ascended from the depths of human suffering. It was with them at their landing and in all their subsequent trials. When famine, disease and danger bowed to the earth the might of masculine energy, and blasted the devoted, clinging affections of woman's heart, when it seemed that the germ of a better liberty, after having crossed a thousand leagues of ocean, must perish; that the most heroic fortitude was unavailing, and that those stern men must yield to despair; Faith then flashed out in deathless lustre, it counted the solitary beatings of care-worn hearts, it nourished with ethereal food expiring virtue, and awoke crushed spirits to visions of immortal blessedness, and to a higher and loftier conception of their earthly destiny. Such was Faith with the Pilgrim Fathers. It was with the sons of men at a later period. It gilded the first dawning of our republican nationality, and when tyranny threatened us with ruin, it told the timid and wavering of the defenders of human rights that the arm of Heaven would ever be bared in the cause of truth and justice. It was with the chosen leader of our armies, amid the cloud of battle, and cheered him onward, ever, through scenes of death and woe to the consummation of American freedom. These are some of the more illustrious instances of its power. Important as they have been, they yet constitute but a fraction of its work. The great majority of its achievements have been performed in silence and obscurity. None but the records of another world can reveal how much it has done for human happiness, how many a lonely spirit it has sustained through life and cheered in death, how many a misty doubt and frightful phantom it has dispelled from the unquiet dream of mortality, or how many a truth-defending blow it has struck. Faith is the diadem of Religion, the tireless friend of the soul in its earthly pilgrimage, the co-laborer with humanity in achieving its destiny. Hope rests on a foundation less broad than that of Faith, and though the range of its activity often verges upon, it never coincides with that of Faith. Hope is to Faith what the germ is to the plant, the child to the man. Its prerogative is rather to cheer and console, to sustain and soothe, than to impart that strong energy and high resolve which fearlessly meet the trials of life, and strike terror into the foes of justice. It is a kind of universal presence, inhabiting "earth's loneliest bounds, and ocean's wildest shore," as well as the crowded metropolis. It springs up within us naturally, as vegetation from the earth or light from the sun. It calls each slumbering feeling into play, and urges us onward to the path of pleasure, or to glory's bright career. It mingles, like rills of sweetness, with all the purposes of youth, chastens with mild radiance the lofty enthusiasm of manhood, and causes old age to glow with its reflected beauty. It smiles upon the labors of genius, and as it bodies forth forms of grace and grandeur, points it to the plaudits of an admiring age. And when woe is upon us, with all its crushing power, in the blackness of its might, Hope, the blameless parasite of the soul," still trims in some lone chamber of the heart its cheering lamp, and invites despairing strength to action, by pointing to new rewards and attractions. Reason strips life of its phantasies, and pictures our natures with a stern severity. It sees man's fate darkly, and ever forebodes new evils to the aspiring spirit. But Hope, the joyous effluence of Heaven, surrounds life with a fair, luminous mist, which dims our vision to forms of danger and despair. It makes worlds of ideal excellence, and peoples them with hues and harmonies beauteous as those of evening. "Auspicious hope! in thy sweet garden grow And sweep the furrowed lines of anxious thought away." Mild Charity-fair daughter of a purer world, who can tell thy loveliness? The gentle beauty of the day-star, floating through the aërial sea, is thine. By what moral arithmetic can thy countless blessings be estimated? By what power of language can justice be done to thy excellencies? Charity is the vivifier of virtue and the awakener of sympathy. It softens down the sterner features of character, and assuages the pangs of sorrow. It guides the thread of life through this dark and dreary world, and knits together troubled souls with the ties of universal brotherhood. Its light upon the hearts of men is not the glancing beam that touches the earth and flies back to its source again; but a steady and unfading blaze, like that of a meridian sun. The exercise of this principle is enjoined upon us, not more by the necessities of our being than by the pleasurable emotions it excites, not more by the mandate of the parent of all virtue, than by the weaknesses of our own natures. How it binds up the wounds of careworn spirits, with what tenderness it looks upon the errors of poor falling humanity, and lets fall its mantle, broad and glorious as heaven's canopy. Charity "thinketh no ill;" it is opposed to all that injures character, or produces pain-to evil speaking and evil acting. It is a foe to the poison of a sly and secret insinuation, and the invective of open malignity, to the poignancy of Satire, and the light hearted but cutting jest. Charity is a universal and ceaseless laborer. It goes with healing in its wings to places of want and sadness, where the pride of power and the glare of wealth never reach. It discourses to the desolate heart a solemn but rapturous music, and gives a celestial energy to the down-trodden spirituality of our nature. Nor is it without its fitting rewards. The realms of poesy are filled with tributes of admiration to its beneficence, and monuments are reared to its name in the memories of men, which shall outlive those of a vulgar glory. Such is a brief delineation of the members of that glorious moral triad, Faith, Hope and Charity. Individually, they are allied with much of beauty and excellence, and act powerfully upon the well being of mankind. When united, they are almost omnipotent in the cause of truth and virtue. Humanity, under their influence, becomes one vast organic harp, which trembles into harmonies of sweetness, as over it sweeps the steady breeze of intellectual life. Albany, August, 1844. PHOENIX, 41. VICE stings us even in our pleasures, but virtue consoles us even in our pains. Symbol. [Written for the Gavel.] THE following lines were written after a late visit to the residence of F. Allen, Esq., of Gardner, Maine. This residence is situated about half a mile from the village of Gardner, on the bank of the Kennebeck. In all the valley of that beautiful river there is not a lovelier spot than Allen-dale. The cottage sits half concealed by the greenest foliage in the world, in a modest vale, which is formed by a high hill that lifts its rugged brow far up over the banks of the river. Beauty and sublimity seem to have met together in this spot. Science and poetry have consecrated it too. Mr. Allen has long been distinguished as one of the first lawyers in New-England. And Mrs. Allen is well known to the literary public as the author of several valuable papers, and among them the "Poetical Geognosy," a work which bespeaks extensive scientific researches, and not without some merit in a poetical way. Their daughter, Miss Eleanor Allen, is known as an occasional contributor to our literary Magazines, and especially by her Siege of Agrigentum," a work which is written very much in the style of Pope's Homer, and which abounds with passages of the finest poetry. From this description it will be perceived that the literary pilgrim who may be fortunate enough to receive a welcome to Allendale, finds for once at least an oäsis in the desert of his life. ALLEN-DALE AND THE KENNEBECK. BY C. C. BURR. I'm ling'ring there sweet Allen-dale, At evening's set or morning light, The maid of sweet and artless song, Distilling on the Poetess The brightest dews of HeliconStill wreathing on her brow of white, A chaplet pure of spotless name, Woven of softest rays of light, Descending from a star of fame. And there along thy banks of green, Old Kennebec so peaceful lavesReflecting in his silver sheen The glorious sun's meridian blaze, Or catching in his mild delight, While gentle zephyrs stir his breast, And softest tints of evening west. When yet a child I loved to hear I saw the moon sleep on thy breast, Like angels smiling in their sleep. From this sweet dell and cottage dear, With flower banks and mount sublime; Thou so hast won this heart of mine: To be satisfied with the acquittal of the world, though accompanied with the secret condemnation of conscience, is the mark of a little mind; but it requires a soul of no common stamp, to be satisfied with its own acquittal, and to despise the condemnation of the world. [From the Independent Odd-Fellow.] SOUVENIRS OF AN ODD-FELLOW. When are we happiest, then? Oh, when resigned When we can know ourselves but weak and blind MISS BROWN. HAPPINESS has been a phantom of human pursuit from the hour of the first sin through all succeeding time. As the wants of society multiplied, objects of pursuit became more numerous, and humanity for uncounted centuries, has been running through life, pursuing shadows in various directions, like school-boys dispersing at play-time to chase butterflies as they gayly flutter from flower to flower over the whole extent of the enameled plain. Happiness! what a delusive word when applied to earth, its associations and pursuits. Who has ever found it? Can wealth, or fame, or any possession bring it to our hearts? Deluded by hope, we gaze upon bright pictures in perspective, but one by one they fade away, like the scenes of the dissolving tableaux, ere the eye or heart has enjoyed them. Go ask the brokenhearted youth, who weeps over the cold grave of his young heart's love, why he lingers about that spot? He will tell you all his bright dreams of happiness lie buried there. Go ask the gray bearded sire, and he will tell you that earth and its dreams are all vanity, vanity and vexation of spirit. Oh! if we could cause to pass in review before us the countless dreams of the young, as they have arisen and faded in disappointment and sorrow, what a sad phantasmagoria would be exhibited; how false and fleeting would earthly happiness appear. Happiness, true happiness, is an exotic; it is transplated from heavenly climes, and nurtured in the human heart by faith in the Son of God! This is the happiness of patience and humility in life, and triumph and majesty in death, that clothes a worm of dust in the garments of triumph and victory, and seals his title-deed to an inheritance incorruptible in the heavens. This was the character of my reflections as I stood in the churchyard beside two graves! and in the softened media of memory looked back to the young day-dreams of the sleepers. Purer dreams of happiness never cheered the heart of humanity than those in which they once indulged; but ere their sun had reached its meridian the picture was surcharged with disappointment and death, and their cold graves are but two other beacons lighted along the highway of life to guard others from similar folly. Henry Smith I knew from childhood; a nobler hearted boy never laughed and shouted in gay and thoughtless innocency than he; his manhood fulfilled the promise of his youth. He had one fault-he looked to earth for happiness. Among his first acts on attaining his majority, was to become an Odd-Fellow, and well and nobly did he discharge his vocation as such. One of the graves was his! Who in ******* does not remember Ann Elmore, a laughing, blue eyed Hebe. Wherever she went she diffused her own sweet spirit. There was a gay warm heart beating in her bosom; the poor called her an angel, and many a dying eye has rested in its last look upon her sweet face as she wiped the death-drops from the brow of suffering. Her sweet tones still linger in my ear, as she whispered comfort to the sick, or in the hour of joy sent out her innocent ringing laugh upon the heart. Hers was the other grave! Henry and Ann loved from childhood; they were destined for each other; their parents smiled upon their mutual love, and amid prayers and blessings they plighted their nuptial vows, and never did wedded bliss seem to be more perfect and complete. Henry was a rising man -his profession engaged largely his time, yet was he punctual to the duties of Odd-Fellowship. Often, while Noble Grand of his Lodge, have I seen him and his wife visiting together the sick brethren, or if their families were ill, Ann was certain to be with them, ministering by a thousand attentions to their wants and sufferings. This pair were Odd-Fellows indeed, and often have I heard the remark made, that the conduct of Henry and Ann did more to remove unjust prejudices from the Order, than every thing else beside. Noble, generous and high-minded as he was, Henry had one fault-he was a slave to that corrupt and barbarous opinion, that deep insult, implicating his honor, could alone be washed out with blood. His profession (law) naturally led him to take part in party politics, and in this, as in every thing else, what his hand found to do he did with all his might. During the excitements of an animating canvass, he had in a political speech reflected severely upon the course pursued by the opposite party. This led to an altercation between him and the candidate of that party, who attributed his defeat to Smith's speech; an apology was demanded and refused, and a challenge passed. Fearful of the interference of friends, the preliminaries were soon settled; the parties met; Henry fell mortally wounded. He survived some eight or ten hours-long enough deeply to repent his folly, and breathe his life out in the arms of his distracted wife. Poor Ann! how were all her dreams of happiness crushed. Oh, how full of the eloquence of despair her tearless eye and frenzied look, as she took the last kiss from the cold lips of him she had so fondly loved: and when amid the tears of those who prized him so highly, he was borne to his last resting place, she insisted on following him there; what heart but beat with sympathy for that suffering one, as when the first clod fell upon his coffin she gave one long scream of agony, and was borne fainting from the grave by her friends. This occurred in the spring, and ere the leaves fell, Ann slept beside him. I stood in her chamber beside her dying pillow; I never saw her look more lovely. Her parents, Henry's too, were there, and to their grief she sought to administer consolation by pointing them to that blessed home where she expected to meet the husband of her love Earth," said she, "has no joy for your poor Ann; I loved Henry too fondly-too well; God has taken him from me to teach me the vanity of fixing my affections upon things here; I had many sweet dreams-many sweet hopes, but how soon they faded one by one. 'There is nothing true but Heaven.' Oh! my dear parents, let us part to meet where we shall never know sorrow or parting." The clergyman approached to administer the "last supper;" she smiled sweetly as she said to her weeping friends, "with desire have I desired to eat this passover with you; henceforth I drink no more of the fruit of |