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ness I would rejoicingly have laid down the sceptre of the world! In my agitation I spoke aloud. My voice rang through the solitude round me, and returned on the ear with a startling distinctness. Living sounds suddenly mingled with the echo. A low groan came from the pile of ruins beside me. I listened, as one might listen for an answer from the sepulchre. The voice was heard again. A few stones from the shattered wall gave way, and I saw thrust out the withered, bony hand of a human being. I tore down the remaining impediments, and saw, pale, emaciated, and at the point of death by famine, my friend, my fellow-soldier, my fellow-sufferer, Jubal : Joy is sometimes as dangerous as sorrow. He gave a glance of recognition, struggled forward, and, uttering a wild cry, fell senseless into my arms. On his recovering, before I could ask him the question nearest to my heart, it was answered, “They are safe, all safe,” said he. “On the landing of fresh troops from Italy, the first efforts of the le. gions were directed against this fortress. The pirates, in return for the victory to which you led them, had set me at liberty. I made my way through the enemy's posts; Eleazer, ever generous and noble, received me after all my wanderings with the heart of a father; and we determined on defending this glorious trophy of your heroism to the last man. But, with the wisdom that never failed him, he knew what must be the result; and at the very commencement of the siege sent away your family to Alexandria, where they might be sure of protection from our kindred.” “And they went by sea!” I asked shudderingly, while the whole terrible truth dawned upon my mind. “It was the only course. was filled with the enemy.” “Then they are lost! Wretched father, now no father. Man marked by destiny. The blow has fallen at last. They perished. I saw them perish. Their dying shrieks rang in these ears. I was their destroyer. From first to last, I have been their undoing !” Jubal looked on me with astonishment. My adopted daughter, without any idle attempt at consolation, only bathed my hand in her tears. “There must be some misconception here,” said Jubal. “Before we left that dungeon, they had embarked with a crowd of females from the surrounding country in one of the annual fleets for Egypt. Before we sailed from the pirate's cavern, they were probably safe in Alexandria.” “No! I saw them perish. I heard their dying cry. I drove them, involuntarily, but surely drove them, to destruction,” was the only voice that my withering lips could utter.
Religion has planted itself, in all the purity of its image, and sufficiency of its strength, at the threshold of human misery; and is empowered to recall the wanderers from their pilgrimage of wo, and direct them in the path to heaven. It has diffused a sacred joy in the abodes of poverty and wretchedness; it has effaced the wrinkles from the brow of care— shed a beam of sacred and tranquil joy in the chamber of death, gladdened the countenance of the dying with a triumphant enthusiasm, and diffused throughout the earth a faint foretaste of the blessings of futurity. It is benign as the light of heaven, and comprehensive as its span. An Iris in the sky of the Christian, it quickens perseverance with the promise of a reward; reanimates the drooping spirit; invigorates the decrepitude of age, and directs, with a prophetic ken, to the regions of eternal felicity. Like the sun, it gilds every object with its rays, without being diminished in its lustre, or shorn of its power.
What can equal the delight of our hearts at the very first glimpse of spring—the first springing of buds and green herbs? It is like a new life infused into our bosoms. A spirit of tenderness, a burst of freshness and luxury of feeling possesses us, -and let fifty springs have broken upon us, this joy, unlike many joys of time, is not an atom impaired. Are we not young Are we not children? Do we not break, by the power of awakened thoughts, into all the rapturous scenes of all our happier years! There is something in the freshness of the soil—in the mossy bank —the balmy air—the voices of birds—the early and delicious flowers, that we have seen and felt only in childhood and in spring.
There are mornings even in March, and frequently in April, when a lover of nature may enjoy, in a stroll, sensations not to be exceeded, or perhaps equalled, by any thing which the full glory of summer can awaken: mornings which tempt us to cast the memory of winter, or the fear of its return, out of our thoughts. . The air is mild and balmy, with now and then a cool gush by no means unpleasant, but, on the contrary, contributing towards that cheering and peculiar feeling which we experience only in spring. The sky is clear—the sun flings abroad not only a gladdening splendor, but an almost summer glow. The world seems suddenly aroused to hope and enjoyment. The fields are assuming a vernal greenness—the buds are swelling in the hedges—the banks are dis
playing amid the brown remains of last year's vegetation, the luxuriant weeds of this.There are arums, ground-ivy, the glaucus leaves and burnished flowers of the pilewort,
The first gilt thing That wears the trembling pearls of spring
and many other fresh and early bursts of greenery. All unexpectedly, too, in some embowered land, you are arrested by the delicious odor of violets, those sweetest of Flora's children, which have furnished so many pretty allusions to the poets, and which are not yet exhausted;—they are like true friends, we do not know half their sweetness till they have felt the sunshine of our kindness, and again, they are like the pleasures of our childhood, the earliest and the most beautiful.— Now, however, they are to be seen in all their glory—blue and white–modestly peering through their thick, clustering leaves. The lark is caroling in the blue fields of air—the blackbird and thrush are again shouting and replying to each other from the tops of the trees. The woods, though yet unadorned with their leafy garniture, are beautiful to look on; they seem flushed with life. Their boughs are frequently of a clear and glossy lead color, and the tree tops are rich with the vigorous hues of brown, red, and purple; and if you plunge into their solitudes, there are symptoms of revivification under your feet—the springing mercury and green blades of the blue bells—and perhaps above you, the early 222
nest of the thrush, perched between the boughs of a young oak, to tinge your thoughts with the anticipations of summer. . These are mornings not to be neglected by the lover of nature; and if not neglected they are not forgotten, for they will stir the springs of memory, and make us live over again, times and seasons that we cannot, for the pleasure and purity of our spirits, live over too much.
I solitary court The inspiring breeze, and meditate upon the book Of nature: ever open; aiming thence, Warin from the heart, to learn the moral song.
Persons of reflection and sénsibility contemplate with interest the scenes of nature. The changes of the year impart a color and character to their thoughts and feelings.When the seasons walk their round, when the earth buds, the corn ripens, and the leaf falls, not only are the senses impressed, but the mind is instructed; the heart is touched with sentiment, the fancy amused with visions. To a lover of nature and of wisdom, the vicissitude of seasons conveys a proof and exhibition of the wise and benevolent contrivance of the Author of all things. When suffering the inconveniences of the ruder parts of the year, we may be tempted to wonder why this rotation is necessary;why we could not be constantly gratified with vernal bloom and fragrance, or summer beauty and profusion. We imagine that, in a world of our creation, there would always be ablessing in the air, and flowers and fruits on the earth. The chilling blast and driving snow, the desolated field, withered foliage, and naked trees, should make no part of the scener which we would produce. A little thought, however, is sufficient to show the folly, if not impiety of such distrust in the appointments of the great Creator. The succession and contrast of the seasons give scope to that care and foresight, diligence and industry, which are essential to the dignity and enjoyment of human beings, whose happiness is connected with the exertion of their faculties. With our present constitution and state, in which impressions on the senses enter so much into our pleasures and pains, and the vivacity of our sensations is af. fected by comparison, the uniformity and continuance of a perpetual spring would greatly impair its pleasing effect upon our feelings. The present distribution of the several parts of the year, is evidently connected with the welfare of the whole, and the production of the greatest sum of being and enjoyment. That motion in the earth, and change of place in the sun, which cause one region of the globe to be consigned to cold, decay, and barrenness, imrt to anotherheat and life,fertility and beauty. hilst in our climate the earth is bound with
frost, and the ‘chilly smothering snows' are falling, the inhabitants of another behold the earth, first planted with vegetation and apparelled in verdure, and those of a third are rejoicing in the appointed weeks of harvest. Each season comes, attended with its benefits, and beauties, and pleasures. All are sensible of the charms of spring. Then the senses are delighted with the feast, that is furnished on every field, and on every hill.— The eye sweetly lingers on every object to which it turns. It is grateful to perceive how widely, yet chastely, nature hath mixed her colors and painted her robe; how bountifully she hath scattered her blossoms and flung her odors. We listen with joy to the melody she hath awakaned in the groves, and catch health from the pure and tepid gales that blow from the mountains. When the summer exhibits the whole force of active nature, and shines in full beauty and splendor; when the succeeding season offers its ‘purple stores and golden grain, or displays its blended and softened tints; when the winter puts on its sullen aspect, and brings stillness and repose, affording a respite from the labors which have occupied the preceding months, inviting us to reflection, and compensating for the want of attractions abroad by fireside delights and home-felt joys; in all this interchange and variety we find reason to acknowledge the wise and benevolent care of the God of the seasons. When we are passing from the finer to the ruder, portions of the year, the sun emits a fainter beam, and the sky is frequently overcast. The gardens and fields have become a waste, and the forests have shed their verdant honors. The hills are no more enlivened with the bleating of flocks, and the woodland no longer resounds with the song of birds.— In these changes we see evidences of our instability, and images of our transitory state.
“So flourishes and fades majestic man.”
Our life is compared to a falling leafWhen we are disposed to count on protracted years, to defer any serious thoughts of futurity, and to extend our plans through a long succession of seasons; the spectacle of the “fading many colored woods,' and the naked trees, affords a salutary admonition of our frailty. It should teach us to fill the short year of life, or that portion of it which may be allotted to us, with useful employments and harmless pleasures; to practice that industry, activity, and order, which the course of the natural world is constantly preaching.
Let not the passions blight the intellect in the spring of its advancement; nor indolence nor vice canker the promise of the heart in the blossom. Then shall the summer of life be adorned with moral beauty; the autumn
yield a harvest of wisdom and virtue; and the winter of age be cheered with pleasing reflections on the past, and bright hopes of the future. =
Here is something to stir the heart and moisten the eyes. e have culled it from one of the magazines of the day. Many, many times have we read it over, and wept with the “joy of grief,” as it brought to our remembrance the sweet babes who could just lisp the name of “sister,” that passed away long ago. As we read it again and again, think how many a parent's heart has throbbed, how many a parent's eye have grown dim, while perusing these very lines, and lingering in memory over the dear ones, and noting each well known face, who have long since been hid in the grave.—Balt. Mon.
W E E W I L L I E.
fare thee well, our last and fairest!
Dear wee Willie, fare thee well; He, who lent thee, hath recalled thee
Back with Him and His to dwell. Fifteen moons their silver lustre
Only o'er thy brow hath shed, o ‘When thy spirit joined the seraphs,
And thy dust the dead.
Like a sunbeam through our dwelling
As we gazed upon thee sleeping,
Snows o'ermantled hill and valley;
'Twas even then Destruction's angel
As the beams of spring's first morning
Five were ye, the beauteous blossoms
Yet while thinking,-O our lost ones!
Where then, are ye? With the Saviour
We are wicked—we are weary:
God, who ever hears the sinless,
Pray that through Christ's mediation, All our faults may be forgiven;
Plead that ye be sent to greet us
At the gates of heaven: The following beautiful sketch is from the pen of Mrs. P. W. BALL, Editor of the Zanesville, Ohio, Visiter
and Advertiser, a paper conducted with great judg-
ment and ability; and which has very superior claims on the liberal patronage of the citizens of the great West. T H E Y O U N G B R ID E. * - by Mrs. P. W. BALL. Emma had wheeled the sofa in front of the fire, and as Charles seated himself beside her, he was a happy fellow. Alas! he had as yet only drank the bubbles on the cup. Em
*There was a time when the Authoress of the following sketch could have placed her hand upon that of the original of Charles West, for he was to her a dear friend, but the rank grass has long since waved above his narrow home, yet many live to bless his memory— and one friend will never forget the true worth of his character. The sketch has been widely published, and we here reclaim it.—Editor of the Visiter and Mdv.
The Young Bride.
ma looked lovely, for the glow of the warm coal fire had given a bloom to her usually pale cheek, which heightened the lustre of her dark eyes. But there came a shade of thought over Emma's brow, and her husband instantly remarked it. It is strange how a husband sees clouds over his liege lady's brow. It was the first that Charles ever saw there, and it excited his tenderest inquiry. Was she unwell! Did she wish for any thing! Emma hesitated; she blushed and looked down.— Charles pressed to know what had cast such a shadow over her spirits. “I fear you will think me very silly—but Mary French has been sitting with me this afternoon.” “Not for that, certainly,” said Charles, smiling. “Oh, no; but you may recollect we began to keep house at nearly the same time, only they sent by Brent to New York for carpeting. Mary would make me walk down to Brent's store this evening with her, and he has brought two—they are such loves.” Charles bit his lip. “Mary,” she continued, “ said you were doing a first rate business, and she was sure you would never let that odious Wilton lay in the parlor, if you once saw that splendid Brussels—so rich and so cheap—only seventy-five dollars. Now the “odious Wilton” had been selected by Charles' mother, and presented to them; and the color deepened on his cheek, as his animated bride continued, “Suppose we walk down to Brent's and look at it, there are only two, and it seems a pity not to secure it.” “Emma,” said Charles gravely, you are mistaken if you suppose my business will justify extravăgance. It will be useless to look at the carpet, as we have one that will answer very well, and is perfectly new.” Emma's vivacity fled, and she sat awkwardly picking her nails. Charles felt embarrassed—he drew out his watch and put it back—whistled—and finally spying a periodical on Emma's table, began to read aloud Some beautiful verses. His voice was well toned, and he soon entered into the spirit of the writer and forgot his embarrassment; when looking into Emma's eyes how was he surprised, instead of the glow of sympathetic feeling he expected to meet, to see her head bent in her hands, evident displeasure on her brow, and a tear trickling slowly down her cheek. Charles was a sensible young man—l wish there were more like him—and he reflected a moment before he said, “Emma, my love, get your bonnet and your cloak on, and walk with me, if you please.” Emma looked as if she would like to pout a little longer; but Charles said “come” with such serious gravity on his countenance, that Emma thought proper to
accede; and nothing doubting but that it was to purchase the carpet, took his arm with a smile of triumph. They crossed several streets in the direction of Brent's until they at last stood before the door of "a miserable tenement in a back street. “Where in the world are you taking me?” inquired Emma, shrinking back. Charles quietly led her forward, and lifting a latch, they stood in a little room, around the grate of which three small children were hovering closer and closer, as the cold wind swept through the crevices, in the decayed walls. An emaciated being, whose shrunk features, sparkling eye and flushed cheek, spoke a deadly consumption, lay on a wretched low bed, the slight covering of which barely kept her from freezing; while a spectral babe, whose black eyes looked unnaturally large from its extreme thinness, was endeavoring to
draw sustenance from its dying mother.
“How are you to-day, Mrs. Wright?” quietly enquired Charles.
The woman feebly raised herselfon herarm.
Is that you, Mr. West; O, how glad I am
“Has not been at home for a month ; and the lady who promised her to look after you in her absence, only informed me to-day of your increased illness.” “I have been very ill,” she replied, sinking back on her straw bed. Emma drew near; she arranged the pillow and the bed clothes over the feeble sufferer, but her heart was too full to speak. Charles observed it and felt satisfied. “Is that beautiful girl your bride? I heard you were married.” “Yes, and in my mother's absence she will see you do not want.” “Bless you, Charles West; bless you for a good son of a good mother; may your wife deserve you—and that is wishing a great deal for her. You are very good to think of me,” she said, looking at Emma, “and you just married :'' Charles saw that Emma could not speak, and he hurried her home, promising to send the woman some wood that night. The moment Emma reached home, she burstinto tears. “My dear Emma,” said Charles, soothingly, “I hope I have not given you too severe a shock. It is sometimes salutary to look on the miseries of others, that we may properly appreciate our own happiness. Here is a purse containing seventy-five dollars; you may spend it as you please.” It is unnecessary to add that the “odious Wilton” kept its place; but the shivering children of want were taught to bless the name
of Emma West, and it formed the last artic-.
ulate murmur on the lips of the dying suf