And the wound that had robb'd her soul of rest.
For they came from him to whom alone,
She pledged her love at her Maker's throne-
Whose hand to claim, in her maiden pride,
She closed her own to the world beside.
At first, he sipp'd from the sparkling brim
Of the cup of guilt-but it flow'd for him
To the dregs, though grief, remorse, despair,
For him and for his were mingled there.
She tried to sunile till her lip was white,
And her eye in sorrow had quench'd its light-
Till the hapless Maniac,-sad and lorn,
From the joys of life in its morning torn,
With the coming a void, a wreck the past,
And the present a dream,-on the world was cast.
The faithless she never again may meet

Till they both shall stand at the judgment seat,
Where a hand unerring our deeds shall weigh,
And avenge our wrongs, in the reckoning day!

The anxious eye and the curious one
The lost Maria alike will shun.

She loves to roam, with her fearless child,
To the flow'ry field, and the lonely wild-

To list, in an arbor of tangled vines,

As the breeze; sweep through the rustling pines;
With the fruit of the oak to start the hare,
And to watch the bee on her path of air;

The crumbled nut to the ant to fling,

And to take the fly from his deadly swing.
She creeps to the dell, to break its hush

With the humming wing of the startled thrush;
Will laugh as the butterfly sports along,
And banter the mute for his morning song;
Or sit at eve, by the echoing hill,

To mock the voice of the whip-poor-will.
She climbs, sometimes, on the craggy steep-
Will look at her babe, and then to the deep,
While she swings her foot on the fearful height,
Like a bird of the ocean, poised for flight.
Then she calls for a shroud to wrap the dead,
And her voice comes low, as a prayer was said;
Then, mournful and sweet, as for one who slumbers
To wake no more, flow her dirge-like numbers.
She sings that the flowers must be fresh and fair,
Which morn's pure light and its balmy air
Have touch'd but once, that are meet to fade
On the grave where the young and fair are laid.
But most she loves in the pensive night,
When the air is still, and the heavens are bright,
Some favorite looks, by the moon, to trace
In the beauteous lines of her infant's face;
And a sweet communion there to find
With the one dear image that fills her mind

And when the cherished illusion breaks-
When her fancy's vision its farewell takes,
And flies, as the thing of a blissful dream;
Her eye will wander across the stream,
And the big tear stand on her cold, pale cheek—
But the name she never is heard to speak.

H. F. G.

SKETCHING.

"What is aught but as 'tis valued ?”

Doctor Jonathan Winter was one of those beings who appear always connected with incongruous circumstances. To begin with his cognomen. Jonathan, even to Yankee ears, accustomed to quaint phrases and patriachial names, conveys the idea of rusticity if not clownishness; yet was Doctor Jonathan the mirror of politeness, and excelled in all fashionable and gentlemanly accomplishments. Then his surname of Winter-doth it not, in imagination, conjure up a tall, pale, spectral looking figure, somewhat resembling the "Snow King,"-with a heart cold and impenetrable as a glazier? Yet the wearer of that frigid name was any thing but a representative of frigidity. He was a middle-sized man, rather inclining to corpulency; with round, healthy cheek, and a complexion almost as fair as infancy; he had a bright blue eye, pleasant and laughing as spring, and a heart warm, bland and generous as the zephyrs and dews of summer-yet Winter was his name.

His life had also been a complete antithesis to his disposition. He was a joyous, active, volatile and voluble child; but reared beneath the rule of a solemn, stern, even severe guardian, he was hardly, till the age of twelve, permitted the free use of his limbs, much less of his tongue. Young Jonathan was then transferred to the care of a grave, pedantic "haberdasher of pronouns," who forbade him to whistle a note, and compelled him to decline Musa, till the little fellow, though he loved dearly to sing, hated the name of a song. He was next sent to college, when he pined to go to sea, and was urged to study medicine, while he longed to study men.

Such was the description he gave of himself to the Misses Barretts.

"And yet," continued the doctor, "though I then considered all these uncongenial circumstances as forced on me by the caprice or injudiciousness of others, yet since I have been at liberty to direct my own movements, it has rarely happened that I have realized what I expected my freedom would give me, namely, the power of regulating my own course, and choosing my own associates. I have been engaged in many an enterprise I had not meditated, and I have formed friendships with persons I should never voluntarily have selected as favorites. Almost all my adventures have been romantic or melancholy, and yet I am neither an enthusiast nor a mope."

"You are probably fated to be a hero," said Miss Charlotte Barrett.

"The world has little need of single heroes," replied the doctor. "The whole population of christendom is becoming heroic-that is, all mankind are learning their own power and importance, and they find that it is a combination of individuals which must effect great enterprises, and consequently that each individual should have his share of the honors and rewards. Utility and steam are now the giants of the world, and in this march of mind and matter, heroes are as completely distanced as Mars would be in a race with the fiery-tailed comet."

"You must turn novel-writer," said Miss Maria Barret. "Meaning it is an employment in which utility or steam have not yet interfered;" replied the doctor. "Well it may be so, but I am deficient in patience and perseverance, both very necessary, indeed, more indispensable for a novel writer in these days than either genius or imagination."

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"These days," reiterated Maria. Why I thought this was the golden era of fiction, when her reign was extended over the whole habitable globe. Nay, I believe a relish for the works of fiction is now considered as the most unerring standard of civilization, if not of Christianity; and that all who do not appreciate them are barbarous, or worse-stupid and strange as the savages of New Zealand."

"I grant all this,” replied doctor Jonathan Winter. "I grant it seems now the popular opinion that all learning necessary for the children of men may be discussed in works of fiction. And true the same book is often an olla podriga of knowledge, furnishing hints on cultivating cabbages, and framing constitu

tions of government; describing a lady's eyebrow, and explaining the phenomena of the universe; from the same page perhaps furnishing criticisms on poetry and puddings; or discussions on pointers and political economy, mingling and blending truth and falsehood in such an inextricable confusion as would puzzle the fairy, who assisted Graciosa to assort the mingled feathers of nine thousand nine hundred and ninety nine birds. "Am I to understand that you condemn novels?" inquired Charlotte.

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By no means," answered Winter. "I only condemn the false ideas they engender; and I maintain that investing them with the importance we now do, they become more and more dangerous in this respect. The old romances of giants and genies, castles and distressed damsels, were read for amusement; our novels are supposed to contain instruction. It will be best for those who feel an interest in preserving the public morals, to discover in what this instruction consists. We may say what we will about the historical accuracy of the events described in a novel; that the personages introduced are faithfully sketched, these things are not those which most interest and influence the reader. It is the exhibition of the passions, the tone of thought, feeling, and more than all, the effect which personal attractions and embellishments are described as possessing over our destiny and happiness, which misleads. Yet good people are not aware how much the extravagance of dress and the exaggerated ideas of the bliss which a splendid establishment can bestow, are imbibed from the fashionable English novels, now permitted to circulate in our republic. Even our holy religion has put on the robe of deception, and comes forth with a smiling face, (alias title) to flatter us to the heaven of fiction."

"Do you not then approve of religious novels?" asked Maria. "No; not of the kind usually palmed upon the public. They are for the most part the silly progeny of weak minds, or eager aspirants for fame, who shelter their puerile productions under that broad appellation "moral," and fancy they shall thus escape criticism and censure. I am half inclined to turn critic, and scourge such pretenders. There are some I could lash."

AN EASTERN SKETCH.

The sun has set on Ganges' stream,
But left behind his smile to gild
The clouds that mourn his death, and gleam
With floods of borrowed beauty filled.

A golden veil is o'er the breast

Of India's sacred monarch river,

And a crimson haze doth earth invest,

Through which yon domes, and mosque-towers quiver, Like tremulous wreaths of morning mist,

Which the ruddy lip of the sun hath kissed.

Twilight is out with his witching spell,

And his Alchymy bathes each tree in gold;
And beneath his touch the bill-crags swell,
In lovelier shapes. The stars that hold
Their voiceless watch in the infinite blue,
With the silver moon that is treading the tip
Of yon tissued cloud in whose fount of dew,

The noon-parched stars are stooping to dip,
Now tremble as much as their images glowing,
'Neath the silvered oar of you Indian boy rowing!

The Hindoo maidens rest their urns,

Awhile in the shade of the swaying palm,
To gaze where their hallowed river burns,
Like a girdle of pearl, in the sunset calm,
And to warble a snatch of some Indian prayer,
To the holy Brama, whose eye is never
Away from the land of his love, but there
Is showering joys on his children ever!-
-The flashing wing of the evening wind,
With its cooling spell, o'er the grove hath been,
And dashed away, but has left behind,

Dew-gems on the plume of the Pangolin;
Whose floating joy has called from its cell,
The panting lizard, and stirred the hum
Of unnumbered swarms, that hidden dwell,
From the scorch of noon, in the shadowy dell,
But when the fresh, chill eve has come,
Are fleeting in showers, and staining the air,
As if a rainbow were shivered there!

Far away in yon jungle of scented grass,
Where the yellow rills of the mountains pass,
And the cocila bends the topmost spray,
Of the woven limbs, that net out the day-
A colossal palm, like a silver shaft,

Leaps free to the air, and its leaves have quaffed