Like the smell of the vine in early bloom
Sprinkles the green lane with sunny perfume,
Such a delicate fragrance filled the room;
Whether it came from the vine without,
Or arose from her presence, I dwell in doubt.

Light shadows played on the pictured wall
From the maples that fluttered outside the hall,
And hindered the daylight,-yet oh! not all;
Too little for that all the forest would be,-
Such a sunbeam she was and is to me!

When my sense returned, as the song was o'er,

I fain would have said to her, "Sing it once more;"
But soon as she smiled my wish I forbore:

Music enough in her look I found,

And the hush of her lip seemed sweet as the sound.

MUSIC OF THE UNIVERSE. MRS. F. S. OSGOOD.

The Father spake! In grand reverberations
Through space-rolled on the mighty music-tide,
While to its low, majestic modulations

The clouds of chaos-slowly swept aside.

The Father spake! A dream that had been lying,
Hushed from eternity-in silence there,
Heard the pure melody,—and low replying,
Grew to that music-in the wondering air.

Grew to that music;-slowly, grandly waking,
Till, bathed in beauty, it became a world!
Led by his voice, its spheric pathway taking,

While glorious clouds—their wings—around it furled.
Nor yet-has ceased that sound, his love revealing,
Though in response-a universe moves by!

Throughout eternity—its echo pealing,

World after world-awakes in glad reply!

And wheresoever in his rich creation

Sweet music breathes, in wave, or earth, or soul, 'Tis but the faint and far reverberation

Of that great-time to which the planets-ROLL.

PETER PICKLE'S PICTURE, WITH GOLD FRAME. PLANCHE.

Old men-young women-wed by way of nurses;
Young men-old women-just-to fill-their purses;
Nor young men-only; for 't is my belief,
(Nor do I think the metaphor-a bold one,)
When folks-(in life)—turn over a new leaf,
Why, very few—would grumble at a gold one.

A worthy knight,-(yclept-Sir Peter Pickle,
By love-was made to look exceeding glumpy;
The maid-whose charms-had power-his heart to tickle
Was Miss Cordelia-Caroline-Crumpy!

This said Sir Peter was,-(as you shall hear,)
Although a knight,-as poor-as any poet;

But handsome-as Apollo Belvidere,

And vain-Sir Peter-seemed full well-to know it.

No wonder, then,-th't Miss Cordelia-Crumpy
Could not-(unmoved) hear such a lover sue;
Sweet,-pathetic maiden,-fat-and stumpy;

Green-eyed,-red-haired, and—(turned)—of sixty-two!

But tell me,—(Muse,)—what charm it was-could tickle
The once-invincible-Sir Peter Pickle?
Was it her eyes th't, so attached—to one day,
Looked-piously-seven-different ways-for Sunday?

Was it her hump,—th't had a camel—suited?
Her left leg-bandy? or her right-club-footed?
Or nose, in shape-so like a liquor funnel?

Or mouth-whose width-might shame-the Hoosic Tunnel?
Was it the beauties—of her face-combined,—

A face,—(since similes—I have began on,) Not-like a face-th't I can call to mind,

Except the one-beneath the rebel's cannon!

No,-gentle friends! although such beauties-might
Have warmed the bosom-of an anchorite,-

The charms-th't made our knight-all milk-and honey
Was-that infallible specific-MONEY!

Peter,-(whom want of brass-had made more brazen,)
In moving terms-began his love—to blazon;
Sigh-after sigh-in quick succession-rushes,-
Nor-are the labors of his lungs—in vain;

Her cheeks-soon crimson-with consenting blushes,—
Red-as the chimney-pot-just after rain!

The license-bought, he marries her-in haste,

Brings home-his bride,-and gives his friends-a gay day; All his relations,-(wonderiug—at his taste,)

Vowed-he had better had-"The pig-faced lady!"
Struck—with this monstrous heap-of woman-kind,
The thought-of-(MONEY) never crossed their mind.
The dinner-o'er,-the ladies-and the bride-
Retired, and wine-and chat-went round jocosely;
Sir Peter's brother-took the knight aside,-

And questioned him-about the matter-closely.

"Confound it, (Peter!) how came you to pitch
On such an ugly,—squinting,—squally witch?
A man-like you, (so handsome-and so knowing,)—
Your wits, (my friend,) must surely—be a going!
Who could have thought you-such a tasteless oaf,—
To wed a lump-of odd-come-shorts and hits,-
That Madam Nature,—(in her merry fits,)
Had jumbled-into something-like a face!
With skin-as black-as if she charcoal fed on,-
Crooked,-and crusty-like an outside loaf;
A remnant of an—ourang-outang face,
Eve's-grand-mother-with the serpent's head on!
What spell-could-into such a hobble-throw you?"
"Just-step up stairs,"—(says Peter,) "and I'll show you."
Up stairs-they went.—"There—THERE's her picture! Say,
Is it not like her,-Sir? Your judgment,—pray!
"Like her, (Sir Peter!) take it not uncivil,—

'T is like her,-and-as ugly-as-(the devil!)

With just her squinting leer;-but,-(Peter,) what

A very-handsome FRAME-it's got!

So richly-gilt,—and so superbly—wrought!”

"You re right,”—(Sir Peter says,) "'t was the FRAME th't caught!

I grant-my wife—is ugly,—squabby,—old,—

But still she pleases,-being set-in gold!

Let others—for the picture-feel a flame ;

I,—(my good brother,) married-for-the FRAME !”

PRESS ON!

This is a speech,-brief,—but full of inspiration-and opening the way to all victory. The mystery-of NAPOLEON'S career-was this,-under all difficulties-and discouragements,-"PRESS ON!" It solves the problem-of all heroes;-it is the rule-by which to weigh—(rightly) all wonderful successes— and triumphal marches-to fortune and genius. It should be the motto of all,-old-and young,—high-and low-fortunate-and unfortunate,—so called. "PRESS ON!" Never despair; never be discouraged, however stormy the heavens, however dark the way; however great the difficulties-and repeatedthe failures,-"PRESS ON!"

If fortune-has played false with thee-to-day,-do thou-play true-for thyself-to-morrow. If thy riches—have taken wings,—and left thee, do not weep thy life away; but be up-and doing, and retrieve the loss-by new energies-and action. If an unfortunate bargain has deranged thy business,-do not fold thy arms,—and give up all-as lost; but stir thyself—and work the more vigorously.

If those-whom thou hast trusted-have betrayed thee,-do not be discouraged, do not idly weep,-but "press on!" find others; or, what is better,— learn to live-within thyself. Let the foolishness-of yesterday-make thee wise-to-day. If thy affections-have been poured out-like water—in the desert, do not sit down,-and perish of thirst, but press on; a beautiful oasis is

before thee, and thou mayst reach-it if thou wilt. If another—has been false to thee, do not thou increase the evil-by being false-to thyself. Do not say-the world hath lost its poetry—and beauty; 't is not so; and even if it be so,—make thine own poetry-and beauty-by a brave,—a true,—and,-(above all,)—a religious life.

THE BIG SHOE. MRS. A. D. T. WHITNEY.

"There was an old woman

Who lived in a shoe;

She had so many children

She did n't know what to do.

To some she gave broth,

And to some she gave bread,

And some she whipped soundly,
And sent them to bed."

Do you find out the likeness?
A portly old dame,-
The mother of millions,-
Brittania by name:

And, howe'er it may strike you

In reading the song,—

Not stinted in space

For bestowing the throng,
Since the sun can himself

Hardly manage to go,
In a day and a night

From the heel to the toe.

On the arch of the instep

She builds up her throne,
And with seas rolling under,
She sits there-alone;
With her heel at the foot

Of the Himmalehs planted,
And her toe in the icebergs,
Unchilled and undaunted.

Yet though justly of all
Her fine family proud,
"T is no light undertaking
To rule such a crowd;
Not to mention the troublo
Of seeing them fed,-
And dispensing with justice
The broth-and the bread.

Some will seize upon one,—
Some are left with the other,-

And so the whole household

Gets into a pother.

But the rigid old dame

Has a summary way
Of her own when she finds

There is mischief to pay!

She just takes up the—rod—
As she lays down the spoon,
And makes their rebellious backs

Tingle right soon.

Then she bids them, while yet

The sore smarting they feel, To lie down, and go to sleep Under her heel!

Only once was she posed,

When the little boy-Sam,

Who had always before

Been as meek as a lamb, Refused to take tea

As his mother had bid, And returned saucy answers Because he was-chid.

Not content even then,

Hé cut loose from the throne,

And set about making

A shoe of his own; Which succeeded so well,

And was filled up so fast, That the world in amazement Confessed at the-last,Looking on at the work

With a gasp and a stare,—
That 't was hard to tell which
Would be best of the pair.

Side by side they are standing
Together to-day;

Side by side may they keep

Their strong foothold for aye!

And beneath the broad sea,

Whose blue depths intervene,

May the finishing string

Lie unbroken between!