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C A?]3kF r
•t elry
- * .’Vr-.Vd /ca- 1836.
’Vhe Dy lug ‘\stvv.
BY MARY HOWITT.
V» Bat matters if, though Spring-time
Upon the earth is glowing—
M hat though a thousand tender flowers
On the garden beds are blowing?
IVi$U matters it, though pleasant birds
Amongst the leaves are singing,
Arid a nnriid lives,each passingiiour,
Krom mother Earth are springing?
V hat tn liters it ?—tor one bright Hower
Is pale before them lying—
And one dear life, one precious life,
is numbered with the dying!
Oh ! Spring may come, and Spring may
gG —
Flu were,sunshine;cannot cheer them,
This loving heart this bright young life,
Will be no longer near them!
Two lights there were within their
house,
Like angels round them moving;
Ob. must these two be parted now,
So lonely and so loving!
No longer on the same soft couch
Their pleasant rest be taking—
No lodger by each other’s smiles
Be greeted at their waking—
No longer, by each other’s side,
Over one book, be bending!
Take tliy last look, thy last embrace,
That life, that joy, is ending!
Henceforth thou wilt be all alone!
What shalt thou do, poor weeper?
Oh human love, oh human wo!
Is there a pang yet deeper?
Ah! yes—the eyes perceive no more—
The last dear word is spoken:
The hand returns no pressure now’—
’ - - -- r I
Heart, heart, thou mint be broken!
Can it live onV'ithout that love
For which its pulse beat ever?
Alas! that loving, trusting heart
Must ache, and bleed,and sever!
Child cease thy murrnuriug—God is by,
To unseal that mortal prison ;
Mother, look up,, for, like our Lord,
Thy blessed one is risen!
Raise thy poor head,poor bruised reed;
Hope comes to the believingL
Father be strong—be strong in faith—
The dead—the dead are living!
Even from outward things draw peace-
The long night watch is ended;
The morning sun upriseth now,
To new day glory splendid!
So, hrough the night of mortal life,
Your angel one hath striven—
T r ' eternal suns,shine not so bright
As the redeemed in heaven!
To pin the spirits of the pure.
Your chosen hath departed!
Be comforted!—he comforted,
Ye bowed and broken hearted!
Miscell an y.
The Widow and her Son
BY W. IRVING.
During my residence in the country,
I used frequently to attend at the oH
village church. Its shadowy aisles—
its mouldering monuments —its dark oa
ken pauneling, all reverend with the
' gloom of departed years, seemed to fit
it for the haunt of solemn meditation.
A Sunday, too, in the country, is holy
in-its repose; such a pensi o quiet
reigns over the face of nature, that ev
ery restless passion is charmed down,
and we feel all the natural religion ot
the soul, gently springing up within us.
»041 O I I
‘Sweet day, so pure,socalm,so bright,l
The bridal of the earth and sky.’
I do not pretend to be what is called
a devout man; but there are feelings
which visit me in a country church, a
mid the serenity of nature, which I ex
perience no where else; and if not a
more religious, I think lam a better
man on Sunday than on any other of
the whole seven.
But in this chuich 1 felt myself con
tinually thrown back upon the world
by the frigidity and pomp of the poor
worms around meThe only being;
that seemed thoroughly to feel the hum-'
ble and prostrate piety of a true Chris
tian, was a poor decrepid old woman,!
. bending under the weight of years and 1
infirmities. She bore the tramps of J
something better than abject poverty. |
The hngorings of decent pride were'
visible in her appearance. Herdress
though, humble in the extreme, was
scrupulously clean. Some trivial re
spect too had been awarded her, for'
■she did not take her seat among the i
village poor, but sal alone on the steps J
of the altar. She seemed tohavesur-j
vived all friendship, all society;—and
* to have nothing left her but the hopes
of he * ven. When I saw her feebly ri-,
sing and bending her aged form in pray-;
er—habitually earning her prater
iouK, which her palsied hand and fail
ng eyes, would riot permit her to read,
ut which stye evidently knew by heart;
i/clt persuaded that the faltering voice
■v that poor woman arose to heaven (ar
responses of the clerk, the
swell of the organ, or the chanting of
the choir.
I am fond of loitering about country
i churches, and this was so delightfully
situated, that it frequently attracted
. me. It stood on a knoll round which
i small stream miide.a beautiful bepd %
ind then wound its way through a long
reach of soft .meadowy scrinery, The
church was surrounded by yew trees
which.seeinod almost coeval with itself.
tali Gothic ’spire shot up lightly
from among them, with rooks and
crows generally wheeling about it. 1
was seated there one still, synny morn
ing, watching, two laborers who wire
digging a grave. They had chosen
the most remote, neglected corner ®f
the churchyardwhere, from the num
ber-of nameless graves around U, would
appear that the indigent and friendless
were huddled into the earth. I was
told that the new made grave was for
the only son of the poor widow. While
I was meditating on the distinctions o>,
worldly rank,. which .extended thu
down, into the very dust—the toll oftix
bell announced the approach of the
funeral. They were the obsequies of
poverty; with which pride had nothing
to do.— A coffin of the finest materials,
without pall or covering, by
some of the villagers. The sextoi
walked before with an air of cold indif
ference. There were no mock moiir
nets in the trappings of affected wo;
but there was one real mourner who
feebly tottered after the corpse. It
was the aged mother of the deceased
—the poor cld woman whom I had seen
seated on the steps of the altar. She
was supported by a friend, wno was
endeavoring to comfort her. A few
of the neighboring poor had joined the
train, and some children of the village
were running hand in hand sho'iting
with unthinking mirth, and now paus
ing to gaze with childish curiosity on
the grief of tfiri mourner.
As the funeral train approached the
grave, the parson issued from the
churcii porch arrayed in his surplice,
with prayer book in hand, and attended
by the clerk. The service, however,
was a mere act of charity.—The .de
ceased had 1 been destitute, and the sur
vivor was pennyless. It was shuffle-,
through therefore, in form, but coldly
and unfeelingly. Tile well-fed priest
-moved but a few steps from the church
door;'his voice could scarcely be heard
at the grave; and never did I hear the
funeral service, that sublime touching
ceremony, turned into such a frigid
mummery of words.
I approached the grave. The cof
fin was placed on the ground. On it
were inscribed the name and age ofthe
deceased—‘George Sommers, aged 26
years? The poor mother had been as
sisted to kneel down at the head of it.
Her withered hands were clasped, as
if in prajer, hut I could perceive, by a
feeble rocking of the body, and a con
vulsive motion of the lips, that she was
gazing on the last relics of her son,
with the yearnings ofa mother’s heart.
Preparations were made to deposit
the coffin into the earth. There was
that bustling stir which breaks so har
shly oil the feelings of grief and affec
tion; directions given in the cold tone
ofbusiness; the strikings ofthe spades
into the sand and gravel, which at the
grave of those we love, is, of ail sounds
the most writhing. The bustle around
, seemed to awaken the mother from a
wretched reverie. Sne raised her gla
zed eyes, and looked about with a
faint wildness. . As- the men approach
ed with cords to lower the coffin into
the grave, she wrung her hands and
broke into an agony of grief. The
poor woman who attended her, took
her by the arm, endeavored to raise
her from the earth, and to whisper
something like consolation—‘Nay, now
—nay, don’t take it so sorely to heart.’
She could only shake hpr head and
wring her hands as one net to be com
forted.
As they lowered the body into the'
emth,the creaking of the cords seemed
; to agonize her; but when on some ac
cidental obstruction; there was ajos
i tling of the coffin, all the tenderness of
• the mother burst forth; as if any harm
• could come to him who was far beyond
I the reach of worldly suffering.
I I could see no more—my heart swel
led into my throat—my eyes filled with
tears—l felt as if I were acting a bar
barous part in standing by and gazing
idly on this scene of maternal anguish.
• I wandered to another part of the
■ churchyard, where I remained until
[ the fiineral tram had dispersed.
j When I saw the mother slowly and,
’ painfully quitting the grave, leaving
behind her the remains of all that was
dear to her on earth and returning to
silence and destitution, my heart ached (
r for hrr. ’What, thought I,are the dis
tresses ofthe rich!—they have friends
, to soothe—pleasures to beguile—-a
; world to divert and dissipate their
: griefs. What are the sorrows of the
■ oung? Their growing minds soon
’ close above the wound—their elastic
f spirits soon rise above the pressure—
their green and ductile affections soon
' twine round newbbjects. ButtheeOr
rows ofthe poor, who have no outward
I appliances to soothe—the sorrows of
i the aged, with whom life at best is but
, a wintry day, and who can took for no
; aftergrowth of joy—the sorrows ofthe
: widow, aged, solitary, destitute mourn-
> ingoveran only sen, the last solace of
, her years; these are indeed, sorrow's
which make us feel the irnpotency of
consolation.
It was some time before I left the
churchyard. On my way homeward,
I met with th woman who had acted
as comforter; she was just returning
from accompanying the mother to her
lonely habitation, and I drew from her
some particulars connected with the
affecting scene I had witnessed.
The parents ofthe deceased had re
-1 sided in the. village from childhood.
They had inhabited one of the neatest
, cottageS, and by various rurafoccupa
fl ans, and the assistance of a small gar
den, had supported themselves credita
’Hy and comfortably,, and. led a happy
and blamelggs life. They had One on-
wLo had grown up to be-the staff
iriff pride of their age:—-Odi,sir,’ said
the good woman, 4 he w. s » s so comely a
lad, so swecb.tempdrecl,sokind tp’rivery
one around him, so dutiful’-to his par
ents. It did one’s heard good to see
him on Sunday, drefesed out in his best;*
•m tall, so straight, so cheerful, support
his mother io church—for she was al
ways fonder of leaning on Georges’s
arm, than on her good man’s; And,
poor soul, she might well be proud of
him, for a finer lad there was not in the
country round.’ !
Unfortunately, the son was tempted,;
during a year of scarcity and agricultu-i
ral hardships to enter into the service!
of one of the small crafts that plied on ,
a neighboring river. He had not been
long in this employ when he was en
trapped by a press gang and carried
ut to sea. His. parents received ti
dings of his capture, but beyond that
they could learn nothing. Il was the
loss of their main prop. — The father
who was already infirm, giew heartless
arid melancholy', and sir k into his
grave. The widow, left lonely in her
age and feebleness could no longer
support herself and cam* upon the pa
rish. Still there was a kind of feeling
toward her through the village and a
certain respect, as being one of the old
est inhabitants. As nor one applied for
the cottage, in which she had passed
so many happy days, she was permitted
to remain in it, where she lived solitary
and almost helpless. The few wants
of nature were chiefly supplied from
the scanty productions of her little gar
den which the neighbors would now
and then cultivate for her.
Il was but a few days before the time
at which these circumstances were
told me, that she was gathering some
vegetables for a repast, when she heard
, the cottage . door suddenly open. A
stranger came out, and seemed to be
looking eagerly and wildly around.
He was dressed in seamen’s clothes,
was emaciated and pale, and bore the
air of c?ue broken by sickness and hard
ships. Hri saw her and hastened to
wards her, bud his strips were faint and
faltering; he sank on his knees before
her, and sobbed like a child. The
poor woman g ized upon him with a
vacant and wandering eye—‘Oh! my
dear, dear mother’ dorrt you know
your son! your poor boy George?* It
was indeed the wreck of her once no
ble lad, who, shattered by wounds, by
sickness, and foreign imprisonment,had
at length, dragged Lis wasted limbs
homeward, to repose among the scenes
of his childhood. >
I will not attempt to detail par
ticulars of such a meeting, where joy
and sorrow’ were so completely blended;
I still he was alive! he was come home!
• he might yet live to comfort and cher
ish her old age! Nature,however, was
> exhausted within him, and if any thing
I had been wanting to finish the work of
- fate, the desolation of his native cot-
■ tage would have been sufficient. He
f stretched himself on the pallet on
i which his widowed mother had passed
I many a sleepless night, and never rose
from it again.
There is something in sickness, that
i breaks down the pride of manhood;
■ that softens the heart, and brings it
; back to the feelings of infancy’. Who
, that has languished, even in advanced
: life, in sickness, in pain, and in despon
dency; who that has pined oil a weary
bed in the neglect and loneliness of a
I, foreign land, but has thought on a mo
; sher ‘that looked on his childhood,’
i that smoothed l)is pillow and adminis
i tered to his helplessness? Oh! there is
an enduring tenderness in the love of a
• 'mother to a son tlmil
3 er affections of the Leper. It is neitlk f
t to be chilled by selfishness,
r ted by danger, nor weakened LywoHb*
? Jcssness, nor stifled by ingrafitude.
i She will sacrifice every comfort to his
: convenience; she will surrender every
- pleasure to his enjoyment; she will
> glory in his fame, and exult m his pros-
■ perily; and,if misfortune overtake hirii
I he will be the dearer toiler from his
f misfortunes; and if all the world be
t side cast him off', she will be all the
> world to him. •
• Foor George Sommeradiad known
■ what it was to be in sickness and none
to sooth—lonely and in prison,and.none
to visit him. He could not endure his
mother from his sight; if she a
way bis eye would follow her. She
would, sit for. ho firs by his bed, watch
ing him as he slept. Sometimes he
would start fiom a feverish dreatn,and
look anxiously up as he saw her bend
ing over him;—when he would take
her hand, lay it on his bosom, and fall
asleep with the tranquility of a child.
In this vi'ay he died.
My first, impulse on hearing this tale
of affiiction, was to visit the cottage of
the mourner, and administer pecunia
ry assistance, and if possible, comfoi t.
I fo,und, however, on inquiry, that.the
good ieelings of the villagers had!
prompted them to.do every thing that'
the and as the poor
know best how to console each others
I dyd venture to intrude.
Sunday I at the vil-,
lage church; when, toyny surprise, I
saw the,poor old woman tottering down :
the aisle to her accustomed seatotf the
altar.
She niade an effort t on some
thing like mourning sop;.and
be, more touching than,
this stiuggle between pious
and utter poverty: a black ribbomor
,so —a faded , black handkerchief, and
tone or two moiqsuch humble attempts
ito express by outward signs that grief
.’that passes show. When I looked a
; round upon the storied monuments;
jthe stately hatchments; the cold mar
ble pomp, with which grandeur mour
ned rnaguificently over departed pride;
and turned to tins poor widow, bowed
jown by age and sorrow at the altar of
her God, and offering up the prayers
and praises ot a pious, though a bro
i<en heart, I felt that this living monu
ment of real grief was worth them all,
I related the story to some of the
wealthy members of trie congregation,
and they were moved by it. They
exerted themselves to render her situa
tion more comfortable, and to lighten
her afltetions. It was, however, but
smoothing a few steps to the grave.
In the course of a Sunday or two af
ter, she was missed.from her uiual seat
at church, and before I left the neigh
borhood I heard—with a feeling of sat
isfaction, that she had quietly breathed
her last, and had gone, to rejoin those
in that xvorld where sorrow
is never known; and Triends never
parted.
-A N E X TRA CT .
There is a close coimeclidn between
ignorance and vice; and in such a
country as our own, the connexion is
fatal to freedom. Knowledge opens
sources of pleasure which the ignorant
can never know—the pursuit of it fills
up every idle hour,.opens to the mind
a constant source of occupation, wakes
up the slumbering powers, gives the
secret contest victory, and unveils to
our astonishment ideal worlds; secures
us from temptation and sensuality, and
exalts us in the scale of rational beings.
When I pass by the grog-shop and hear
the idle dispute and obscene song—
when I see the cart rolled along filled
with intoK’cated youth, singing and
shouting as they go—when J discover .
the boat sailing down the river, where
you can discover the influence of RUM
by the noise it makes—l cannot help
but ask, were these peoplg taught to
read? Was there no social library to
which they could have access? Did
they ever know the calm satisfaction of
taking an improved volume by a peace
ful fireside; Or, did they ever taste
the luxury of improving the mind! You
have hardly ever known a young man
that loved bis home and his book that
was vicious.—Knowledge is often the
poor man’s wealth. It is a treasure
that no thief can steal, no moth.nor
rust can corrupt. By this you turn
his cottage to a palace, and you give a
treasure which is always improving
and can never be lost. ‘The poor
man,’ says Robert Hall, ‘who has
gained a taste for books, will, in all
likelihood, become Thoughtful; and
when you have given the poor a habit
of thinking,you have conferred on them
•i much greater favor than by the gift
oif money, since you have put in their
possession the principle of all legitimate
prosperity.’
Marriage andßurial.—Two Parisian
merchants, strongly united in friend-
child . *
* ciw^ 1100 each other, which J
• ’ 1
j beingjuined togetuv. for life.—Unfisr-. •
r tunatejy at the time they t!qoi]gkthem-
I selves on . the point of completingthj 3 .
• long Wished for union, a man far ,(j.
i vanced in years, of aW ;
5 immense fortune, cast Bis.eyes on the\ .
. young ladj r , and made honorable pro
: posals. Her parents cpultl not resist 3j’-
the temptation of a son-in-law in such. A
i affluent circumstances and forced her ,
; to comply. As soon as (he knot was
> tied .she strictly enjoined her former.
i lover never to see her, mid patiently 1
. submitted to her fate; But the anxiety
: of her mind' preyed bh her body; and ’. wl
. threw her into a lingering
; which apparently carried her off, and
she was consigned to the grave. Ab .
. soon as this melancholy event reached
the lover, his affliction was doubled,
; being deprived of ail Hopes of her
i w'idow’hood; but recollecting that in
I het youth she had been for some time v
in a lethargy, his hopes revived, and > |
’ hurried him to the place of her burial
I where a good bribri procured the sex*-
'ton’s permission to dig her up, which
:he performed, and rerhoved her to a
. place of safety, where, by proper me
! thods,he revived the almost extinguish- '
!ed sffark of IrteV Great-wIH
prise at finding the state she had been ’ -
in, and probably as great washer plea- ; y&O
surest the means'by which she had
Keen recalled from thri grave. At *
soon as she was sufficiently recovered,
the loyer laid his claim; and his rea
sons, supported by a powerful inclina
tion on her part, were foo strong for
Trerto resist; but as was no
longer a place of safety for them, they
hgreed tb England, c.here
thfiy continued ler.'j a strong
inclination of revisili-jig their native . £f
country* seized theffl, which they
thought they might gratify,'<£• accord
ingly performed their Voyage.' She , ©
was sb unfortunate a? to be known by
her husband, whom she met in a public '.
walk, and all her endeavors to disguise 'll
herself were ineffectual. Helaid'hig
claim to her before a court of justice*
and the lover defended his right, ail eg-- -
ing that the husband, by burying her,
had forfeited his title, and that he haiT
acquired a just one,by freeing her from
the grate,’and delivering her from the
jaws of death. These reasons, what
ever weight they might have in a court i ;
where love presided, seemed to have .. 4
little effect on the grave sages of j
law; and the lady, with her lover, nb£ ®
thinking it safe toawaitthe determina- J
tion of the cou rt, prridently reHred out
ofthe kingdom—- Causes Cclebj-esj,
Carrying: a Joke, too a neigh
boring village a few days since,a fellow ' y
was tried for stealing a wood saw. The
< ulpirt said he only took it in a joke.
I’he justice asked how far he had car
ried it,arid was answered about two 4’
miles. That is carrying a joke too far, k *
said the magistrate, and committed the Z -
prisoner.— Detroit Jour.
Col. Crockett visited San Aus
tine and met with a very warm and I
cordial reception horn the citizens of
that place, who earnestly solicited him
to become a candidate to represent
them in the next convention. His reply
was that he came not to this country
for office but to fight her battles and
gain the liberties of her people. At
the same time stated that he would
rather be a member of that convention
than in the U. S. Senate. Therefore
we may expect the Col. to occupy a
seat in convention. The Col. assures
his J") upon his honor he is not
dead, ajjws reported.—Tcxeanand "
Emigrant's Guide.
The very uast—►Grandmam,’ said
an urchin (o his father's mother, the
other day, living somewhere in Wor
cester county, ‘Grandmam, the rail
road is coming through our town,’ ‘ls ,
it, ‘Siah,’ said the venerable dame.
‘Well, I hope it will come through by
dayiight, for I long to see one terribly.*
Boston Transcript.
The government of Now Grenada
has issued a decree grinting to the
Baron de Thiery, a celebrated French j
engineer, pci mission to dig a canal a
ciossthe Isthmus of Darien. The gov
ernment allows him the exclusive
privilege of receiving the tonnage and -•
other dues, for a stated period,onaß
vessels which may navigate the canal
besides placing many fijcihtiesjn his. : i
way for the completion of his gigantic -
undertaking.
Why are Printers tike, the keepers
of a lottery office? Do you give it up? 1
No. Because (in these land-speculat
ing times) we sell a great many
BLANKS! 7 JfJ
SUMMONS,
or sale at this offiiiß;, ■' /Wj
. .. . TV.’.' -'X-