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My pictures were liked, and I was paid what I de- I sank down speechless on a chair, and raised my hands manded. One finished order brought on another. Even prayerfully to Heaven. I shouted-I sobbed. I kissed Sebald found himself so comfortable in Naples, that he the picture and the little paper which her hand must forgot his home sickness. He thanked God for having have touched. I knelt, and with my face bowed to the escaped from the service of the Count with a sound floor, weeping did I thank Providence. head, and would, as he expressed it, rather serve me for bread and water, than the Count for a whole bowl of gold.

My plan was to gain sufficient by my labors to enable me to travel to Germany, and there settle myself. I was industrious and economical. So passed one year. The love which I enjoyed in Tufaldini's house; my quiet life in the dissipated city; the charm of the soft climate, and then, that I was without a vocation, without friends in Germany, induced me to for get my first design. I remained where I was. Joy bloomed for me as little in Germany as in the Italian soil; only the thought, that perhaps Hortensia dwelt on the estate of her father; that I might then have the consolation to see her once more, though at a distance; this thought alone, sometimes drew my desires towards the north. But then I recollected the parting hour and the words she spoke: I annul my earthly union with him! as, before her father, she solemnly, and with such heroic greatness, renounced me: I again roused my courage, and determined to suffer all and cheerfully. I was an oak, which the storm had shattered, without branches, without leaves, solitary, unregarded and dying in itself.

It is said, that Time's beneficent hand heals all wounds. I myself had believed the saying, but found it untrue. My melancholy continued the same-I avoided the gay. Tears often gave me relief, and my only joy was to dream of her-when I again saw her in her greatness and loveliness. Her ring was my holiest relic. Had it fallen into the depths of the sea, nothing should have prevented my plunging in after it. The second year passed, but not my sorrow. A faint gleam of hope sometimes refreshed me, even in my darkest hour, that perhaps an accident might again bring me in the vicinity of my lost chosen one, or that at least I should have some news of her.

It is true, I did not see the possibility of it. How could the distant one know, after years, where the solitary one dwelt? It was all the same. What has hope to do with impossibilities? But at the end of the second year, I gave up this hope. Hortensia was dead for me. I saw her no longer in my dreams, except as a spirit shining in the rays of a glorified being.

Tufaldini and his wife had often asked me, in our confidential conversations, the cause of my melancholy. I could never prevail on myself to violate my secret. They no longer inquired, but they were more careful of my health. I felt that the powers of my life were sinking-and thoughts of the grave to me were sweet.

All was suddenly changed. One morning, Sebald brought some letters from the post. Amongst them were some new orders for pictures, and a little casket. I opened it. Who can imagine my joyful fright? I saw Hortensia's image-living, beautiful-but dressed in mourning the face softer, thinner, and paler than I had actually seen it. On a small piece of paper, in Hortensia's hand, were written three words: "My Emanuel, hope."

I reeled through the room like an intoxicated person.

Thus Sebald found me. He thought I was deranged. He did not err. I feel that man is always stronger to bear misfortune than happiness; while against the one he always approaches more or less prepared, the other comes upon him without preparation or foresight.

Again my hopes bloomed out joyfully, and in them my health and life. Tufaldini and all my acquaintances were delighted at it. I expected from day to day fresh news from my dearly beloved. There was no doubt she knew my residence, though I could not com prehend how she had acquired the intelligence. But from what part of the world did her picture come? All my researches and inquiries on that subject were in vain.

THE SOLUTION.

At the end of eight months, I received another letter from her. It contained the following lines:

"I may see thee, Emanuel, only once more. Be in Leghorn the first morning of May, where thou shalt receive further information from a Swiss mercantile house, if thou inquirest for the widow Marian Schwarz, who will show thee my dwelling. Tell no one in Naples where thou goest; least of all speak of me. I belong no longer to any one in this world, except perhaps, for a few moments to thee."

This letter filled me with new delight, but at the same time with an anxious foreboding, on account of the sad secret which seemed to pierce through it. Nevertheless, again to see the most perfect of her sex, though only for a moment, was sufficient for soul. I left Naples in April, to the great sorrow of the Tufaldini family. Sebald and every one believed that I was going back to Germany.

my

I arrived at Gaeta with Sebald. We had here an unexpected pleasure. In passing by the garden door of a villa, before the city, I observed among many other young ladies, Miss Cecilia. I stopped, sprang down, and made myself known. She led me into the circle of her relations. She had been married for three months. I learnt from her, that she had left Hortensia about a year since. She knew nothing of the residence of the Countess, only, that she had gone into a nunnery. "It is already a year," said Cecilia, "since Count Hormegs died. From the sudden contraction of his accustomed expenditure, I soon remarked, that he had left his affairs in a sadly confused state. The Countess dimi I nished her train of domestics to a very few persons. had the favor of remaining with her. As she soon af ter, by an unfortunate law-suit, lost all hopes of preserving any thing from the paternal estates, we were all discharged. She retained only one old attendant, and declared she would end her days in a cloister. Oh, how many tears did this separation cost us! Hortensia was an angel, and never more beautiful, never more charming, never more exalted than under the heaviest blow of destiny. She resigned all her accustomed splendor, and divided, like a dying person, all the riches of her

wardrobe, amongst her dismissed servants-rewarded | powers of my own fortune, was very humbling to the all with a princely generosity, which must certainly dreamy plans I had indulged in during my journey have placed her in danger of want, and only begged us from Gaeta to Leghorn. I expected, yes, I even wishto include her in our prayers. I left her in Milan, and ed to find Hortensia in a more limited situation, in returned home here to my family. She has declared order to have courage to offer my all. Now, I again her intention of travelling to Germany and there seek- stood before her, the poor painter. ing the solitude of a cloister."

This relation of Cecilia quickly solved the enigma in Ilortensia's last letter. I also learnt from her that Charles, who was severely but not mortally wounded, had immediately on his recovery, entered into the service of the order of Malta, and soon after died.

I did not conceal, in our confidential conversations, what I had heard at Gaeta from Cecilia, and what feelings, what determinations, what hopes had been awakened. I described to her all my destroyed dreams, and hoped that she, perhaps, would give up her cruel design of burying her youth and beauty in the walls of I left Gaeta in a pensive, yet happy mood. Horten- a cloister; that she would choose me for her servant sia's misfortune and the loss of her father, excited my and true friend; that I would lay at her feet all that I compassion, but at the same time gave birth to a bolder had saved, and all that my future industry might gain. hope than I had at any time ventured to conceive. II described to her, with the colors of loving hope, the flattered myself that I might be able to change her determination for a cloister life, and with her heart, perhaps win her hand. I was dizzy with the thought of being able to share the fruits of my labors with Hortensia. This was my only dream the whole way to Leghorn, which I entered one beautiful morning, eight days before the allotted time.

I did not delay a moment in seeking out the Swiss commercial house, to which I was directed. I ran there in my travelling dress, and asked the address of the widow Schwarz, in order that I might learn whether the Countess had yet arrived in Leghorn. A menial | servant conducted me to the widow, who lived in an obscure street, and in a very simple, private house. How great was my vexation to learn, that Mrs. Schwarz was gone out, and that I must call in two hours. Every moment of delay was so much taken from my life. I returned again at the appointed hour. An old servant woman opened the door, led me up stairs and announced me to her lady. I was invited to enter a very simply furnished but neat room. Opposite the room door, on a couch, sat a young lady, who did not appear to notice my entrance, or to return my salutation, but covering her face with both hands, endeavoured to conceal her sobs and tears.

blessedness of a quiet private life, in some retired situation-the simple house, the little garden near it, the work room of the artist, inspired by her presence. I hesitated-I trembled-it was impossible to proceed. She threw her bright eyes upon me, and a heavenly color flew over and animated her countenance.

"Thus have my fancies revelled," added I, after some time, " and shall they not be realized?"

Hortensia arose, went to a closet, drew out a little ebony casket, richly studded with silver, and handed it to me, together with the key.

"In order to deliver you this, I requested your presence in Leghorn. It belongs not in part, but in completion of your dream. After the death of my father, my first thought was to fulfil the duties of my gratitude to you. I have never lost sight of you since your flight from Battaglia. A fortunate accident brought into my hands the letter of your servant, written to one of his friends in my service, from Ravenna, giving your travelling plans. Mr. Tufaldini of Naples was persuaded by me, in a secret conference, to take care of you himself, forever. He received a small capital to defray all expenses, and even, if necessary, for your support. I would also, willingly have rewarded him for his trouble, but it was with the greatest reAt this sight, a feverish shudder ran through me. In luctance the good man would accept from me the most the figure of the young lady, in the tone of her sobs, I trifling present. Thus I had the pleasure of receiving recognized the form and voice of Hortensia. Without every four weeks, news of your health. Tufaldini's deliberating or assuring myself of the fact, like one in- letters were my only comfort after our parting. On the toxicated, I let hat and cane fall, and threw myself at death of my father, I separated myself, as regards forthe feet of the weeping one. Oh, God! who can say tune, from my family. Our estates must remain in the what I felt? Hortensia's arms hung round my neck-male line, all the rest I converted into gold. I no longher lips met mine. The whole past was forgotten-the er thought of returning to my native country—my last whole future seemed strewed with flowers. Never was refuge should be a cloister. Under the pretence of imlove more beautifully remunerated, or constancy more poverishment, I avoided all the old vicinities of my fablissfully rewarded. We both feared, simultaneously, ther, parted with my former domestics, took a private that this moment was merely a dream of felicity. In- station and name, in order to live more concealed. It deed, on the first day of our meeting, so little was was not until I had accomplished all this, that I sumasked or answered, that we separated without knowing moned you, in order to finish the work and redeem the more of each other, than that we had met. vow which I had made to Heaven. The moment is at hand. You have related to me your beautiful dreams. Perhaps on yourself, more than on any other, now depends their realization."

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On the following day, one may easily believe, that I was ready in good time, to take advantage of the bewitching Hortensia's invitation to breakfast with her. Her servants consisted of a cook, a house maid, a wait- She opened the casket and drew out a packet of paing maid, coachman and footman. All the table service pers carefully secured and directed in my name; she was of the finest porcelain and silver, although no broke the seal and laid before me a deed prepared by a longer with the arms and initials of the old Count. notary, in which, partly as payment of a debt, partly This appearance of a certain opulence, which was as accrued interest which belonged to me, and partly as quite contrary to my first idea, and went far above the being heir to an inheritance left by the widow Marian

Schwarz, an immense sum, in bank notes of different | enough to have a penchant for what is in season. I countries, was made over to me. have had my dreams, and told them, too, of all the dear delights of summer, and all the "pleasures of the pathless woods ;" and like the author just quoted I may truly say,

"This, dear Faust," continued the Countess, "is your property-your well earned, well deserved property. I have no longer any share in it. A modest income is sufficient for me at present. When I renounce the world and belong to a cloister, you will also be heir to what I possess. If I am of any value to you, prove it by an eternal silence as regards my person, my station, and my true name. Yet more, I desire you to say not a syllable which can indicate refusal or thanks for this your own property. Give me your hand to it."

I listened to her speech with surprise and pain, laid down the papers with indifference, and replied:

"Do you believe that these bank notes have any value for me? I may neither refuse nor yet be thankful for them. Be not fearful of either. When you go into a cloister, all that remains, the world itself, is superfluous to me. I need nothing. What you give me is dust. Ah! Hortensia, you once said that it was my soul which animated you; were it still so, you would not pause to follow my example. I would burn these notes. What shall I do with them ?-destroy you and your fortune also! Oh! that you were poor and mine! Hortensia, mine!"

She leant tremblingly towards me, clasped one of my hands in both of her's, and said passionately and with tears in her eyes:

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BY THE AUTHOR OF THE TREE ARTICLES."

Another change, my dear Editor! I am in New York, awaiting the opening of the spring, and, with pen in hand, ready to write whatever the contact of things around me shall impel me to scribble, currente calamo, for the April Messenger. I have described to you, before, many of my notions of the comforts, and conveniences, and enjoyments of this changeful world of ours, but these descriptions have chiefly consisted of rural and woodland sketches. But there are two sides to every picture. And, though I well know, as somebody, I forget who, very happily says, that

"When some mad poet stops to muse
About the moonlight and the dews,
The fairies and the fawns,

He's apt to think, he's apt to swear
That comfort dwells not any where

Except in groves and lawns:

That dreams are twice as sweet as dances,

That cities never breed romances," &c. &c.

yet, a man, after all the poets may say, will find much food for thought, nay, much material of solid and rational enjoyment in the crowded thoroughfares of a city. Yes, I, I confess it, Mr. Editor! It is all well

"Yes! those dear dreams are all divine,
And those dear dreams have all been mine.
I like the dawning of the day,

I like the smell of new-mown hay,
I like the babbling of the brooks,
I like the croaking of the rooks,
I like the lowing of the heifers,
I like the whispers of the zephyrs,
I like the peaches and the posies,
I like the violets and roses;
To wander from my drowsy desk
To revel in the picturesque;
To hear, beneath the hoary trees,
The far-off murmur of the seas,

Or trace the river's mazy channels," &c. &c.

in All this ground, I say, I have already gone over, your pages. My engagements will keep me in the city, now, however, till the coming in of strawberry time, when I have an invitation again to ruralize, and shall do so: and the interim shall be occupied, so far as these papers are concerned, in giving you some city sketches, in place of those rural ones that have heretofore employed my pen. And why not? For

"I have been

A sojourner in many a scene,
And picked up wisdom in my way,
And dearly for it have had to pay,
Smiling and weeping all the while
As other people weep and smile.
And I have learned that Love is not
Confined to any hour or spot.

He decks the smile, and fires the frown,
Alike in country and in town:

And glances not a bit more bright
By moon-beam, than by candle-light;
I think much witchcraft oft reposes

On wreaths of artificial roses,

And ringlets,--I have ne'er disdained them,
Because the barber has profaned them!
I think that many a modern dance
May breed a topic for romance;

And many a concert have its springs

For touching hearts as well as strings," &c. &c. My present penchant, then, is metropolitan; and I date from the Astor House. Ecce signum! This granite pile is a village in itself;-standing, populous, in the midst of this great city, imperium in imperio. At this season of the year, its walls are crowded with people from all parts of this country, and with representatives, here and there, from every other. To-day, as I dined, I saw men from almost every state in the Union, among whom were several members of congress; more than one Frenchman, German, Dutchman, Spaniard, Italian, Englishman, Scotchman, Irishman, and Russian. There was a Smyrniote, a Greek, and a Swede, and after dinner a deputation of Oneida Indians examined the apartment, with great sang froid and immobility of mien! Besides those who sit at this immense table, there are the occupants of the ladies' dining hall, and many private families, who are never seen by the rest of the house hold, any more than if their residence were in Bond street or Waverley Place. Truly, a little world in its way, is our Astoria !

Among the long suites of rooms that border the spa

cious galleries of this great caravanserai, is one range, | so sparkling with beautiful and lustrous imagery, so the tenanting of which shall furnish me with a few original in conception, so perfect in execution, cansketches for this month's speculation. First in order, I not have been forgotten by any one who has ever read will visit the temporary abode of a poet, who has come it. The "Editor's Table," (bating the vein of petit hither, all the way from his own "Glen Mary," in the maitre-ism, which ran through its pages somewhat too heart of the Empire State, to superintend the bringing prominently,) was always full of interest, and has since out of his new periodical, "The Corsair." This gallant formed no small portion of the staple of a periodical, in little bark, by the bye, was launched upon her destined this city, with which its author has since been connectelement of public patronage, last week, and was cheer-ed. The Magazine lived but two years, and then Mr. ed, as she glided from the stocks, by the shouts of some thousands of subscribers. She has had a fair start, and has enjoyed favoring breezes, ever since she put forth on her voyage over the wide waste of waters, that, hereafter, are to be her home. The plan of this work is peculiar. Finding that, (by the operation of the booksellers' present, piratical system of publishing wife. Returning home, after some years of foreign English light (the lightest) literature, in preference to travel, he published his contributions to the Mirror, the works of our own writers, combined with the re- with considerable additions, under the above given titles, ciprocity recently established in Great Britain towards and, soon after, a volume of his poetry, called "Melanie, this country, in withholding the power of taking out and other poems." The first winter after his return he copyright there, from foreign writers,) there was no passed at the seat of government, where he gathered chance left for the native author, but to publish peri- many of the materials for his beautifully illustrated odically, what he has to offer to the world, Mr. Willis "Scenery of the United States," now in the course of and his friend and coadjutor, Dr. Porter, have fitted out publication, in numbers, by a London bookseller. His this tight little craft to privateer also upon the wide stores of information were increased, also, by subsequent sea of literature, and to take her chance with the book- extensive travel over the most interesting and pictuselling pirates, in marauding upon the foreign commo- resque portions of our country, and contributed to rendity. The tendency of this will be to show the bib-der the splendid work in question one of the most choice liopolists that they are not to enjoy, undisputed, the dominion of the ocean, and bear home all its treasures, to make the most of,-but are to be met on their own ground, to which, fortunately, they have secured no monopoly. The enterprise, so far, looks well and promises much; may it succeed! But I was talking of Willis.

W. came to New York, lent his name to the Mirror, and soon after, went abroad, as the European tourist for that establishment. His "First Impressions," "Pencillings by the Way," and "Inklings of Adventure," were the products of this enterprise, to which is to be added the obtainment of a lovely and accomplished

productions of the day. He then retired to a farm he had purchased in Owego, in this State, to which he gave the name of "Glen Mary." Here, cultivating trees and tilling the ground, he did not throw aside the pen, that use had made so familiar to his hand ;-but employed it, occasionally, in a series of neat and graceful articles, addressed, through the Mirror, to his friend "The Doctor," upon all topics that, indifferently and casually, might occur to him, as he rambled over his rural realm. These letters were soon found to be popular; and they had proved a strong bond of union, moreover, between the author and the friend to whom they were addressed. The difficulties as to copyright and publication, to which I have already adverted, had taken place in England, and the sources of profit from the publication in that country, of an American author's book, which Mr. Willis had before enjoyed, were cut off by a successful motion to that effect, made in the British Parliament by Sir Lytton Bulwer, on the ground of reciprocity,—and the result of all was the project of "The Corsair." But I must hasten to another room in the attic of Astor's.

The son of a respectable and much esteemed citizen of Boston, a practical printer, and editor of a religious weekly paper, Mr. Willis was early sent to Yale College, where he acquired a good belle-lettres education, and graduated with credit. His intellectual bent was ever towards poetry and romance, and long before he left college, he had distinguished himself as being capable of producing most touching poetry, and the most graceful prose. His first efforts were contributions to the pages of his father's paper, the Boston Recorder, the organ of the Calvinistic or Presbyterian church of New England,-and bore the signature of "Roy." These were principally upon scripture topics, and won for their author a precocious reputation, in that department. Indeed, I doubt if any thing he has done since, is superior to some of those early efforts, such as "The Here lives, amongst political pamphlets, reports of Widow of Nain," "The Raising of Jairus' Daughter," congressional debates, of executive departments, and &c. At about the same time Mr. Willis was writing some of investigating committees, surrounded by such lighter effusions for the columns of the Boston States- books as Junius, Say's Political Economy, Gouge on man, now the Morning Post, then under the editorial Banking, Carey on the Credit System, Vattel, Storey direction of Nathaniel Greene, brother of the present on the Constitution, The Federalist, &c. &c.,-here editor. These were sometimes humorous, sometimes lives, I say, for the nonce, the celebrated historiographer serious, often of a very elevated character, and, com- of the famous "Cruise of the Potomac," the originabined with the productions of "Roy," soon established tor and projector, though not allowed to be a particihis reputation as one of the best of this country's poets. pator, of "The Exploring Expedition." Mr. Reynolds Soon after he left college, he set up the American is a citizen of Ohio, and has ever shown a devotion to Monthly Magazine, in Boston, in which he wrote some most graceful articles, exceeding in finish, as I cannot but think, any thing that he has more recently done. Among threse, the paper, entitled "The Philosophy of Music,"

the cause of science, which has been displayed, signally, in the two highly important cases above alluded to. It is no part of my plan, in penning these papers, to indulge in political disquisitions: but, in connection with

the brief notice already taken of my distinguished fel- [tion of Richard, the griefs of Imogen, and Desdemona, low boarder, I must be allowed to say, that it was an the savage jealousy of Othello, the infirm purpose of impolitic movement on the part of the government to Macbeth, the innocent love of Miranda, and the vodeny to this gentleman the place in the expedition, luptuous passion of Cleopatra,—all derive, from the which has recently sailed, so properly his due: for tone and manner with which the reader delivers the never had any administration a more formidable oppo-passages that describe them, their most perfect elucidanent than the present popular political orator of Nation- tion and illustration. As Willis, the other day, real Hall, has proved himself to be to that now in power. marked of the readings and commentaries of Simmons, His political lectures are listened to by throngs, whom "there are seven heavens in the genius of Shakspeare, he addresses, not in the language and manner of a dema- and few people reach more than half of them: it was gogue, not by allusions to his own real or imaginary reserved for this man, to raise all, who hear him read wrongs;-far, very far from it. He invites debate and and lecture, even to the seventh!" discussion from the side he opposes, and urges home his arguments upon the multitudes who crowd to hear him, with soberness and discretion, and not in the tone of a mere party haranguer of the populace. In manner he is very graceful, impassioned, and impressive; in the choice of language, discreet, well-prepared, and classi

But I have chatted too long, I fear, and must leave and relieve you, for another month. Adieu! New York, April 1, 1839.

J. F. O.

cal; and in argument close, subtle, fair, clear, and con- THE WANDERER TO HIS NATIVE HOME. vincing. But, leaving Mr. Reynolds at his desk, whom have we here, next door?

Here is a man after your correspondent's own heart, my Editor! Let me introduce you to him. There he stands, the works of one William Shakspeare open before him, on one side, and those of "Rare Ben Jonson," on the other. He is conning a lecture upon the genius of the olden bards of Britain, to be delivered to-night at the hall of Stuyvesant Institute. Ask him to read you a passage, at random, with appropriate original comments thereon: he will do it for you,-for he has no silly affectation of believing you in error, or inclined, unduly, to compliment him, when you tell him, as you will, when you have heard him read, that he is beyond all compare, the best reader, and the most graceful speaker you ever listened to. Hear and see him deliver Shakspeare's "Antony over the dead body of Cæsar," or the scenes between Falstaff and Prince Hal, or Paul's speech before Agrippa, or Solomon's prayer at the dedication of the temple, or Hamlet's soliloquy on Death, or his advice to the actors, or Burns's Highland Mary, or Bonaparte's trip to Russia,—and say if I have too highly praised his eloquence.

Professor Simmons is the eldest son of Judge Simmons of Boston; he was educated at Harvard University, and, having graduated with honor, was appointed professor of elocution in that institution. He has lately left Cambridge, and is now delivering a very popular and much admired series of lectures upon the works and genius of Shakspeare, in this city. He is remarkable for the most perfect appropriateness of language, in conveying the most acute and accurate elucidations of the immortal bard,-displaying a verbal and philosophical intimacy and familiar acquaintance with the more recondite meanings of the text, and a tact at imparting that understanding to the minds of others, which are truly wonderful. Softer than the dew falls upon the flowers, fall the tender passages in Romeo and Juliet from his lips,-sweeter than honey from hives of Hybla, flow the liquid accents of the softer passions from his tongue,-while nothing can be more joyous and mirth-inspiring than the rich, riant, racy manner, in which he gives the comic conceptions of Avon's all-knowing, all-describing bard! The impetuous fire of Hotspur, the deep melancholy of Hamlet, the patient sorrows of Hermione, the mad ambi

FROM A LADY'S PORT FOLIO.

I come, but not in life's gladness-
I come, tho' in grief's hurried track-
Will ye take, in his reft heart's sadness,
The weary and wandering back?

I sigh for my childhood's glad bowers,
Whence, so long I've been destined to roam;
Oh! speed on, ye bright winged hours,
And waft to my dear native home.
Is the blue sky above it still bright,
And the green earth beneath still fair?
Do wild flowers still ope to the light,
In wonted luxuriance, there?
Will the voice of the same glad bird,

That charmed me in youth's sunny hour,
Again in its own haunts be heard,

As of yore, with a soul-soothing power?
I will seek the same moss-cover'd stone,
Where I hied in the sweet spring time,
And list to the 'customed moan
Of the brooklet's perpetual chime.
Perchance, the young cowslip still laves

Its brow in that pure, purling stream;
And the crests of the bright young waves
Are tipt with the dawn's early beam:
And the bee and the humming-bird sip
The sweets from the fox-glove's bell;
And the wings of the light zephyr dip
O'er mountain and streamlet and dell.
And dearer, far dearer than all

Of music that earth can afford,
As I enter the old wonted hall,
Will voices of lov'd ones be heard?
And cast o'er my wearied breast

The spell of affection once more;
And bid the poor wanderer rest,
When the night of his exile is o'er ?
Oh, say! for in few fleeting hours,

To the haunts of my childhood I come,
Will you take to your own glad bowers,
The weary and wandering home?
Camden, S. C.

ETOILE

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