleasure, which he calls innocent, and like the scorpion, lurks beneath flowers. Do not permit yourself to be deceived by his smooth words. By similar means, one like him might deceive the purest of women. Recollect that then only are you innocent, when you can address the searcher of hearts with serenity and calmness; when no crowd of idle desires, no inconsiderate wishes, no discontent, no pride on account of accomplishments which would be outweighed by a sunbeam, in the eyes of the wise, darken your spirit. Listen not to the frivolous youth who hails you as rich in intellectual worth, because the brilliant glances of your eyes have won his heart, and believes you to be virtuous, because he has convinced himself that snow-white innocence must necessarily reside in a snow-white bosom. You are fortunate, that you feel within your breast a desire to emulate the most exalted examples of virtue. But you are yet far from having attained the same condition, when you have only learned this or that sentiment from them. A Clarissa, a Byron, or an Amelia, is the most splendid ornament of mankind; they seem half-way between angelic and human natures. You have all their tenderness of heart, Maïa, strive also to possess their greatness of mind. The first is the gift of Nature, the last must be the result of your own exertions. Delicacy without strength or greatness of mind, is weakness; it is a reed that is bent by every zephyr which breathes. But a soul which has accustomed itself to an elevated tone of thought, hears the call of pleasure undisturbed, knowing it to be a voice which invites to its shores, only that it may inflict a luxurious death, and stands like the cedars of God, which have their roots in the depths of the earth, unmoved by the storms that may roar around. And how can a mind which is aware of its own worth, be otherwise than great; which has compared this earthen clod with heaven, and days which pass away like shadows, with eternity? What has vanity or voluptuousness to offer, to such a mind? What proportion has a grain of dust to creation? Must not, if you think thus, the exact fulfilment of the most trivial duty give you greater pleasure, than those frivolous souls are capable of experiencing, who are ever wandering in the gardens of folly, and stare at all things with besotted and foolish eyes? No, Maia, the envious demon shall not triumph, in drawing you into the same labyrinths. Unmoved by his arts, you will lend your ear to the calm voice of Wisdom, and walk in her paths at an ever-increasing pace; paths where flowers will bloom beneath your feet, and a thousand seraphs, allured by your humble virtues, hover around, and encircle your soul, so that no evil thing can reach you.

I. Y. 2.

FROM SOURCES OF INSPIRATION, A MS. POEM, BY W. H. C. HOSMER, ESQ.

WHAT true descendant of the pilgrim stock,
Who shouted Freedom!' on the Plymouth Rock,
Feels not true pride, green jewel of the sea!
To think he drew his parentage from thee?
Well may the children of thy rock-bound coast
Tell of thy fame to every land, and boast:

'Here CHAUCER wrote, and SPENSER Swept the lyre,
With tuneful ear and necromantic fire;

Here nursing Nature, with caresses fond,

To SHAKSPEARE gave her wonder-working wand;
Smiled when her idol, with one mighty stroke,
A boundless sea of thought and feeling woke;
Here the bright muse of MILTON, spurning earth,
With angels sang, where light and life have birth;
Then flying downward, by an awful spell,
Laid bare the dreadful mysteries of hell!'

Though storied Europe of the past may boast,
Her heirs of deathless fame, a countless host,
Tombs of the mighty, and the wrecks of art,
That stir with mournful memories the heart;
Our own free land is rich in glorious themes,
And lofty sources of poetic dreams.
Earth that conceals the dust of patriot sires,
No pompous aid from fading art requires;
Above their bones no pyramid uprears
Its grand proportions, mystical with years.

The mounds that mark the places of their rest,
Poetic rapture kindle in the breast;
Instil a love of country, that will brave
Despotic wrath on land or rolling wave:
Their blood, by which our liberty was bought,
Has sanctified the places where they fought;
And when the muse of history unseals
Her mighty tome, deep, thrilling joy she feels,
When pointing out, amid the names that fill
With light her fadeless pages, 'Bunker Hill!

We, too, have dark memorials of the past,
With cloudy robes of doubt around them cast;
And plodding science, to dispel the shade,
In vain calls wild conjecture to her aid.

Our western caves, within their wombs of stone,
Hide mortal wrecks, to memory unknown;
Bones of the mammoth, that appal the gaze,
Majestic relics of departed days!

And broad, green prairies, in their sweep unfold
Vast mounds, constructed by the tribes of old.

Our mossy groves and mighty inland seas,
That bare their broad blue bosoms to the breeze;
Our lofty hills, that guard the fruitful vale,
Rich in tall forests, bending to the gale;
Our mighty stretch of coast, from sea to sea,
Where man alone to God inclines the knee;
Where, free from gale, with canvass idly furled,
Might snugly moor the shipping of the world;
Our streams, embracing in their winding arms
All that enchanted vision chains or charms;
Niagara, whose music wildly loud,

Drowns the deep booming of the thunder cloud,
Clad in his bright, magnificent array,

Of rainbow, storm, white foam, and torrent spray,
Woo genius forth to win a crown of light,
And plume his pinion for an epic flight.