though, in spite of all care, she slowly sank into the grave. To me that period was a memorable one. The alteration in my sentiments being confirmed by the happiness I tasted from the hour of the change, I became a new being. When my sister-in-law died, my niece was left, of course, with me. Since that time she has never been from my side. Her joys have been my joys, and her life has been a part of mine. And I owe her so much! That tear of hers precious pearl gathered by my heart — has been to it what the dew-drop of morn is to the unopened flower, expanding it for the entire day of existence.”




With storm-daring pennon and sun-gazing eye,
The gray forest eagle is king of the sky.
O, little he loves the green valley of flowers,
Where sunshine and song cheer the bright summer hours ;
For he hears in those haunts only music, and sees
Only rippling of waters and waving of trees ;
There the red robin warbles, the honey-bee hums,
The timid quail whistles, the sly partridge drums;
And if those proud pinions, perchance, sweep along,
There's a shrouding of plumage, a hushing of song;
The sunlight falls stilly on leaf and on moss,
And there's nought but his shadow black gliding across.

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'Tis merry in greenwood, thus runs the old lay,–
In the gladsome month of lively May,
When the wild bird's song, on stem and spray,

Invites to forest bower;

Then rears the ash his airy crest,
Then shines the birch in silver vest,
And the beech in glittering leares is dressed,
And dark between shows the oak’s proud breast,

Like a chieftain's frowning tower : Though a thousand branches join their screen, Yet the broken sunbeams glance between, And tip the leaves with lighter green,

With lighter tints the flower;
Dull is the heart that loves not then
The deep recess of the wild-wood glen,
Where roe and red-deer find sheltering den,

When the sun is in his power.

LOVE OF Country. — Scott.
Breathes there the man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land !
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned,
From wandering on a foreign strand ?
If such there breathe, go, mark him well ;
For him no minstrel raptures swell ;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish may
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from which he sprung,
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.


SABBATH MORNING. Grahame. How still the morning of the hallowed day! Mute is the voice of rural labor, hushed

The ploughboy's whistle and the milkmaid's song.
The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath
Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers,
That yestermorn bloomed waving in the breeze.
Sounds the most faint attract the ear; the hum ,
Of early bee, the trickling of the dew,
The distant bleating midway up the hill.
Calmness seems throned on yon unmoving cloud.
To him who wanders o'er the upland leas
The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale ;
And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark
Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook
Murmurs more gently down the deep-sunk glen ;
While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke
O'ermounts the mist, is heard at intervals
The voice of psalms, the simple voice of praise.

DANGER AND HONOR. - Shakspeare.
Send danger from the east unto the west,
So honor cross it from the north to south,
And let them grapple. O, the blood more stirs
To rouse a lion than to start a hare!

A DEW-DROP. Trench.
A dew-drop, falling on the wild sea wave,
Exclaimed in fear, " I perish in this grave!”
But, in a shell received, that drop of dew
Into a pearl of marvellous beauty grew;
And, happy now, the grace did magnify
Which thrust it forth, as it had feared, to die;
Until again, "I perish quite," it said,
Torn by rude diver from its ocean bed.
O unbelieving! so it came to gleam
Chief jewel in a monarch’s diadem.

How soft the music of those village bells,
Falling at intervals upon the ear
In cadence sweet! now dying all away,
Now pealing loud again, and louder still,
Clear and sonorous as the gale comes on.
With easy force it opens all the cells
Where memory slept.

FIELD FLOWERS. — Campbell.
Ye field flowers, the gardens eclipse you, 'tis true ;
Yet, wildings of nature, I dote upon you,

waft me to summers of old, When the earth teemed around me with fairy delight, And when daisies and buttercups gladdened my sight

Like treasures of silver and gold.

I love you for lulling me back into dreams
Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams,

And of birchen glades breathing their balm ; While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote, And the deep, mellow crush of the wood-pigeon's note

Made music that sweetened the calm.

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Since trifles make the sum of human things,
And half our misery from trifles springs,
Since life’s best joys consist in peace and ease,
And few can serve or save, but all may please,
O, let the ungentle spirit learn from hence,
A small unkindness is a great offence.
Large bounties to bestow we wish in vain,
But all may shun the guilt of giving pain.



The impressions made on the mind in youth are frequently stronger than those at a more advanced period of life, and are generally retained. My father often told me that when yet a child, my first attempt at drawing was from a preserved specimen of a dove; and he many times repeated to me that birds of this kind are usually remarkable for the gentleness of their disposition, and that the manner in which they show their natural affection, and feed their offspring, was undoubtedly intended, in part, to teach other beings a lesson of connubial and parental attachment. Be this as it may, I have always been fond of doves. The timidity and anxiety which they all manifest on being disturbed during incubation, and the continuance of their mutual attachment for years, are distinguishing traits in their character. Who can approach a sitting dove, hear its notes of remonstrance, or feel the feeble blows of its wings, without being sensible that he is committing a wrong act ?

The cooing of the Zenaida dove is so peculiar that one who hears it for the first time naturally stops to ask, “What bird is that?” A man who was once a pirate assured me that several times, while at certain wells dug in the burning, shelly sands of a well-known key,* which must here be nameless, the soft and melancholy cry of the doves awoke in his breast feelings which had long slumbered, melted his heart to repentance, and caused him to linger at the spot in a state of mind which he only who compares the wretchedness of guilt within him with the happiness of former innocence, can truly feel.

He said he never left the place without increased fears of futurity, associated as he was, although I believe by force, with a band of the most desperate villains that ever annoyed the navigation of the Florida coasts.

So deeply moved was he by the notes of any bird, and especially by those of a dove, — the only soothing sounds he ever heard during his life of horrors, - that through these plaintive

* Key, a strip, or island, of sand.

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