sunny months of prosperity; and then not becoming a chrysalis, an inert moth in adversity, but a croaking repining, ill-tempered termagant, who can only recur to the days of her short-lived triumph, to imbitter the misery, and poverty, and hopelessness of a husband, who, like herself, knows not to dig, and is ashamed to beg. But our paths might all be smoother FAITH. BY FRANCES ANN BUTLER. Better trust all, and be deceived, And weep that trust, and that deceiving; We are obliged to avail ourselves of severe language in application to a deep-rooted malady. We want words of power. We need energetic and stern applications. No country ever verged more rapidly towards extravagance and expense. In a young republic, like ours, it is ominous of any thing but good. Men of thought, and virtue, and example, are called upon to look to this evil. Ye patrician families, that croak, and complain, and forbode the downfall of the republic, here is the origin of your evils. Instead of training your son to waste his time, as an idle young gentleman at large,-instead of inculcating on your daughter, that the incessant tinkling of a harpsichord, or a scornful and lady-like toss of the head, or dexterity in waltzing, are the chief requisites to make her way in life,-if you can find no better em- be buried in some sunny spot. This, some one has ployment for them, teach him the use of the grub-finely expressed as follows: HEART'S-EASE. I knew her in her brightness, As the dancing waves that sparkle Yet deem not for a moment That her life was free from care; But she met earth's tempests meekly, Alas! the many frowning brows, Than lose the bl ssed hope of truth. THE LAST WISH. Wilson, the ornithologist, requested that he might In some wild forest shade, In this dim lonely grot, Not amid charnel stones, Or coffins dark, and thick with ancient mould, But let the dewy rose, The snow-drop and the violet, lend perfume Year after year, Within the silver birch tree o'er me hung, And ever at the purple dawn of day The blackbird and the thrush, The golden oriole, shall flit around, Birds from the distant sea Shall sometimes hither flock on snowy wings, Singing a dirge to me. VOICES OF THE TRUE HEARTED. No. 6. He was not armed like those of eastern clime, Whose pompous rights proclaim how vain their Whose chilling words are heard at night and morn, - THE DEAD. TO THE PURE ALL THINGS ARE PURE. SYMPATHY. Thou hast not left the rough-barked tree to grow I see them,-crowd on crowd they walk the earth-But many a cup the glittering drops has drank; The bird must sing to one who sings again, THE GRAVEYARD. My heart grows sick before the wide spread death, TIME INSTANT. Is there no hope of better things for our world, and must that, which hath been, still be? Is our life really a lie, and can it, by no possibility, come true? 'Twere painful inexpressibly to think thus. 'Twere to make the universe a chaos and our life a riddle. When, stepping forth in one of these perfect June mornings, we find ourself so gloriously compassed-that magnificent vault above and this prodigal earth under us-yon ever-stirring sea kissing its shores, and the fresh early breeze wafting a blessing unto us-and then think, for a moment, on the falsities, the disorders, the everlasting clash and unrest, the disunion and disharmony of this our social condition-we cannot believe 'tis to endure as now. We must needs dream of man, the nobler being, harmonized with nature, the meaner creation. Sprung from the same original, one wisdom and love, brightest often, has found at last its destroying supervises both. It needs not many years to teach us how at odds is the unsophisticated spirit with the social order whereunto 'tis born. Where lives he, to whom the revelation of what the world truly is was not a shock and an anguish unspeakable? Evermore 'tis by a downhill path one reaches the platform, whereon the world's tasks are to be executed and worldly success achieved. Were the whole truth to burst at once upon us, we were overwhelmed. But one beauteous illusion after another fades away-one principle after another is surrendered as romantic and impracticable-compromise after compromise is struck with absolute verity-lash on lash of the torturing scourge of necessity drives us into the beaten ways and bows us to " things as they are"ray by ray goes out of our birth star, till "At length the man perceives it die away, Yet no time, nor custom, nor debasement itself, can utterly destroy our inwrought impressions of the existence of a somewhat purer and nobler than actually greets the sense, the possession whereof 'tis man's prerogative to achieve. Manifold and unmistakable are the intimations thereof. Of the myriad things, that recall our youth, not one but remembers us of youth's high purposes and hopes. Music bears witness to us of a more exalted than our wonted sphere. And nature, with its undying harmonies and ever fresh beauty, hath perpetual rebuke for our disorder and deformity. But especially does poesy, the ever-living witness of the Divine to man, point unceasingly to an ideal, challenging our aspirations. From all which causes it is that reform is measurably a demand of every age. However self content and however absorbed by its own immediate schemes, it cannot evade the thought of a possible advance. Our own time is one altogether unwonted in this regard. The reform-call is universal. One malfeasance and defect after another has been assaulted, till no mountain-side but hath echoed back, and no remotest valley that hath not been startled, by the vehement demand for new and better lifecon litions. Governments, once keeping afar the inquiries of the mass by pompous awes and terrors, have at last felt the pressure of the common hand on their shoulders, and been fain to render, as they might, a justification of their existence. The Church, no longer the Ark, the touch whereof is death, has been, mayhap, even rudely handled, and anywise been moved to asssign men's largest good as the sole reason for its surviving. And throughout all departments of social life the same movement has gone. Intemperance itself-earth's coeval and universal curse-that foul, prodigious birth, to which the world, desperate of resistance, has been fain to yield an annual sacrifice, from its hopefulest and Theseus, and life looks greener in expectancy of this deliverance. Madness, that thing of horrid mystery, before which, as 'twere a fiend incarnate, other days have quailed in helpless awe, has by modern benevolence been looked steadily in the eye and tamed. Nor has the "prisoner" been forgot. No more, like the old time, leprous, are they shut out from sympathetic interchange with the sound, and branded irrecoverable, so left to die uncared of. "Twas remembered that a condemned one accepted the Christ of God while the people's "honorable ones" flouted and murdered him—that to one cut judicially off was "Paradise opened," while over the self-complacent, who settled and witnessed his fate, a doom impended so appalling as to draw tears from the guiltless victim of their bar. barity. That most illustrious of chivalrous banners, the ensign of Howard, the Godfrey of the crusade for the redemption of the outcast, has gathered about it a host of congenial spirits, and many a prison of ours, like that of Paul and Silas, has echoed with hymns of the "free"-of those born into the “ glorious liberty of the sons of God." But grateful as these movements are to the philanthropic heart, 'tis impossible not to see, that, after all, they are neither central nor permanent. 'Tis but shearing off the poisonous growths, the roots whereof are left intact and vigorous. The hour has come, we think, for assaying that radical reform, wherein all reforms else are comprised. Our social order itself rests on principles unsound and pernicious, and why not strike at the root of the tree? It pains us to witness so much of honorable, real and faithful endeavour little better than flung away in tasks, which still must be renewed at the instant of completion. Might we but live to see even the corner-stone laid of a right Christian Society! What now be we but sons of Ishmael? Of a huge majority 'tis the anxious, everlasting cry, "how shall we exist ?" Not, how shall we achieve the noblest good?" Not, "how shall we unfold most completely the godlike within us?" And can it be God's unrepealable ordinance that the great mass of them bearing His impress shall drudge through their life-term to supply their meanest wants, perpetually overtasked, shrouded thick in intellectual night, uncognisant of the marvels of wisdom and beauty testifying His presence in our world, unparticipant of a joy above that of the beasts that perish? Must war and pestilence and famine, must crime and vice and sickness and remorse still hound this poor life of man through the whole of its quick-finished circle? Must the gallows yet pollute, and the prison gloom, and the brothel curse, and madhouse and poorhouse shadow the green breast of earth? Wo for our wisdom, that to labor, the first great ordinance of Heaven, we have discovered no better instigation than the insufferable goad of starvation! Wo for a social system, wherein the individual and the general good staud irreconcilably opponent Without prevalent sickness the physician must famish. But for quarrel and litigation the lawyer's hearth fire must go out. On the existence of war's "butcher-work" the soldier's hopes are based. The monopolist grows fat on the scarcity that makes others lean. The builder and an associated host are lighted to wealth by the conflagration that lays half a city in ashes. Everywhere the same disunity prevails, and the precept, "Love thy neighbor as thyself," is practically nullified by the very motive powers of our social existence. The true man can remain such only by fleeing to the desert, or waging everlasting warfare with all influences about him. How is it the world deals, and ever hath dealt with that extraordinary virtue, the manifestation of the Divine to man? Alas, for the dishonoring tale! Lo, the noble Athenian expiring of the hemlock in the malefactor's prison! Lo, a far higher than the Athenian writhing on the "accursed tree!" Ever 'tis crucifixion the world exacts as penalty of him who would show it a more excellent way." And what reception finds genius, that perpetual witness to a race ingulfed by sense of the immortal and invisible? Does the world hail its Avatar and reverently listen to its utterances, as to the oracle's responses? Alas, for the historic leaf that registers its mortal fate! Society has no allotted place for him who, dowered with this divine attribute, surrenders himself wholly to its inspirations, speaks out its unmodified suggestions, and treads, unquestioning, the path it points out. Obstructions hedge him about, penury cramps and denies him both instruments and occasions, calumny and ridicule dog him, neglect freezes or hate turns to gall his heart's ardent loves, and, with naked feet, he is constrained to tread a stony, thorny way. Even so deals the world with them commissioned of God as its prophets and teachers. No marvel, then, at the frequent perversion and sometimes deep debasement of genius. Want and fashion, and the broad, deep currents of immemorial opinion 'tis not given, save rarely, even to this to resist and overcome. Blame not, then, that you witness Heaven's own subtle flame burning on strange altars, or the temple vessels desecrated by heathen orgies. But the social order, that necessitates things like these is it for us to acquiesce therein, or shall we demand a reorganization? Verily, we crave no impracticable, no irrational thing. We ask a society wherein all God's children shall be sufficiently fed, and clad, and housed— wherein every individual shall find leisure, sphere, and means for the fit, harmonious unfolding of all his powers of body and spirit-wherein each shall have his true standing place and environment, and may act his individual self freely and fully out— wherein the highest shall be recognized as highest, BY CHARLES WEST THOMPSON. Whence so few might e'er return again. As he gazed, amid the gold pavillions Round his throne, upon that crowd so vast; Musing with subdued and solemn feelings, On the awful thoughts that filled his soul,One of those most terrible revealings That will sometimes o'er the spirit roll : Thoughts, that of that multitude before him, Panting high for fame-athirst to striveEre old time had sped a century o'er him, Not, perhaps, would one be left alive : Well might weep he-well might we, in weeping, Like the shadow on the mouldering wall; When we think how soon the sunbeam, setting, Will depart, and leave it all in shadeAnd our very friends will be forgetting That the day-light o'er it ever played. Life upon a swallow's wing is flying, O'er the earth it sparkles and is gone; All as swiftly fly, as soon are fled; Chase no more the phantom of thy dreaming- SONNETS. BY RICHARD CHENEVIX FRENCH. THE NOBLER CUNNING. Ulysses, sailing by the Sirens' isle, Sealed first his comrades' ears, then bade them fast VESUVIUS. As when unto a mother, having chid, Her child in anger, there have straight ensued, The earth, her stricken child, will never cease; FRANCE, 1834. How long shall weary nations toil in blood, WILD FLOWERS. How thick the wild-flowers blow about our feet, To one born and bred in New England, the sentiment must be inevitable, that it is a free country.' The language of every-day life teems with that capital idea. It is the first idea that infancy is taught, and the last one forgotten by old age. Freedom, of costly water in the jewelry of our patriotism. Liberty, Free Institutions, Free Soil, &c. are terms How pleasant it is to think-be it true or falsethat cold, hard-soiled, pure-skyed New England, is, indeed, a free land! that in her long struggle for freedom, she expunged from her soil every crimson spot, every lineament of human slavery, and severed every ligament that connected her with that inhuman institution! And so we thought. We got out of our cradle with that idea. It was in our heart when we first looked up at the blue-sky, and listened to the little merry birds that were swimming in its bosom. It was in our heart, like thoughts of music, when the spring winds came, and spring voices twittered in the tree tops; when the swallow and the lark and all the summer birds sang for joy, and |