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Or rambles o’er this lonely rale uncurbed, While the coy weasel wanders undisturbed. By moonlight, here the skulking possum comes, Here the sly fox, a shadowy spectre, roams, And to the wind,.at dismal dead of night, Bays forth his desolation, mid the blight That like some bird of evil omen spreads His giant wings, and in their shadow sheds The baleful influence of a dark decay, Where ruin’s sceptre holds despotic sway. And oft commingled all these doleful sounds, The traveller,' passin g by these shadowy grounds, With trembling hears, at twilight, or at dawn, And, panic-stricken, flies the haunted lawn. This ruin fills my shrinking heart with dread, And turns my thoughts to wander with the dead; From pleasant fields which bliss was roaming o’er, Fate drives the trembler through her jarring door; Then turns to rouse -within my breast the wo, Which slumbered lulled by memory’s genial glow, And points with scorn to friends that moulder here With boding lines of spectres hovering near, The phantom hosts which dark despair arrays When hope withdraws,and pallsher genial blaze. My flowing joys, alas! too soon congealed, Look back and find their miser fountain sealed, So soon that fountain ceases its supply, And leaves my freezing pleasures all to lie In icy chains and shrouding fetters bound, Like corpses scattered o’er the spectral ground. Oft when the woodman, with unfeeling blow,. Leaves on the ground, with cheerless ice and snow, Some luckless tree, to die mid wind and rain, As winter goes, it seeks to bloom again ; The scanty sap flows through its fibry veins, And swells its buds, amid congenial rains; The flowers half burst, and then the gladdening tree, Amid its gay companions, smiles to see The bloomy flush of fast I'eturning spring, With life and hope upon her balmy wing. With loving faitji its beaming face it turns, To catch the streams of life for which it yearns, But finding that in vain it seeks supplies, It droops its disappointed head and dies. So here, at first, on fancy’s wing returned The spring of youth, my yearning bosom burned With all of joyful hope’s electric glow, And felt the streams of bliss begin to flow, Fill up my breast, meander through my veins, Drive out my sorrows, dissipate my pains, And from hope’s buds which slept in wintry gloom, The flowers of bliss once more began to bloom. But ah! my joys soon lost the scanty flow Of life that caused these genial flowers to blow, And, roused to ponder times relentless change, Now hopeless o’er the paths of youth I range. My withered hope's, like flowers upon the ground, Lie mouldering with these mouldering ruins round: Yet here, one hour, dear home of brighter days’ I’ll linger, led thro’ memory’s magic maze, Recount the joys, renew the scenes of youth, And blink the stern reality of truth. Haply the. task may rouse some slumbering joy That used to haunt the visions of the boy, And hope once more perchance the sceptre grasp, . And me, the wanderer, to her bosom clasp, Too happy if but for on,c moment free— Small boon, ’tis true, but all enough for me; And then I’ll turn a pilgrim once again, And leave the shades of this long cherished plain, An exiled stranger from his native sky, Upon some foreign strand to droop and die. Wearing Mourning. Not only does wearing mourning do no good, but it actually does harm. In the first place, it is injurious to tire health of females who wear it. This is the testimo ny of' medical men, of various intelligent females who have Been the victims of wear ing black, and is in accordance with the ob servation of all. Who has not pitied in his heart of hearts the poor woman loaded down in summer’s heat, with heavy, worsted clothing, in order to be in the fashion of wearing black 1 Does not the bloom of health always depart from the cheek of her who wears mourning long at a time l Wearing black is a mockery of the dead. It is sinful and heartless to make a fashion of sorrow in so serious and solemn a tiling as death. Mourning apparel is very often nothing but a black falsehood. Many times it says, I sorrow for the departed, when the truth is, it either is glad at heart, or at least indifferent. When I was a bdy, a young man, a few years my senior, lost his sister. I thought he ought to be very a sad on account of it, and indicate it at lease by a quiet and sub dued manner. A few days after the de cease of his sister— (not a week had elap sed)—I saw him, and he had a showy crape upon a showy beaver, and a flaunting sable streamer upon his elbow. It was at church. I heard it from every tongue that this young man was in mourning for his sister. The fumes of brandy, though, were upon his breath ; ribaldry and blasphemy 7 upon his tongue ; and in the back ground, licentious ness in his conduct. And this, thought I— this is mourning for a sister! I have nev er forgotten it—I can nevet forget it—this mockery 7 of a dear deceased sister by 7 wear ing black. There is a fitness and a propriety which should be observed in all things. Is it fit and proper to put mourning upon the back, or to keep it there, when mourning is not in the heart? To do so, is to be guilty of falsehood : for a man or a woman can act falsehood, as well as speak it. It can never be right, to be guilty of untruth, especially in connection with so serious a subject as death. It is really demoralizing—this habit of wearing black. For whatever brings down to a mere fashion what should be some of the most exalted and dignified impulses of our nature—our regrejs in Connection with a deceased friend—is obliged to unhinge, to a degree, the moral nature and the moral sense of a human being. There are lessons that death teaches, which we should all learn. It teaches that man is mortal ; that we are dependent up on our Maker for our brief span of life, and for every breath we draw ; that .neither we nor our friends have any abiding home up on earth, and that if we expect ever to en joy a permanent and eternal home,, in all the loveliness of home, it must be in heav en. Death “ points the way to glory and to God.” These suggestions are elevating and ennobling ! Hew wrong jt is tj^at when, God and Heaven demand our whole thoughts by means of the call upon our de ceased friends—how wrong it is that we should degrade those thoughts to the selec tion of a dress, or the color of a ribbon ! God smites oui hearts, and calls upon us to do homage at his foot-stool—and oh! we forsake the courts of Jehovah, and go and lay our hearts at the shrine of' Fashion J That this demoralizes our nature, there cannot be a doubt: and when we remember that a sable dress is too often a black false hood, it is more demoralizing still. Under the present circumstances, wear ing black is particularly wrong and sinful. Our soldiers, we are-told, are suffering for clothing. And yet thousands upon thou sands are now being spent in this country 7 , as a useless expense in the purchase of arti cles of mourning apparel—enough almost to clothe the army. Is this the way to show our respect for departed friends— spending money for mourning when other friends, and the companions in arms of those whom we mourn, are shivering in the cold, and pinched with hunger ? Gracious Heav- eu, how man perverts thy blessings ! Another reason why it is wrong to wear black at this particular time, is because, al- 1W the rich may possibly obtain it, the poor cannot possibly do so. Vi ith thepres- ent’liigli prices of things, it is as much as they can do to live. But some one may answer me, that if the poor cannot obtain mourning apparel, it is their misfortune— their bad luck—and be cause they cannot obtain it, that is no rea-