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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-