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& SOOTfliiß Final s©MMM,,,.....Jirrefiß TO MfiiMTMil, TM MTS 118 SQfiHCSS. IMB TO CMBBM. JMTULMSIIGI. For Richards’ Weekly Gazette. THE BLIND GIRL. BY LEII A CAMERON. The breeze, which all day long had slept, now rose, And, with soft murmurings, filled the summer air,* While myriad blossoms, waking from repose, Poured forth a thousand blended odors rare. With spirit footsteps, noiselessly it crept, Where twining vines their graceful shadows flung, Within a room, where a sad mother kept Iler mournful vigils o’er the loved and young. Purer than pariun stone was that young brow, From which the breeze waved back the golden hair, That o’er the snowy’ pillow, clustering now, Gleamed in the fading sunbeams, brightly lair. One gtnall, thin hand, lay ’neath the wasted cheek That rivalled the pale flow’ret of the vale, Save when it wore those fatal hues that speak Os early doom, their own unerring tale The fringed lids w ere drooping o'er her eyes, Which ne’er had hailed the blessed light of day; For she was blind ! To her the smiling skies And genial sunshine brought no gladsome ray ! Now, from her parted lips a murmur came, So soft, it seemed some spirit, hovering there, Had gently breathed her mother’s cherished name. The.i sweetly clear, it rose upon the air: “ Mother, I go ! Voices, you cannot hear, bid me away ; My soul is thrilling with their music low; I may not stay ! “I dreamed, last night, That you were with me in bowers abovo ; And I could see you in that blessed light, Where all is love! “ Angelic bands Are gathering round me. I can see them, now; One, far exceeding all, among them stands, With radiant brow ! “ Oh! what a smile Os love ineffable beams o’er that face! Pity, compassion, blending all the while With boundless grace! “ Oh ! let me go ! My spirit thrills with glory undefined ; And, mother, in that land, your child, you know, Will not be blind ! “ One last caress! And then good bye, sweet mother! Let me hear Thy voice once more, my parting soul to bless, As death draws near !” Faintly she leaned upon that mother’s breast, Who wildly kissed the death-damps from her cheek. And closely to her throbbing bosom press'd That fair young child—so fragile and so meek. One short, quick gasp—one faint and struggling sigh— And, like a broken lily, there she lay , While the last sunbeam, fading from the sky, Poro her freed spirit to the realms of day ! For Richards’ Weekly Gazette. MEMORY. There are hours when McmOrJr, straying Revels mid departed joy, And sweet hopes, like buds decaying, •Garlands weaves she fbr employ. Ptanis she near some broken cistern, Where of yore she cooled her tongue, And tho’ years have roll’d, butyestern Seems it since the maid was young. By her side the goblets scattered, Tell of Pleasure's tempting wine, ■ And those goblets now all shattered, Glisten e'en in life’s decline; With her feeble hand she vaiseth, One more perfect than the rest, Andbesido the cistern gbzeth, With a sad and aching breast. For the gush of living nectar, In the cistern hath dried up, Naught was there but Hope's grim spectre, Gasping at an ashen cup. BAYARD. Roswell, Ga. For Richards* Weekly Gazette. OH! DO NOT TURN THOSE EYES ON ME. t)h 1 do not turn those eyes on me, I cannot bear their light; They glow with such intensity, Hot tears bedim my sight. Oh! do not turn those eyes on me, I know their magic power; For I have felt it fearfully, Fir many a weary hour. Oh! do not turn those eyes on mo, Or soon my heart will break; They glance so sweet —so lovingly, They wildest thoughts awake. Oh 1 do not turn those eyes on me, They kindle fond desire; And while I gaze all tearfully, Love burns with quenchless fire. Oh ! do not turn those eyes on me, They thrill my aching breast, And wring it—aye, with agony, And ceaseless, deep unrest. Oh ! do not turn those eyes on ine, For, though they mean no guile, They ever charm so witchingly, They bind me fast the while. Oh ! do not turn those eyes on me— And yet when turned away— Alas! a captive willingly, ’Tis mockery to pray. Then do not turn those eyes from me, For now’t were all in vain— For though I love thee hopelessly, 1 cannot love again. ALPIIOXSO. Lowe//, Mass. Tan a® 5a ass® bib. For Richards’ Weekly Gazette. THE COTTAGERS. A TALE. BY MISS C. W. BARBER CHAPTER FIRST. “ There are some moments iri our rate That stamp the color of our days.” [Miss Landon. Not many miles from G , there was a sweet little cottage, standing in the thick, green wood. It was as pretty a place as one will often see, with its bright, deep-set windows—on the seats of which were ar ranged boxes of moss, geraniums, wall llowers, and morning-glories. Os a sum mer morning, the air was redolent with the fragrance of these, together with that of the wild convolvolus, that lifted its closed blossom from the fresh green turf, which stretched even up to the door-step of this pleasant dwelling place, and through the branches of the trees the golden sunlight streamed, and lay upon the green sward in wavy lines. There was little to disturb the quietness of this retreat. The lazy hum of the bees, revelling in the roses and wall-flowers, and then flying awayto their hives by the gar den gate —the clear notes of the birds, building among the trees their nests, and rearing their young undisturbed by the sportsman’s visits, and the pleasant music of Aunt Margaret Sherwood's flax-wheel— were almost the only sounds that disturbed the monotony of the scene. Now and then, the carriage of some traveler, or the clatter of some horseman oil his way to the nearest village, was heard in the road, which ran just east of the house; but such occurrences were rare, and always excited the immediate attention of the dwel lers there. These were two females — Aunt Margaret Sherwood, before men tioned, and her niece. Eva. The former was weak and tremulous with age, and her hair, which she always wore closely tucked under her cambric cap, was so closely threaded with silver, that its original hue had entirely disap peared. Her frame was tall and bony, and her face almost masculine in its expres sion. There was, moreover, an air of re serve and deep thoughtfulness hanging over her, which had often excited the cu riosity of those gossiping villagers, with whom she chanced to come in contact, but none dared to question her concerning the cause. Indeed, she was seldom approached, save by a few thrifty matrons, who wished to avail themselves of the products of her flax-wheel, or by some passer-by, who paused for a moment to admire the beauti ful child, that had grown up like some sweet wild-flower beneath her humble roof. Even Eva, the glad young thing, who mocked the wild birds in their songs, and frolicked all day long with mother Nature I in her secret haunts, dared not disturb the quiet dignity of her Aunt by meddlesome inquiries, but sat upright and demure in her presence, simply answering, “Yes, ma’am” and “No, ma’am” to all ques tions asked her, while busy at her tasks. In stature, she was a mere child—a tiny, fragile creature, with a pale, sweet face, lit up by eyes of liquid blackness, and shadowed by curls which mocked In hue the raven’s wing. In the midst of a crowd, she might, perhaps, have been passed and re-passed, without exciting a remark; but those who saw her at the cottage, and con trasted her sweet childish face with the wrinkled brow of her protectress —those who heard her warbling while watering her flowers, or were startled by the echo of her merry laughter in the deep, old woods—never forgot her. She knew none of the incidents of her early life, only that she had been left an orphan. Os her fath er and mother, she remembered nothing; they had passed away in her infancy, and nothing remained of them but the face of her mother, which looked out from a piece of canvass hanging up in the sitting-room of the cottage. Sometimes she had paused before this sole relic of her departed pa rent, and fancied that the eyes rested mournfully upon her face. Then she wondered over her own history, and fan cied that, perhaps, her life would have been less lonely, had the original of the | picture lived. Sometimes she wore gar lands of wild flowers, and hung around the brow of her mother, and talked to her, fan cying that the full red lips before her would part with words of love. But it was merely fancy. They remained immo vable; and the eyes never kindled with love or passion, but had in them the same mournful tenderness. It is a sad, sad thing, to go through life pursuing coveted sympathies, aud grasping shadows—to feel alone in this wide world, with no bosom friend near to rejoice in our weal, or weep over our woes. The human heart cannot long bear it; and those who are deprived, by circumstances, of kindred for companions, will find solace by unfold ing to strangers the secrecies of its hidden depths. Such was the case with Eva. She dared not approach her frigid Aunt with her heart-breathings, and so she went out, and made friends of the brooks and flowers, and talked to the birds and squir rels, as if they understood her words, and participated in the wild exuberance of her delight—the delight of a heart which knew nothing of sorrow, only that it was com panionless. But fortune at length threw in the way of this wild woodland child a living heart, with which she could hold communion, and find mirrored in its depths the sentiments of her soul—a heart as un schooled in the deceptions and intrigues of the world as her own ; and the friendship which sprung up between them was of a purity and depth, seldom, perhaps never, found in the walks of refined and fashion able life. Richard Mi rick was “a bound boy,” who lived with a farmer, just three miles from the cottage of the Sherwoods. He had a handsome face, and a manly figure— one as yet unbowed by toil; but. on the contrary, tile fatigues which he had daily endured seemed to have finely developed every limb, and strengthened every nerve and muscle. His hair was of a fine chest nut Hue, his eye was full and blue as the depths of the summer sky, and his cheek wore on it the hue of health, mingled with the sun-burn. The first time they met, it was at old Margaret's cottage. Richard had been sent thither by the farmer's wife after some flax-thread, which } la j been promised her; and, sm.Ateu by the fairy like beauty of the old woman’s niece, he had. renewed again and again his visits, until an intimacy sprung up between the two, which promised to give a coloring to the lives of both At first, he was timid in his attentions to her. He brought garlands of wild-flowers, an 1 offered for her accep tance, with a bashful manner. He lingered about the cottage, and helped her at her work—often weeding for her the garden plat, and training the morning-glories and convolvoluses. But this reserve gradually wore away, and they planned rambles to gether, and talked with all the confidence which is found in the intercourse of an af fectionate brother and sister. At last, they both discovered that they were never hap py unless they were together; and so, in their artless way, they “plighted their troth,” joined hands, and mutually entered into an agreement, that at some future pe riod, when Richard had served his time, and Eva was eighteen, they would meet, intertwine their fortunes, and tread the ma zes of this crooked world, bearing to each other the endearing relation of husband and wife. Old Margaret had never been ap prised of this decision ; indeed, it was not strange that the young people sought to hide their engagement from one who, in her turn, never confided. It was a long golden day in mid-summer. The flowers on the shelves, beneath the eaves, and in the thick wood, had scarcely been lifted by the breeze ; and the bfook, which rannear tbecottage, flowed on slug gishly over its bed of pebbles, as if half re luctant to lose itself in the broader stream beneath the hill. Aunt Margaret's flax wheel, as usual, maintained its quiet music ; by ‘he door, and Eva sat with a book lying idly in her lap, while, with her fingers, she went the rounds of a woollen-sock, drop i ping, now and then, her eyes, as she went ; through with the mysteries of the seam stitch. Old Bose, the house-dog, lay on the door-step, with half-closed eyes, appa rently dreaming, only when annoyed by two huge house-flies, which buzzed around his resting-place, and settled, occasionally, upon his nose. Things Sad been proceed ing in this quiet way for some time, when, all of a sudden, old Margaret stopped her wheel, and looked up into Eva's face, as if she had come to some important conclu sion. “Have you been out os the lake, late ly 1” she said, while she lifted her foot from the treading-board, and arranged a handful of flax, which she had previously torn oft from the distaff. “ I was there, yesterday,” said Eva, in a surprised voice; “ 1 was out on the YVal lenbough, yesterday, for Richard told me, the other day, the water-lilies were in full blossom.” “ Did you see him, while you were gone 1” said the old woman. “ Yes, he was out on the lake, with his angling line,” said the girl, while a soft blush stole over her cheek, and heightened the charms of her artlessness. “He ob tained my lilies for me.” 11 Did you ever hear that hoy speak of his relations 1” said the old woman, in the same calm, mysterious voice, with which she had begun the conversation. “Do you know any thing of his family ?” “No, Aunt, nothing. 1 never heardhim speak of them, nor do I remember making any inquiries respecting his people. Do i/ou know any thing about them 1” con tinued the girl, her curiosity now, for the first time, aroused upon the subject. Pray, did you ever know the Mirick family l” “Yes, yes !” said the old lady, in an ex cited tone, while a flush went over her withered face, reaching even to the roots of her gray hair. “ Would to God I had not known them, Eva! would to God I had not! Had it been otherwise, there might not have been quite so many fur rows upon my forehead as there are now ; there might have been fewer grey locks upon my head, and not quite so heavy a load here,” said she, as she pressed her shrivelled hand upon her heart, which throbbed so as to stir the checked apron over it. “I would not lave been lonely in this wide world ; you might not have been parentless.” In a moment, the timidity with which Eva had always regarded her Aunt had en tirely disappeared. She forgot the myste rious silence which the old woman had al ways maintained upon the subject of her parentage, and the chilling reserve which had marked her conduct. Curiosity mas tered every thing else; but, alas! the words of her Aunt rung in her ears, until her senses reeled. “Had it not been for the Mirick family, you might not have been parentless!” What had the ancestors of the only friend she ever knew done to deprive her of a father's protection—of a mother’s kiss? The thought bewildered her, and she dreamed she had not heard aright. “I have been thinking,” continued the old woman, “ever since that boy crossed my path, that I must, in former times, have known his people. He has the same open brow, the same blue eye, the same rich, red lips, which stirred up the fountains of my heart in other days, and won my girl ish love. I have not always been the cold, callous creature, which I have, of late years, seemed to be, Eva. There was a time when I was full of happiness—full of all the kindly affections of our nature ; but the whirlwind of passion, and the chill breath of falsehood, have passed over my heart, stirring up from its depths bitter things, and freezing its purest currents. Yesterday, I took pains to make inquiries of the farmer's wife, with whom Richard lives, respecting his parentage, and I find I am not mistaken. That boy’s uncle tras the murderer of your father!” “The murderer of my father!” mur mured the girl; and her brow became white like a snow-drift. “ Was my father killed, Aunt ? Why have you never told me of this, before I” “For many reasons, my child! I conld not bear to pain your glad, young heart, by a recital of woes which have embittered my hours, and at times made life a burden. But, draw your chair close to mine, Eva. and listen to the tale I have to tell you. It may influence you in your treatment of Richard Mirick—for, guiltless as I know him to be, still I cannot bear to see him linked to you. I have been watching you narrowly, when I have seemed, perhaps, | a disinterested spectator. If I mistake not, there is an affection springing up between you, which should be crushed now, in its j first development. Your father was my brother—my only one. There were but ihree children of us—Edward, Agnes, and I. Edward was the eldest, I was next, and Agnes was many years our junior. She was one of the loveliest girls that I ever saw. I can give you no idea of her. Her hairwas like a flood of burnished gold, and her hands and forehead were so deli cate, that the faint lines of blue could be seen stealing under the skin, like the veins which mark the work of the painter or sculptor. But, poor child! the grave has, for many years, hid the form which used to glide so gracefully through the mazes of the dance, and win admiration from eve ry eye that rested upon it. Our father was a merchant in Charleston, S. C. He was considered a man of opulence, and we were reared in the first circles of fashiona ble society. This may seem strange to you, because I have, of late years, lived secluded, and pursued, unremittingly, homely tasks. But listen, and you shall know all. My brother Edward entered j College at an early age, forit wasmy fath er’s desigrf to fit him for the medical pro fession, for which he had early exhibited a decided taste. During one of his vaca- i tions, he came home, accompanied by a, friend, Charles Mirick. I can see him even now, as he appeared to me at that time, Eva, the perfection of manliness and strength. A great intimacy existed be tween him and Edward, and in our family he soon became domesticated. His vaca tions were passed there, and it-soon became apparent to the most careless observer that Agnes had woven, by her beauty and her grace, a spell around his heart. Ye*. *• loved Agnes, and—shall I confess it ?—1 loved him. It is a humiliating confession for me to make, but it is nevertheless true. I worshipped the image of Charles Mirick, wildly and devotedly. I envied my sister the beauty and fascinations which enabled her to lead captive the man I idolized. But I crushed back the affections of my heart, and none, for a moment, mistrusted the sentiments which I entertained secretly in the recesses of my soul. At length, Edward and Charles both graduated, and both turned their attention towards the medical profession. They pursued their studies with a zeal, which would have won success to persons of duller comprc-! hensions, and less thoroughly disciplined j intellects than they possessed. Asa mat ter of course, they carried off’ the highest honors of the institutions they entered, and J won to themselves much fame. It would seem that a friendship, which had been ce mented by six years of unreserved inter course, could not have been easily broken, but I snapped the chain which bound them together, and, through my instrumentality, they parted, two weeks after the reception of their diplomas, sworn enemies. I will not tell you the arts which I made use of to effect what I designed ; an artful woman never lacks expedients in the hour of need. I will only tell you the motive which in fluenced me. I knew that Edward pos sessed over Agnes an unbounded influence. I knew that his word and opinion were her law, and that, if he became Charles Mi rick’s enemy, nothing on earth could bring about the consummation of the union I so much dreaded. This was the reason I act ed the base part I did. But, O, God ! could I have seen the end from the beginning, how differently I should have acted! Charles wrote to Agnes, after having part ed fiorr. Edward in anger, begging her not to forget him, although he considered him self wronged by her brother. 1 intercepted the letter, and wrote back a spirited and heartless reply. My heart misgave me as I penned the words, but I knew it would prevent their marriage, and any thing else could be endured by me better than that. Charles went out into the world, and the veil of oblivion seemed to have settled over his name and actions. But his image was registered by guilt and love within my heart; and the cheek of Agnes, though she never mentioned his name, grew pale and thin, as if care might be art her heart. Edward married your mother, a sweet tempered and afTectionate woman, and in the quietude of his domestic life, and ceaseless routine of his professional prac-; tice', he seemed to have torgotten alike the love and hate which he had borne his chum and school-fellow. But in my bo som there was the throbbing of a guilty conscience—the gnawing of “'the never dying worm.” I could not rest. The pale, sweet face of Agnes, as she faded away day by day, seemed to look reproachfully upon me, even in my night-dreams and sol itary rambles. I knew it was the most sickeninar of all disea'es—disappointed love—which was thus robbing her of her j strength, and fashioning her for the grave. : Hardened as I was in heart—stung by jeal -1 ousy and disappointment, still I could not | endure this. I could not see my only, my beautiful sister, dying before my eyes, and know’ all the time that I could avert her death. My better feelings predominated : 1 sat down beside her one night at twilight, and told her how basely I had acted. I j expected she would spurn me from her presence; that she would reproach me ve hemently, and call me her murderer. But she did not; at frrst, she sat quietly, as if i overcome by surprise, and then, without i saying a word, she buried her face in the sofa pillows, and wept like a grieved child. I dared not approach her at that moment with excuses for my conduct. It was her first lesson in human deceit; she was shock ed to think that in me, she had taken an adder to her bosom, instead of a sister and friend. But gradually she became calm. She assured me of her forgiveness—tender ly kissed my cheek, and then desired me to assist her to her room, and send for Ed ward. I did as site desired : 1 saw her safe ly deposited in bed, (alas! she never rose ; from it more in this world,) and then des patched a messenger to my brother. My | humiliation and agony during those hours, | you can probably imagine, better than I I can describe, but still I felt that there was a load taken from my heart. I was no longer afraid to look upon the face of my only sister. Edward, upon his arrival, was informed of the cruel arts which had been practised in order to estrange him from the friend of his collegiate life My conduct was pal liated by my sister's kindness, but I could see. nevertheless, that he was grieved and WiertardOTjy n. He assured my sister that full and free pardon should be granted his friend, whom he would seek immediately. “Be of good cheer, Agnes,"’ he said, at the close of their conversation, “be of good heart. I will seek Charles Mirick, and if he is found on earth, I will obtain his forgiveness for the wrongs I have in flicted upon him. The bond of union which once existed between us, shall be renewed, never again to be broken, and all j will yet be happy.” * The hectic flush which dwelt upon the cheek of Agnes, deepened, and her voice became tremulous with suppressed feeling, as she took Edward’s hand in her thin. | shadowy fingers, and pressed it to her lips, j “ Tell him,’’ said she, “that Agnes is on : the borders of the spirit-land. Before she j passes hence, to be seen here no more for- j ever, she has a request to make of him viz. that he would forget all that has pass-! ed to estrange him from our family, and 1 only remember the happy hours that we j have passed together. Tell him,” contin-, ed she, “ that I would love once more to look upon his sac hear from his own ! lips those blessed words, ‘I forgive'.’ If] you can find him, Edward, bring him to witness my death; let me be assured of his presence, while I am passing through the dark valley of shadows, which even now is stretching away before my feet.” It pained me to the heart to hear her dis- ] coursing thus ; I could not endure the idea i of her death. I stole to her side, and bu- ] ried my face upon her pillow. I entreated ] her wildly, for my sake, to cease, and turn ] her thoughts to brighter hours in the future. Oh ! what would I not have given, could I have recalled the past, and blotted out from its pages the fearful record of my guilt! “Do not weep, Margaret,” she said, as she laid her hand upon my head, “do not! weep! I am only going to rest. This world is full of trials, and I shall leave them all behind me. There will be a seal upon my virtues—my vices will, I trust, ] be washed out from Heaven's records, by the atoning blood of the Lamb.” As she said this, she folded her hands meekly upon her breast, and lifted her eyes towards Heaven. It was the first—'almost ■ the only allusion, that I ever heard her ] make to pardon and acceptance with God. J Edward for the next few days made dil- j igent enquiries for the residence of Charles Mirick. At length, he ascertained that he j was stationed oh the sea-coast, in a small village, about a hundred miles from the i city. He immediately determined to visit j him, and if a reconciliation could be effect- I ed, to bring him again beneath our roof.— Alas! alas ! it is well for us that God has hidden from our view the future. Could we have lifted the veil which shrouded it from our vision, how T bitter would have been our brother’s parting at that time, from his meek young wife, and you, his then infant child. As it was, he went forth from both hopefully. Days and even weeks went by, but we heard nothing from him. Hourly we ex j pected his return, but were as often disap pointed. At first, we did not apprehend that any evil had befallen him, but as we failed to obtain any note or tidings from him, fear became mingled with anxiety.— At length, we fotmd in the calnmns of a newspaper, which chance threw in my way, an account of a horrid murder which had been committed in the village whithef he had gone. As I read, my brain grew dizzy—my hand shook —I feeled, and fell from my chair, in a swoon. In the paragraph, the name of Dr. Mi rick was mentioned, and from all that I could gather, it was surpised that he had murdered a stranger —an individual, who, the night previous to the perpetration of the deed, had sought his society, for the purpose of making up some old feud of quarrel, which hail occurred long before, between the parties. It seems that the stranger had found Dr. Mirick in his of fice ; that the physician received his guest coldly, and harsh words followed the in terview. A by-stander affirmed, that he heard the l Doctor say, “It is in vain, Sherwood, to seek a reconciliation with me; your inmrlta have sunk too deeply into my soul, ever to be forgotten or forgiven.” Afterwards, something like a reconciliation seemed tor have been effected ; the two left the office, and proceeded to the hotel, where they called for a supper and bed, saying they would lodge together. They retired for the night, and nothing was heard from them, until about two o’clock in the morn ing, when a boarder, occupying an adjoin ing room, affirmed that he was awakened by the opening of Mirick’s door, and im : mediately afterwards heard ihe sound of l footsteps upon the stairs. The idea bccur | rad to him, that the individual passing down war desirous of gliding out unobserved, for j his feet seemed to be muffled. The next morning, the hotel keeper and servants were alarmed by finding in the hail at the foot of the stair-case, several large drops of blood. They ascended the stairs, and found fresh drops at every step. They traced them to the room occupied by Dr. Mirick and the stranger. This was de serted, but the Bed was saturated with’ blood, and the appearance of everything indicated, that during the night, a foul and sanguinary murder had been committed there. The alarm spread through the house’ and village. Diligent search “Was made for the parties who, the night previous, had occupied the room. At length Dr. Mirick was found walking hastily through one of the back streets, evidently desirous of es caping observation. He Was apprehended, and asked for his companion of the night before. He gave confused'and unsatisfac tory answers. A search was instituted, and on his person was found a small dia mond ring, observed the day before upon the finger of the stranger, together with a pocket knife, marked with the name of Sherwood, and his watch and chain. This was deemed satisfactory evidence, that the Doctor knew more than he chose to reveal, about the disappearance of the stranger.— Moreover, upon the shirt-sleeve of his right arm, was found a large stain of fresh blood. He was asked how it came there, but was unable to tell. He was taken into custo-’ dy, to await his trial. Such, in a few brief words, was the sub stance of the paragraph which froze the life-blood at my heart. Oh! the suspense,’ the agony, the dread, which marked those horrid hours! I cannot think of them now without shuddering. For weeks, I raved in all the delirium of madness. I accused myself of being the murderer of my broth er, for had f not, by my base arts, brought this fearful fate upon him ? In vain, my friends tried to comfort me. I would not listen to their Words. Even Agnes spoke with a gentle Voice, and tried to comfort me — me, the wretched author of her woes. 1 would not heed her entreaties, but tore my hair, and raved like a maniac, as I was. [Concluded next week .] For Richardg* Weekly Gazette. TIIE LAND OF BLISS. The Land of Bliss, oh! does it lie In the azure depths of a sunlit sfcy,’ ‘Wlere the gentle zephyr sweetly sings, ’Mid the rustling flight of Angel wings T The Land of Bliss, oh ! does it lie In the spring-tide cloud that floateth byy Shedding the tear of heavenly birth, Like a spirit pure o’er this fallen earth 1 The Land of Bliss, oh! does it lie In the star that faintly gleams on high The brightest, purest, loveliest gem Os Night’s unfading diadem. The Land of Bliss, where’er it lies, In the twinkling star, or the sun-lit skies, I know, dear Jove! thy spirit bright, Hath wandered here, from its shores of light r h. h.