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O! then I weep—O! then 1 pray

With such intensity,
That Heav'n's hand must sweep away

Thy cloud of mystery:
For if Affection's prayer is heard

By meek-eyed Mercy there,
Mine—dearest! mine must be prefer'd

Which wins thee from despair; Or, if to prove thy virtue still,

Thou art ordain'd to bear Of ev'ry agonising ill,

Be mine the mutual share;
Pour all thy sorrows in my breast,

My lears are all for thee;
As in those hours by Fortune blest,

Thy smiles were all for me.
As then, our joys were only one,

Be now our woes the same; 'With all of earth, save thee, I've done:

I'm wife in more than name!

Metropolitan Magazine.

THE WIND.

The following bit of conversation between a father and child originated when we were not far off and, by way of variety, we will indulge in a touch of the didactic, and offer it as a specimen of how the young idea may be taught to shoot.—Picayune.

A child once said to its father, as it felt the play of the morning breeze through its waving ringlets, "Father, where does the wind come from?"

"From heaven," said the father.

"And where does it go to?"

"It goes back to heaven again, my child, and again to earth returns. It is the breath of the Great Spirit of beneficence, from whom we receive all happiness and all joy. Changing seasons are ordained, to make the earth happy and beautiful for us, and then we are breathed upon hot or cold, as is most conducive to our good. Have you not sometimes wished it would be always summer?"

"Yes, father."

"And at another time sighed that winti were not always?" "Yes, father."

"Then you must see that the Ruler of the seasons knows better than yourself what is best for you, as your own wishes were inconsistent."

"Yes, father; I see now."

"The wind, my dear son, may be considered the viewless presence of vast immensity. The far-roaming spirit of the wide universe is ever near us and hovering o'er us. It kisses the sick man's temple, and the suffering invalid lifts up his eye in hope. It plays with the breathing of the sinless infant, and weaves smiles upon its dimpled cheek. It isj|

the essence of life and breath, and you, my boy, are now inhaling it. You know you did not make it, yet you feel that it is necessary for your very life—that without it you would fall down and expire;—then, where does the wind come from, son?" "From heaven, father." "Yes, my boy—from heaven: and it comes to bless the earth. Even from the tempest to the zephyr, all motion of the air lends healthful tone and action to the things of matter. Wind is, as 'twere, an ever-moving pendulum in the sky, that shows the great machinery above, beneath and around us, to be in harmonious action. Were there no wind, my son, this beautiful world would be a void and stagnant waste, and yon arched sky, now so magnificently adorned by the rising sun, would change to some wild and strange confusion. You and I, and all things that live, would sink into inanimation, and all we see and hear and so much rejoice in, would be lost to us forever!" "Does not the wind whisper, father?" "Yes, child; you may learn to converse with it, and it shall tell you of its errand to earth. Pause when the lonely airs are calling stilly music from leaf and bough in a summer even-time, watch as the stars peep forth, and the wind shall whisper to your heart of heaven."

"Does not the wind howl, father?" "Yes, boy; and then it tells the grandeur and the might of august Omnipotence. If you have learned to joy in its balmy breathing, you must also know the great strength and glory of the wind. Is it not wonderful, my son? Even as this infant rivulet beneath us—upon which that dancing sunbeam has just alighted, piercing the leafy forest shade above—rolls on and on, miles, leagues, and far away, still swelling, rising, deepening, until at last it plunges into the vast desert of water that rolls around the globe, so can this gentle west wind, now so soft, stir into brisker mood, rouse into louder voice, start into rage and terror, and fright the land and lash ocean vast with the tornado's wild and leking anger!" "It is wonderful, father!" "And it is wise, my son; and we must believe so, though we may not understand why it is so. Yes; the wind now sporting with the leaves around, may tear these rooted trees from the firm earth, drive them like feathers along the land, dash off the mountain cone, and whirl it into the vale, prostrate cities, and turn the course of seas! It is wonderful!" "Wonderful, father!" "Then, where does the wind come from,

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THE LADIES' GARLAND.

Written for the Ladies' Garland.

THE SAILOR'S WIFE'S GRAVE;

OE, THE MARINER'S RETURN.

BY JOSEPH 1. MATTH1A.s.

The rolling surge dashed playfully upon the beach, and sent its briny spray almost to the feet of a small group of beings that were gathered upon the shore. There was the venerable old man, with his white, uncovered locks, streaming to the wind—the dignified matron—the affectionate wife—and the prattling infant—all were closely circled round a form, upon whose manly features could scarce be traced the contending emotions that swelled his heaving heart.

"I can no longer tarry," he said, in tones that choked for utterance. "Father! thy son craves his sire's blessing!"

"Thou hast it, Will. God in his mercy watch over and protect thee!"

The little group knelt down upon the sand —the old man bent over them, and with his aged hands uplifted, he breathed forth his soul in prayer for the welfare of his son.

"Mother!" said Will, as they rose from their lowly attitudes, "mother! I need not ask to be remembered by you! You will not forget poor Will!"

The mother answered not; her heart was fall.

"Mary!" said he, turning to his young wife, who stood absorbed in pensive thoughtfulness, "Mary! 'tis the last time that I brave the deep. Come, cheer up! But a few short months shall pass, when I will again be with you, never again to part, until dust to dust returns. Comfort my dear father, and my loved mother—be to them a kind daughter."

"Won't pa come back soon to little Wil Vol.,VI.—No. .6—Dec. 1842.

ley V in lisping accents' asked the little curly headed boy, who was playing in the sand, as he looked up into his father's face, with an inquiring countenance. Will clasped the child to his b >soni, while the big tear rolled down his cheek.

"Yes, yes! by Heaven's help, I will! ()! this is the severest part of all! My child! bless thee, bless thee! Father—mother— Mary !—farewell!"

He quickly turned from his kindred, sprang into the boat that lay in waiting, and in a few moments Will stood upon the ship's deck. The snow-white sails were spread to the freshening breeze, the tapering spars yielded to the pressure, and the noble vessel glided through the waters with a velocity that sent the dashing spray high into the air.

Will Collins was a noble fellow—brave and warm-hearted—and as true a sailor as ever sprang to the shrouds. He had followed the water from his boyhood, and the deep sea, with all its dangers, he fondly loved. By his officers he was admired, by his brother ship mates he was respected. When the storm arose, and the mighty billows threatened to engulph all exposed to their fury, his was the heart that remained undaunted—he feared no peril—danger was his element. Will had decreed that this should be his last voyage, as his aged parents needed his protection and support, and his young wife and infantclaimed him as their companion through the turmoil of this uncertain life.

For nearly three weeks had they proceeded on their way, and naught had occurred to

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interrupt their anticipations of a prosperous voyage. Will had retired to his hammock to enjoy the allotted hours of repose, when, about the middle watch, he was suddenly aroused by the shrill whistle of the boatswain, and a cry of "All hands on deck!" With his usual prompt alacrity, he hastily sprang from his hammock, and the next moment he had obeyed the summons.

For an instant Will stood gazing in astonishment—those waters that he left calm and placid only a few hours since, now rolled in mountain masses, whilst the rushing wind swept in fitful gushes, through the ship's cordage. Not a moment was to be lost in listless inactivity. Will saw and comprehended the full extent of their danger. A tremendous sea was running, and sometimes rushing over the bows, swept the decks fore and aft. The reefed fore-sail was blown out, and instantly tore to a thousand shreds, and the vessel was rapidly driven before the wind under bare poles. The rain came down in torrents—the atmosphere became dense, rendering it almost impossible to see a mile a-head. The captain seized his speakingtrumpet and shouted forth his orders, but his voice was drowned in the raging storm. At this moment the ship's carpenter made his appearance, with a face of horror and dismay. It needed no tongue to tell the dreadful truth —that look was enough. The ship began to lurch heavily, until at last she lay in the trough of the sea, with the waves making a complete breach over her. Will saw that the cutting away of the lower masts alone could save them—he seized an axe, and in a few moments more down came the mizen with a tremendous crash. The ship was instantly cleared, and for a time she righted— but it was in vain—the water in the hold gained on them—the men abandoned the pumps in despair, and began to lash themselves to spars, planks, and whatever else they could lay hands on, while others took to the boats—again she settled—reeled—and then cries of horror, short, stifled shrieks, and groans of agony rent the air.

Will seized a small spar as the ship went down, and cast himself into the sea. Through long hours of darkness, he bore up with heroic fortitude against the horrors of his situation, and still struggled with the waves. The winds abated as the day dawned, and Will saw a full-rigged vessel bearing down in his direction—as she neared him he shouted—he was observed—a boat was instantly lowered from her stern, manned, and sent to his rescue.

As he was taken from his perilous situation—overcome by fatigue—he became insensible. In this state he was conveyed to the

ship, and when he again returned to consciousness, he learned that the vessel was bound outward on a three years' voyage. No alternative was left him, but to abide by his hard fate.

*****

Four years had passed, and Will Collins again stood upon the beach where he had last held communion with his kindred. Various emotions swelled within his throbbing bosom, as he paced the well remembered path to his boyhood's home. Already he pictured in his mind's imagination, the smiling faces, and the joyous welcome he would receive from those he had never ceased to think of. He arrived at his Other's cottage—before the door were gathered forms and faces that he j remembered not—he advanced towards them, land inquired "if Mr. Collins did not reside there?"

"O! no!" exclaimed a little girl, in thoughtless innocence, " they all died a long while ago."

In speechless agony Will stood gazing wildly upon the child. Alarmed at his appearance, the little girl ran into the house, from whence there issued a person, in whom Will recognised an old friend.

"Why, Will Collins, is it your' he exclaimed, with an incredulous gaze.

"George!" said Will, eagerly, "where are my parents—my m ,"

"Dead!" interrupted the man.

"No! no! Dead! it is impossible !" wildly exclaimed Will. "Unsay those words of horror, George. I see you do but trifle with me! but come—tell me they are well!—tell me they are living—and I'll forgive you!"

"I have said the truth!" was the solemn response.

Will spoke not, but slowly moved away. A new being seemed to have dawned upon him, as with unfaltering step he entered the village grave yard. Beside two mounds, ranged side by side, he instinctively paused —his eye glanced over the inscriptions upon the marble slab—it was enough—father— mother—wife and child—all, all were there! His frame shook with emotion, and he that had stood undaunted and undismayed beneath the strife of contending elements—he that had braved the horrors and the dangers of the tempestuous ocean—was now like to a child! He leaned his arm upon the marble tomb, and pressing his hand upon his healed forehead—the sailor wept.

Long had he thus remained, when he was roused from his listless attitude by the gentle voice of the old parish vicar, who, in a tone of sympathy, called him " Friend!"

Poor Will turned and gazed upon the pious man. Deep, heart-rending agony was stam ped

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