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(fUljc flfrif Mfoslj Honttf n Hftn-nfiv VV 11. STYLES Ill'Ll.. Terms ot Subscript ion. I THE Hr. rai.d is printed on a largo imperial sheet. with new type, at S3 per year, in ad •fenco, or St at the expiration of the year.— No subscription received for a less term than one year, and no paper discontinued until all |prr< arages are paid, except at the option of the P publisher. Ky** AnvrßTisK.wr.NTs published at the usual f rules. Ity* As we do not Intend that our paper shall be confined merely to the store or the Office, but shall extend into the dwelling-house, and be read at the fire-side, we shall take care to furnish interesting and useful matter for •ijpnUing, —and the families of our merchants, planters and mechanics, shall always find, in Jfce Herald, a corner for themselves, where they can while away a pleasant hour, or find tjgrecablc materials for the Scrap Book or Album. The following we have selected •from the Baltimore Monument, awelleonduet jfed literary paper, and are confident it will repay a eareftil perusal. [Editor Herald. . PARNASSIAN PASTIMES, ■ V T. s. ARTIII'R. There is a gentle girl, neither sister nor cousin—and her name is Dorothea—with whom, when our busy thoughts would seek repose—sweat repose, hut not r< t—we pass a pleasant hour. Sometimes we do nit I meet her for weeks ; and month* have pas ■ fed a wav* without our seeing the quiet se clusion of hci father’s house, Whonbusv with the active schemes and stirring nrni- I pnlions of life, wc rarely think of Dorethca ; tut often comes the passive hour, in the *til! evening, and then we wander nietlv off almost involuntarily, hardly thinking of the ! sweat mauled, until our hand is in hers, and thtf yet troubled waves of our heart—the ground-swell of emotion—is suddenly stil led by the low murmcr of her gentle tones, i Dorothea, though guileless in heart ns a lit tle girl, has long since passed hy ‘sweet 1 sixteen hut time has only added depth and lustre to her dark blue eye, and softened with an almost imperceptible shadow her angle-face. Her heart has never trembled with a deeper love- than that she hears for an only parent, a bed-ridden man, the light of whose life is the smile his beloved child. Pew visit her in her nun-like seclusion, hut j she is not alone ; around her she has gath ered the mute but eloquent representatives ofthe masters of song in all ages ; and deep ly docs she drink of the pure waters of the wells of inspiration. Whenever I visit her, she brings out her port-folio, sfld together we read over the gems she has rollccted since we met; and pure and sparkling they always aye. isTA few evenings since, after a long absence we called on Dorothea, ands mini her smile as sweet, and her words as welcome a ev er. There was no allusion to the passage I of time since last we met —no affertn i in of 1 reserve for implied neglect. Os such things lshe never dreamed. Always satisfied with they own thoughts, she lost nothing by the absence of anv one ; and pride never stir red her heart at the idea of indifference, i )n the table at whirl) she was setting was icr \ ell filled port-folio, and her hand was eating upon an open page as we entered. “Our old friend is here still,” said we, ftcr the first greeting was over. “What f new interest has been transferred to its ges” r “Many dear, delightful things. Here is omething to stir the heart and moisten the ires. I have e tiled it from one of the msg-j zincs of the day. Many, many times have 1 read it over, and wept avith the ‘joy of grief,’ as it brought to my remembrance! the sweet babes, who couid just lisp the name of‘sister,’ that passed away long, long a As I read it again and again, I think j many a parent’s heart has throbbed, hose many a parent’s eyes have grown dim,! while pausing on these very lines, and lin gering in memory over ihe dear ones, and ■ntiug each writ-known face, who have Hag since been i_.l in the grave 1 •WEE WII.L.E. ‘Fare thee wi 11, our last and fairest J Dear wee W illi >, fare thee well, Soß’ He, who lent ‘h r, hath recall'd thee pT. Back with Him and His ;o dweU, WU Fifteen moons the ir silver lustre Only o’er thy brow had shed, r\ When thy spirit Joined the seraphs, . And thy uust the dead. -J.ike a sunbeam, through oflr dwelling Shone thy presence bright and ralin ; hi Tftm didst add a zest to pleasure— s To<jur sorrows thou W'-rt balm; Brighter brained thine eye* ilian .summer . And I hy fi r3 t attempt at speech ® ASSb Thrilled ovr heart-strings with a rapture j Music neV could reach. 1 As r gaz"a Dpnn thee sleeping, Sh . With thy fine t, r locks oui*pr ad, ;• Thou didst enn at lit tie angel. Who from liravcn to earth hsd strayed : g. And, entranced, we w.tched the vision, arpfc naif ia hope and half afTrighl, Lest what we deemed our,, ; ,nj earthly, HjL? Should dissolve in light. w&f: vSni-.ws o’errnantled hil 1 and Talley; jfp-: Sullen clouds begrim'd the Whf'n the first, drear doubt oppress<l , l3 That our child was doomed to die! . Through each long night-watch, the taper L W* Showed the hectic of thy check; y| And cxirh anzious dawn ochckl thee fMorc worn out, and w ak. ’ Twas even tlicn Destruction’:* angel 3 Shook his pinions oVr our path, Seized the rosiest of our ltousehoM, Ami struck Charlie down in death ! Fearful —awful! Desolation On our lint el sex his sign; * And wc turned from his sad death-lied, j Willie, round to thine! fi ‘A* die beams of spring’s first morning Through the silent chamber played, L.rfcless. m mine arms I raised the*-, And ; n thy small coffin laid; M the day-star with the <iarkn<\ss wwmmwsanib In one grave had met your ashes, And your souls in heaven! ‘Five were ye, the beauteous blossoms Os our hopes, and hearts, and hearth ; Two asleep lie buried under— Three for us yet gladden earth, Thee, our hyacinth, gay Charlie— Wille, thee our snow-drop pure, Back to us shall second spring-time Never more allure! ‘Yet, while thinking, oh our lost ones! Os how dear ye were to ns, Why should dreams of doubt and darkness Haunt our troubled spirits thus*? Way, across the cold, dim church-yard, Flit our visions of despair 1 ? Seated on the tomb, Faith’s angel Saith—‘Ye are not there.’ ‘Where, then, are yel With the Saviour Blest—for ever blest, are ye, ‘Mid the sinless little children Who have heard his‘Come to me !’ ’Yornl the shades of death's dark valley, Now ye lean upon his breast, Where the wicked dare not enter, And the weary rest. ‘We are wicked—we are weary; For us pray and for us plead ; God, who ever hears the sinless. May through you the sinful heed, Fray that, through Christ's mediation, All our faults may be forgiven ; Plead that ye bo sent to greet us At the gates oMicaven!’ ” Beautiful indeed ! Boul-übduing, and tender as the lowest tones of sorrow's harp! We must read it again. There is not a verse that does not move the heart with a tearful emotion. I have gathered together a few choice pieces from the pens of our own poets. Old friends many of them are, hut not the less welcome to the place 1 uivo them in my col lection. The following I have found in an old newspaper, published in Boston. There is about it a peculiar freshness and original ity of thought, and a beauty of expression rarely to he met with : STANZAS Come, dearest! sit on this ledgy rock, W HI e its shadowy arms the beech-tree flings, And ilie cri'kt'l wind* hi* merry horn, And all the ni*- with nudody rings; ‘Mid visions so fair, and sounds of glee, A re there no lessons for thee anil me ? T!i re is the hum of the laboring bee! li-’s rolled so long in tin holly-hock's cup, That the flower, in spite, has shut its leaves, And closed the wanton intruder up; And there he. is, with his yellow thighs, A captive made, with hi* dusty prize. Poor, greedy thing!—we will let thee out; For many a wiser one, like thee, Has sta yea so long at forbidden sweets, That soul and limb were no longer free; Has bartered his right to an angel's birth For the sickly Joys of the sordid earth. Like a winged gem, a thought of Joy, The butterfly seem* on the. air to rest ; Now stoops the blushing flowers to kiss, Or-falls asleep on the tulip’s breast; I would not rail it a useless thing, Nor deem it proud of its painted wing. Ob more like an Kden sprite it seems, In pity left* when the garden bright Was ;i pwurd Ixiriie to a purer land, Arid shrouded for aye from mortal sight; It looks in tlv* sunshin* of eartbto me. Like an exile doomed from heaven to bo. It seeks for itself the sunniest sj>ot, And loves the breath of the flowers fair; For perfume and light were the very thing* That inode it so blissful dwelling there. With its beauty (*ft, and melody gone, Dost thou not deem it an exhiied one 1 ? And w • are banished from Eden too, The beams of our glory dim .i’d and shorn; Lr us love, tlien, the pur*’ and bright of Earth, And live as those who for Eden mourn, Keep warm in our heart s that fount of love That spring* by the throne of our Father above. Here is something inexpressibly tender. It is addressed by a wife to a desponding husband : ‘WEDDED LOVE. ‘Come, rouse the*;, dearest!—’t is not well To let the. spirit brood Thus darkly o’er the care* that swell Life’s current to a flood; As brooks, and torrents, rivers, all, Increase the gulf in which they fall, Such thought*, by gathering up the rills Os 1 t‘S'-.r griefs, spread real ills; And with their gloomy shadesrnneent The landmarks hops'would else, reveal. ‘Come, rouse thee now! —I know thy mind, And would its strength awaken ; Proud, gifted, noble, ardent, kind— Strange thou should.! be thus shaken 1 Bu’ rouse afresh eac.h energy, And be what Heaven intended thee ; Throw from tiiy thoughts this wearying weight, And prove thy spirit firmly great. 1 would not see thee bend below The angry storms of earthly wo. ‘Full w 11 1 know the generous soul Whieh warms the,e into life: Each spring whieh can its powers control, Familiar to thy wife; For and. em'st tliou she could stop to hind H’ r fate unto a common mind 1 The eagle like ambition, nursed Fro.n childhood in her heart, had first Gonsumrrt with its Promethean fiame. The shrine, that sunk her so to shame. ‘Then rouse thee, denrest! from the dream That fetter* now thy powers; Shake off this gloom—Hojie sheds a leam To gild each eloud which lowers; And though at present seems so far The wished-for goal, a guiding star, With peaceful ray would light thee on, Until Us utmost (rounds be. won: That quenchless ray, thoull ever prove, Is fond, undying, wedded love.’ ” That is very fine indeed, said wc ; “but it is all poetry. There is not many a wo man who would thus hold up the drooping hands of her husband, and show him, glim mering through the thick darkness, a star j of hope.” “And what is poetry,” said Dorolitca, looking us, with a sobered countenance, in the face, “but the eloquence of truth ? I have Lad to set you right oil this subject before now, and must guide you back again, I know your heart was moved with the sweet i eloquence of the devoted wife, as she urged her husband to cOnfidc in the future, for I saw your eye glisten, because it recognized the truth of her pleadings.” . “But it is a mere fancy sketch,” said wc, not yet disposed to give up the point, “a • more fancy sketch—;the creation of a rapt DARIEN, GEORGIA, TUESDAY MORNING}, JANUARY 29, 1839. | imagination ; written probably by a man.” “Here you are wrong again. I doubt if n man could have written any thing so true to nature. It is just what it professes to be —written by a fond wife, to strengthen the drooping spirits of a husband.” “And who is tiiat wife ?” “Mrs. llale, in her ‘Ladies’ Wreath,’ has told us. 1 will read you what she says: ‘ln May, IM3O, Miss Shackleford (daughter of Judge Shackleford, of Charles ton, H. (’.) married John C. Hinnies, a gentleman of New-York, hut then settled at St. Louis, Missouri, where Mrs. Diunies has ever since resided. Her published po etry lias chiefly been written since her mar rage, and breaths the tender, trusting, and devoted feelings of conjugal love, in a man ner that is very flattering to her husband, lie must be worthy of esteem, to engross so deeply the imagination and heart of one familiar in domestic, life. The circumstan ces attending their union were romantic, and it would seem that, in this case, the ro mance has proved a happy reality. They became engaged in a literary correspon dence, which continued more than four years. The result was their marriage, though they never met till one week before their nuptials. The contract was made long before—entered into solely from the sym pathy and congeniality of mind and taste.’ ” “Truly, that is a pleasant story; and from your facts wc cannot get away, of course. She is the same lady, we presume, who wrote those lines so full of tenderness, railed ‘The Wife,’ beginning— ‘l could haw stain'll misfortune’s tills."’ “The same ; and if she writes nothing more, these alone will make her name dear to those whose heart-strings tremble to the sweet airs of poesy. Have you ever seen the ‘Blind Girl,’ hv Mrs. Osgood:” “We have not.” “Well I have it here. Many poets have written of blind girls ; it seems a favorite theme. Hut most of them have tried to imagine to much. Mrs. Osgood relates, in pleasing and natural verse, Iter meeting with a blind girl; and in doing so, touches the heart with a pleasing, half-sad emotion. * • * ♦ * I wnmleml to the gate, And thought, .at first, ’twas and solute; But there, half hid, with eye-lids closed, A sweet, uncondous child ropos< and A fairy ; her soft brown hair Lay floating from her forch* ad fair, Among the flowers that, in her play, Bhe’d carries* thrown around her there. Some on her white dress blooming lay, Some in her tress* s ; and a few Crush’d buds of blushing, rosy hue, Within her little hands were pressed. I thought the fair thing was at rest, And almost feared her sleep to break; ] thought to eo her start and wake, And lift to me, in wild surprise, The sweet blue light of laughing ryes. Ah, no!—though close l went to her, Those soft-veined eyes did not stir; But offering, with a motion glad, And smile of gay dreams telling— As in deep sleep—her rose-buds bright, 1 aee”nts--oh, ho ttweetly sad, That moeked her smile’s unclouded light— She said, ‘What are tlw-y, Ellen?’ I km lt beside the gentle child, And wondered nt that .slumber mild. ‘lt is not Ellen,’ whispered I. She did not start, she did not cry; She out her soft hand on my face, Wiifi all a child’s unconscious grace, And slowly moved it, as as if thought Deeply within her dreaming wrought. I spoke;—-I thought to win, the while, Her eyes to see my soothing smile: An! still those lashes met the check, Still closed her lids in slumber meek! — ‘Have you ne’er seen a rose before?’ A shadow fi ll her forehead o’er; She lifted her soft face to me, While tears from those shut eyelids came ; And half in sweetness, half in hhune, She said-—‘l cannot see !’ ” “Our country can lay claim to some fair poets, Dorothea, though no great poem lias yet been produced.” “None but acavaler, who knows not po etry from prose, except by the capital let ters at the beginning of the line, would gain say that. There is one man in the country, who, were he not wholly lost in the sea of party polities, would make a burning and a shining light in our horizon of literature. That man is George I). Prentice. Do you doubt it ? Listen to his ‘Ocean,’ and say if it is not equal in strength, beauty, and rich ness, to Byron’s celebratred stanzas. Ob, why is the lustre* of the line gold dim?— Why has beauty become ashes ? THE OCEAN. How beautiful!—From his blue throne on high The sun looks downward nith a face of lave Upon the silent waters; and the sky, Lovelier than that w hich lifts its arch above, Down the. fur depths of Ocean, like a sheet Os Hume, is trembling ; the wild tempests cease To wave their cloudy pinions. Oh, ’tis sweet To gaze on Ocean in his hour of peace! ‘Years have gone hy since first my infant ryes Rested upon those waters. Once again, As here I muse, the, hours of childhood rise Faint o’sr my memory, like some witching strain Os half-forgotten music. You blue wave Still, still rolls on in beauty; but the tide Os years rolls darkling o’er the lonely grave. Os hopes, that with my life’s bright morning died! ‘Look 1 look!—the clouds’ light shadows from above, Like fairy islands, o'er the waters sweep! Oh. I have dreamed my spirit thus could love. To float for ever on the boundless deep, Communing with the elements ; —to hear, At midnight hoar, the death-wing’d tempos rave, Or gaze, admiring, on each starry sphere, Glassing its glories in the mirror-wave;— — ‘To dream—deep mingling with the shades of eve— On Ocean’s spirits, caves, and coral halls, Where, cold and dark, the eternal billows heave— No zephyr breathes, nor struggling sualjeam fulls; A round some far isle of the burning zone, Wher topic groves perfume the breath of morn, i List to the Ocean’s melancholy tone, Like a lone mourner’s on the night-winds borne : ‘To see the infant wave on you blue verge, Like a young eagle; breast the sinking sun, ! And twilight dying on the crimson surge, Till down the deep, dark zenith, one by one, The lights of heaven were streaming;—or to weep The lost, tlve beautiful, that cahny rest j Beneath the eternal wave;—then sink to sleep, Hushed by live beating of the Ocean’s hr cast. i ‘OH. it were joy to wander wild and free Wh<*re southern billows in the gttnjight flash, Or night sits brooding o’er the northern sea, And all is still, save the o’erwhelming dash Os that dark world of waters;- —there to view The meteor hanging from its cloud on high Or see the northern fires, with blood-red hue, Shake their wild tresses o’er the startled sky ! 4 ’Tis sweet, ’t is sweet to gaze upon the deep, And muse upon its mysteries. There it rolled, Ere vet that glorious sun hud learned to sweep The blue, profound, and bathe Uie heavens in gold; The morning stars, as up the skies they came, Heard their first music o’er the Ocean rung, Ami saw the first flash of their new-born flume Back from its depths in softer brightness flung. ‘ And there it rolls! —Age after age has swept Down, down the eternal cataract of Time; Men after men on earth’s cold bosom slept; Still there it rolls, unfading and sublime. As bright those waves their sunny sparkles fling, As sweetly now the bending heaven they kiss, As when the Holy Spirit’s brooding wing Moved o’er the waters of the vast abyss ! ‘ There, there it rolls. I’ve seen the clouds unfurl Their raven banner from the stormy WesU— l’ve seen the wrathful Tempest-Spirit hurl His blue forked lightnings at the Ocean’s breast: The storm-cloud pass’d—the sinking wave was hush’d—— Those budding isles were glittering fresh and fair: Serenely bright the peaceful waters blush’d; And heaven seem M painting its own beauties there! • * ♦ ♦ * ‘ Ocean farewell!—Upon thy mighty shore, I loved in childhood’s fairy hours to dwell- Rut lam wasting—-life will soon beo’ej- Ami I shall cease to gaze on thee—farewell! Thou still wilt glow as fair as now—-tin sky Still arch as proudly o'er then—Evening steal Along thy bosom with os soft adye— All be as now—but l shall ceajicto feel. ‘ The evening mists are. on their silent way, Ami thou art lading ; faint their colors blend With the last tinges of the. dying day, Ami deeper shadows un die shies ascend— FurewelU—-farewell!-—the night is coming fast- In deeper tones thy wild notes seem to swell Upon the cold wings of the rising blast- I go-—I go-—dear Ocean, fare thee well!’ “Occasionally lie lays ns'ulo tho pen of tliP cruel satirist, the heartless partisan, ami passes his lingers over the golden wires of his harp-strings. Still sweet is their melody ; still soft and moving the strains as in times long past. Listen : TO MARY. * ‘ltis my love’s last lay!-—anil soon Its . ‘•hi.i's will Imve died, Amt thou wilt list its low, wild tones No more—pale victiiu-l iritfe!— I would not, lovely one, tlwit tlum Should'st wrong the heart that deems thee now Its glory and its pride I I would not tliou slmuld’st dim with tears The vision of its better years. 1 And yet I love thee. Memory's voire Comes o’er me, like the tone Os blossoms, when their dewy leaves In autumn's night-winds moan ; I love thee, still —tlrnt look of thine Deep in my spirits has its shrine, And beautiful and lone ; Ami liter’ it glows—that holy form— The rainbow of life's evening storm. ‘And, ilutr one, when I gaze on tli •<•, So pallid, sweet and frail, And muse upon thy cheek, I well Can read it* mournful talc: 1 know the dews of memory oft Are falling beautiful and soft Upon love's blossoms pale — I know, that tears thou fain would it bide Are on thy lids—sweet viclim-brde. ’ I too have wept You moon's ; ale light Has round my pillow allayed, While I was mourning o'er the dream , That blossomed butte fade; The memory ufeaeh holy eve, To which our burning spirits rleave, Seems like some star's sweet shade, That onee shone bright and pure on high* But now has parted from the sky. 1 Immortal visions of my heart 1 — Again, again, farewell! I will not listen to tin- tones, Tluit in wild music swell From the dim past. Those tones now fade, Anil leave me nothing but t he shade, The cypress and tite knell! Adieu, adieu —my task is done; And now—God bless thee, grntli one.’ ‘‘How sail! how beautiful! how tender!” continued the maiden, as site eensed read ing. “It must have come from tho heart, for how quickly it readies tire heart! Is it not to lie lamented that one who ean so slir the waters of the spirit witli a pure emo tion, should be compelled, almost, by the tyranny of circumstances, to wield the pen of a party politician, for tite bread that perishes, and hang his harp upon tite wil lows? Iso love every thing tiiat lie writes, that I treasure up all tiiat ( meet. Here are two more glittering gems: TO AN UNSEEN BEAUTY. They say that thon art beautiful; that in thy sweet blue eye There floats a dream of loveliness, pure, passionate, and high : Tin y say there is a spell of power upon thine angel brow, To whieh, with wild idolatry, liigU-tlioughted spir its bow. Soft as the flow of twilight wavi, or stir of dewy leaves When the young winds are wandering out on sum mit’s beauteous eves, Tliine image o’er my spirit seems in Heaven’s own light to move, Unwinding all the hidden e.haius that bind my hear! to Love. ‘ Oil, it is passing sweet to muse, withs clings pure and high, On glorious ereatures seen alone by Fancy’s burning eye: There is no tint of earth to dim their holy light with tears, But all is pure and beautiful as thought* of oilier spheres. •Lady, I know thee not, and thou, perchance, mny’st never see The stranger minstrel that now wakes his broken lyre for thee; But oft his dreams will picture thee the loveliest of Earth’s daughters, A rainbow glory sweetly thrown upon life's stormy waters. LINES TO A LADY. ‘ With every liope, with all the dreams Os fame and power—amidst the might Os conscious strength—thine image seems Around me like some holy light; And then I deem that all whieh earth Os power unil glory might liestow. Were eold, anil vain, and little worth, Like sunshine streaming on the snow, If thou wert not the, shrine whereon The garland* of my fame might blossom— If that which lighted up my own Woke not a thrill within thy bosom. ’ It may lie, that tliou hast not given One gentle thought of th'ne to me ■ That like some pure, bright star at even Thou rovest onward ‘fancy free,’ Unmindful as that holy star Os indent ryes to thee upturning, Within thy radiant sphere afar, Ablest and lonely radiance hurtling 1 ‘ And, lady, if't is so, I ask Nor thought nor sacrifice from tlioc, And mine shall be the ungentle task To love when love can only he Like his who bends him down in prayer B fore some veiled and mystic shrine, And knows the idol-glories them May never on his worship shine.’ Are you an admirer ofPcreivnl, too?” said we to Dorothea, when -she had finished ’these delightful effusions. “Os Pereival ?—of the lonely, nature-lov ing Pereival ?—Surely I ant.” “What have vou of hi*’ in yourbpok, Dor othea ?” “Mr tty beautiful things. Here is ‘THE CORAL GROVE. ‘Deep in the wave is a rood grove, Wlrre the purpf mullet and gold-fish rove ; Where the sea flower* spv ad it-, wave ofhlue. That never are wet wit 1 , filling d-w, . But ill bright u:td changeful h . u'y hin", Far down in the gr-en and gl.t., brine. The lloor is of sand, like the mount am drift, And tin pearl-shills gptuude the ilinty snow ; Front coral rocks the sea-plan:” li.i Their boughs, where tie ml. , nnd billows flow ; The water is calm a:\d still bei.iw, For the winds atuj v,,, ■ ..p- absent there, And the sands tin might ns tite stars that glow In the motionless fields of upper air. There with its waving bind ’ of green, The sea-flag streams through the silent water, And the crimson leaf ofthe dulse is seen To hush like a banner bathed in slaughter. There with a light and ettsy motion, The ihn-cornl.sweeps through the clear deep sen; And the yellow and scarlet tulis of Ocean And bending like come on ttie, upland lea. And life, in rare and beautiful^brms, Is sporting amid these bowers of stone, And is silt’ when the wrathful spirit of storms Hits made the top ofthe vnvt his own ; And win n the ship from his fury flies, AVia-ri the myriad voices of Ocean roar, Wlt'tt the wind-god frowns ; n the murky slews, And demons tire waiting the wreck on shore ; Tlien furbelow in the peaceful mi a, The purple mullet and gold-fish rove, Where the waters murmer tranquilly, Through the bending twigs ofthe rortt! grove.” “The genius of Pereival lias slumbered too long. Others, with weaker wings, have soared up, and caught tite public eye, and held tite public gaze so long that lie is al most forgotten. Howl should like to read to him one ofhis own stirring poems. This, for instance : GENIUS SLUMBERING. ‘ He sleeps, forgetful ofhis once bright fame ; He Ims no feeling ofthe glory gone; lie has no eye to catch the mounting flume, That onee in transport drew his spirit on : He lies in dull, oblivious dreams, nor earns Who the wreathed laurel hears. 1 And yet not all forgotten sleeps he there: There hit who still remember how lie bore Upward hie during pinions, till the nir So, med living with tlie crown of light lie wore— There are who, now his early suit is set, Nor eon, nor will forget. ‘He sleeps —and yet, around the sightless eye And the pressed lip, a darkened glory plays ; Though the high powers in dull oblivion lie, There hovers still the light of other days: cep in that soul a spirit, hot of i unit, Still struggles for its birth. ‘ lle v ill not sleep for ever, but will rise Fresh to more daring labors. Now, even now, As the close-shrouding mist of morning lies, Tla gathered slumber leaves his mantling brow; Front his half-opened eye, in fuller herons, His wakrrii and spirit streams. ‘Yes, lie will break his sleep: the sjiell is gone— 'l’lte deadly eliurnt departed ; see hint fling Proudly his fetters by, and hurry on, Keen as the famished eagle darts Iter wing; The goal is full before him, and the prize Still woos his eager eyes. ’ lie rushes forth to conquer : shall they take— Tin y, w lui with feebler pace still kept I heir way When lie forgot the contest—shall they lake, Now lie renews tin* race, the victor’s hay 1 “• hi ill h t lie ih Strive u hen la eolle, is hi", might, He will assert his right. ‘ The spirit cannot always sleep in ilust, Whim essence is ethereal: they may try To darken and degrade it; it may rust Dimly awhile, hut cannot wholly die; And wlien it wakens it will send its fire Ititenser forth and high t.’ “As cnlimsiimttrally fund of poetry as ever, Dorothea. Well, wc envy thee thy pure delight. Wc are ton much abroad in the busy worltl to retain at all tiyics the ap preciation of tiiat which is refined and ten der in sour —and it is perhaps as well. We would not lie lit for our active and sober du ties were we always in thraldom to the heart.” “I shall not judge for you, “said site, “luit it sometimes seems to me that men in their many schemes, are followers after that which is nought. If they loved truth —and song, tite eloquence of truth—more; if they cultivated the heart and its affections as carefully as they do the intellect—they would not only lie belter, but wiser and happier.” “I’erliapsyou are right, Dorothea. Glad.’ ly would wc exchange onr troubled and re t le.ss heart for the peaceful one that ki< ps its even motion in your quiet brettst. Hut tite hours have stolen away and we must hid you good night !” “Good night ! and when you arc again in tite mood for looking over my port-folio, I slut 11 bid you welcome.” “Good night!” Showing Tin: Boys.—A Mr. James Nalcli, residing in Jacksonville, Illinois, had sold some powder crackers to some boys on the 2iHhult. and in showing them how to (ire them, lie look one, fired and threw it over his head : a spark from it falling into a part of a keg of powder, sitting or the floor behind him, open. The front of the building was blown out. There were several persons in the house at ihe tinic, but no one was severely injured. It is a pity tiiat all stores in which er:icke,r:: ‘oif, sold to boys, do not get thus blown up. The tenders would then get a specimen of the cncc such fraw. in ebiMrcqjtJtnn.ds tite public. VOL. 1. NO. 2. A OENTI.C REPROOF. One day a* Zachariah Hodgson was go ing to his daily avocations after breakfast, he purchased a fine large codfish, and scut it home with directions to his wife to have it cooked for dinner. As no particular mode of cooking it was proscribed, the good woman well knew that whether she boiled it or made it into a chowder, her hus band would scold her when he came home. But she resolved to please him once, if pos sible, and therefore cooked portions of it in several different ways, hlte also with l some little difficulty procured an ainpin i hious animal from a brook back of the i house, and plumped it into the pot. in due time her husband came home—some covered dishes were placet! on the table, and with a frowning, laultiitniing I ok, tho mood; man crnnincuccd the eon versa, ton. “Well wife, iiid you get the fish I bought ?” “Yes, my dear.” “J should like to know how you have Cooked it—l willl.it any thing that you have spoiled it for my eating. (Taking off the rover.) I th.iugltl so. What in crea tion possessed you to fry it! I would ns leave cat, a boiled frog.” “Why, my dear, 1 thought you loved it best fried.” “You didn't, think any such tiring. You knew heipr—l never loved fried fish - why didin’t you boil it ?” “My dear, the last time wc had fresh fish, you knew I boiled if, anti you said you lik ed it best fried. But I have boiled some also.” Ho saying, she lifted a cover, and In ! tire shoulders of tite cod nicely boiled, vote neatly deposited in a dish, a sight which would have made an epicure rejoice, but which only adtlod to tite ill nature of her husband. “A pretty dish, this !” exclaimed lie.— “Boiled (ish ! chips and porridge ! If you had not been otic of the most stupid of wo mankind you would have made it into a chow der!” His patient wife, with a smile, immedi ately placed a tureen before him containing an excellent chowder. “My dear,” said she, “I was resolved to please you. There is your favorite dish.” “Favorite dish, indeed,” grumbled the disebmfitted husband, “I dare say it is an unpalatable wishy-washy mess. I would rather have a boiled frog than the whole of it.” This was a common expression of his, and hud been anticipated by his wife, who, as soon as the preference was expressed, uncovered a large dish near her husband, and there was a large bullfrog, of porten tous dimensions and pugnacious aspect, stretched out at full length! Zncimiiuh sprung from his chair not a little heighten ed at the unexpected apparatlon. “My dear,” said his wife, in a hi : 1 en treating tone, “I hope you will at length be able to make out a dinner.” Zachariah could not stand this. Hia sur ly mood wasiinnlly overcome, and he burst into a hearty laugh. He acknowledged that his vile was wright and that lie was wrong-—and declared that site should never again have occasion to read him such a les son —and was as good us his word. The New England. Review, at Hartford, Conn., lias passed into the hands of Mr. F,. Brewster Green as Editor, and proprietor, and is very much improved by the change. It is now a staunch Whig paper. The late Editor, Mr. G. W. Bttstced, appeared to get along well enough until he quarreled with (tis party for not appointing him to some office and sued a young lady for brra.-h of promise ! laying his damages at fi*d(),OGO! The Yankees would’nt stand this; the- Whigs denounced him as a traitor ; the. la dies and dandies rose in arms—the former indignant at the daring invasion of their privileges; the latter scenting an insinua tion tluit ladies were dragooned into mar riage promises to get rid of importunity, ami not really taken Captive .by the perfec tions of their adorers—and Mr. George Washington flustced was fain to pnt his head in an nuger-holo. The London ..Society for tite prevention of cruelty lo animals, sometime since offered a prize of S'. 10.) for tite best essay “on tite obli gations of man as regards the Brnte Creation.” Thirty-four essays were sent in as competitors for the prize, some of which were quite volu minous. The prize was awarded to a manu script, _ which, on opening the letter accompa nying it, was found to have been written by the Hev. John Styles, D. I>. Eneomntires at Sea. —We think highly ofthe new pri ject of using locomotives te*fropelshins in ( i ■ qml adverse winAs ViSifc dins v. hit'll unship like who Is of a coach. The. consumption of coal would be trifling, uittl the ‘increased expedition would pay an intrest the cost ofthe apparatus, particularly in ships on an India voyage, and in the Mcditcs^mcau. [A’. \ uric Slur. One morning a party lie rooms at Buxton somewhat late* .iruX* -u.it in l f - 1 • I H.me tcugue. J ‘ were told that Lord r-vrontetW.iuiMfr “I .eo very align v : h ins iortLhlfip’JHjfe, a lady, loud enough for him to nct^Mn iili-’ r’ alien. “1 am very :i!” ” .-estarU'd Lord Byrwtt'jf.^httt ali the longue, I wait assured you did 3* want it.” ‘ . ‘ ’ Jilll An Enigma.—At a Hfegtauet, %|jv|lgH via- enigmas OfffiiEa-"s*l ‘..a!, r “aid ; .. fihis Counters “V]jH ‘ trite iat v. tli l: It ••'.'till’ this VoSjrt’l Adistrai-Sl® lifer, rtartod up, said :.rs in pay.” The Ktff|"vjßfl cn:.•■•.Tided - I