years till they are counted by centuries, long after she thou hast so shamefully deserted sleeps the quiet, blessed sleep of death; thou shalt live to mourn and to lament over a fate thou canst not change. Thy doom is more dreadful than thou canst yet conceive of! Come, wait not even for her last embrace, come-come-come!"

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win woman's love, and then fling it away as ye would cast aside the flower of lost fragrance, but be ye warned in time, for spirits are, and moon-land yet may find room in its borders for thy feet!

And now what more remains for me to tell. You have guessed, I know, how the warm-hearted spirit taught Rose May that Joseph Rancy possessed all the good and attractive qualities of the lost lover, with none of his sins and follies! You have guessed that one gay morning the old church doors were opened for another bridal party-that young Rose stood again in marriage garments before the altar, and Joseph by

The new moon that night came up in all her glorious beauty, and sailed on calmly as she was wont to do over the broad blue upper sea; and night after night she glided over the vast expanse, unfurling gradually wider and wider her sails, till in full and perfect splendor she at last appeared. And then, yes then Rose May beheld her lover once more; but oh that shadowy glimpse she caught of him was worse to her than had she looked on utter vacancy. She knew that he was gazing on her home, that he looked in despair on her, but, alas! she saw no more the tender light that filled once his beautiful, dark eyes; she heard no words from his silenced lips, and it was like a torturing dream to her to look upon him thus, and fancy all the horrors of his banishment.

And what of Rob? He dwells in moon-land yet! among the elevated "mountains of the moon," instead of those dear, wild heights his dwelling place on earth. Who ever could have dreamed that the wretched Wandering Jew had an unknown companion in yon bright sphere, whose lot was yet more miserable than his own? Who ever thought a "breach of promise" might be visited on unfaithful man, in quite another and more effectual way, than by laying strong hold on his most precious pursestrings?"

more glided through the "place of prayer," to add her blessing to that which the priest pronounced over the bridegroom and the bride.

Why speak of the happy home where Joseph Rancy dwelt with his beautiful lady-love? Why tell of all that wedded bliss which people for the most part in our world have heard of already, or else desire in an especial manner to hear of, and to know. And why say that all the teachings and advice which the Spirit deigned to administer to these two blest mortals, was ever received and heeded by them with the utmost care and gratitude?

Do you believe in dreams? No! Why not? Have you, indeed, yet to learn, that through them the good spirits whisper to us advice, and peace, and warning, and consolation! Are you so cold and dull as to believe there are no ministering spirits, no guiding guardian angels? Do you, can you scornfully repel the idea that the forests and mountains, the oceans and the plains, have their myriad viewless intellectual inhabitants? Ah, foolishly unwise, may these powerful agents have mercy on you, and charitably bear with your shameful, willful blindness!

What then-must I set you down as more ignorant and unlearned than even simple Joseph Rancy? Fling all your book-learning aside and be a very child in all knowledge, I beseech you, if that will give you faith in these surrounding millions, to believe in them, and a keen mental eyesight to behold them. And do not, above all things, dare to brave the possible malignance of Rob Horn, that is, if you regard the preservation of your worldly wealth. Gather not in your harvests, and your winter stores, while he is gazing full upon you, rather follow honest Jo

And ye, gay-hearted knights, so strong to promise, and so slow to do; ye who do count it pastime to

wealth of your apple-trees, and massacre your swine while Rob is sleeping in the shade of the mountains, just before he awakens from his slumber to gaze openly upon your doings. And if you manifest your faith in my story in no other way than in doing this, I shall be satisfied, and feel, whether you admit it or not, that I have for once "well done."

SWEET child, whose gentle eyes upon The mirror's polished surface rest, Thy heart no grief has ever known, No anxious care disturbs thy breast.

O, may the coming time, to thee Calm as the present ever prove; And she who guards thy infancy Live years of rapture in thy love.

ANNA.

HAIL, Father Thames! 'Tis joy to me
Once more thy face and haunts to see;
For lingering verdure, soft and rare,
Makes thine antumnal carpet fair;
And 'mid thy bordering heights is seen
The strong and patient evergreen,
While checkering sunbeams gild thy way,
And lightly with thy ripples play.

Spare not to give me smile of cheer,
And kindly bid me welcome here;

For some, who erst my hand would take,
And love me for affection's sake,
Sleep the cold sleep that may not break;
And though to fill their vacant place
Are blooming brows and forms of grace,
Who still a favoring glance extend,
And greet their parent's cherished friend,
Yet mingling with that welcome dear,
Are voices that they may not hear;
For visioned forms around me glide,
And tender memories throng my side,
Till tears, like pearl-drops, all apart,
Swell in the silence of the heart.

Methinks thou speak'st of change. 'Tis true;
What hand may hold the morning dew
All unexhaled through lengthened day,
To sparkle 'neath the westering ray?
Who dreams his flowing curls to keep,
While years roll on, in eddies deep?
The elastic feet, that sprang untired,
Where cliffs o'er towering cliffs aspired;
The heart, untaught a pang to bear,

The cheek that ne'er had paled with care,
The eye, undimmed by sorrow's rain-
How could I bring these back again?
Change hath a part in every loan
And gift that youth doth call its own,
Nor grants old Earth a bond or claim,
Without the endorsement of his name;
So, that's the tenure, father dear,
By which we hold possession here,
And be not strict to mark with shame,
Unless thyself wert free from blame,

For, in thy presence be it told,
That even thou art changed and old.
Methinks, with wild resentment's flash,
I hear thy rising currents dash-
But still my charge I'll deftly prove;
Where are the healthful flowers that wove
Fresh garlands here, in copse and grove?
The golden-rod, of sunny hue,
Heart's-ease and violets deeply blue,
The lustrous laurel, richly drest,
That through the sober alders prest;
These blossomed when I saw thee last,
Yet now, dismantled branches cast
Keen challenge to the mocking blast,
And fallen leaves, in eddies dank,
Reproachful strew thy mottled bank.

Thy shrouded dells, where lovers stole,
Or poets mused with raptured soul-
Where are they now? I ask in vain;
Strange iron steeds that scorn the rein,
With shriek, and tramp, and nostrils bright,
The herds amid thy pastures fright;
And clashing wheel, and spindle's force,
Oft drain thy faithful allies' source,
Shetucket, with is roughened breast,
And Yantic, that I love the best;
While granite walls, and roofs of grace,
Usurp the moping owlet's place.
Yes, thou art changed, the world hath made
High inroad on thy hermit shade.

But, say'st thou, that with spirit true
Thou keep'st a glorious goal in view;
Heaven speed thee on, with feet of glee,
And bless thy bridal with the sea;
Dear River! that doth lingering stay,
Laving the sandals, on thy way,
Of the fair city of my birth,
Perchance, the loveliest spot on earth.

Be thou our guide. Thy steadfast eye
Might teach us our own goal to spy;
For to that goal, through smile and tear,
Each winged moment brings us near;
Oh! may it be that blissful shore,

Where chance and change are known no more.

LET the poet-lord bepraise the sword
That gleams on Conquest's track;
Be 't mine to prolong a humbler song-
The song of the woodman's axe!
'Tis meet to sing of th' lowliest thing
That graces the reign of Peace,
And add our praise, in hearty lays,
Or prayers for bright increase.
In the ruddy flood of battle's blood
Its splendor ne'er was dimmed,
For a gentler fame awaits its name
Than e'er the soldier hymned.
Like a pioneer, with voice of cheer,
It breaks the forest's gloom,

And maketh the earth give joyous birth,
And like a garden bloom!

And the palace dome, or peasant's home,
It rears with brave command;

For no towering oak its lusty stroke

Could ever yet withstand.

Ho! the axe is king of the wildwood ring,
And of the lordly trees,

For before his blow they bow them low
That laugh at the mountain breeze.

And his trophies bright are truth and light,
And Plenty's golden store;

For no drop of teen e'er dims the sheen
That flashed in days of yore!

Then praise to the king of the wildwood ring,
The woodman's shining axe;

For a gentler fame awaits its name

Than the sword or Conquest's tracks.