laid her in the earth; and after a brief sojourn with my family, whose tears, though they fell for her, failed to convey to my altered heart the soothing of sympathy, I returned to my desolate home. death. At length, in a voice so faint that it seem-|to struggle, as with a tangible enemy-with Death, ed a whisper, she said "I must see my child." whose "terrors I had suffered from my youth upThe poor little boy was hastily roused from ward" with a troubled mind?-when the stroke, of his slumbers, and placed beside her. Her eyes which, even for myself, I had never dared to think, fixed on him and filled with tears, that grew and I now met, through the being that was dearest to gathered until they rolled down her pale cheek. me, and when the rigid stillness of Lucy's form She tried to draw him to her bosom, and the lady brought death into my very heart? who attended her placed him nearer, that he might The third day after she had ceased to live, we receive his mother's last kiss. Long and tenderly conveyed her to the place of her repose. At "The did her lips press his infant brow, and when, as he Willows," where I first had seen and loved her, was wont to do, he twined his little arms around she was now to sleep in peace, in the burial place of her neck, and caressingly uttered the words, "Dear my fathers. It was meet that the scene of my Mother!" she burst into tears, and wept convul- dearest hopes should now become their grave. I sively. Apprehensive for the effect, her friend drew the child away, and I clasped my poor Lucy yet more closely to my heart, and vainly endeavored to utter some words of comfort-I knew not what. The clergyman, in a soft and encouraging tone, My desolate home! Heaven only-Heaven whose repeated some of the promises to those who "die gaze is daily fixed upon the griefs of this world, in the Lord," which come upon the hour of human only knew its perfect desolation! Silence fell upon weakness and suffering, with all the calming and it, and in loneliness I sat, and fed upon the bitter holy influences of early and pious associations. past-the more bitter present. I listened involunThe heart of Lucy seemed at once to acknowledge tarily for her step, at times; for there were times their power to quiet all earthly sorrow, and over when I could almost believe that all that had seemher face stole an expression of perfect peace, as ed was not. I called her by name, and I wept her eyes closed, and her hands clasped together, because there was no reply. The books that she as if in prayer. She spoke no more. Her thoughts had used lay where she had left them. All that returned no more to the world. They seemed her touch had hallowed I treasured sacredly. The absorbed in Heaven. And when at last all was miniature for which I had asked her to sit when over, and Death had fallen on her, gently as the we were first married, was ever in my sight, and "dew of slumber," her attitude, and the last im- the tress of glossy hair which had been preserved press of consciousness upon her countenance, for me was dearer still. shewed that her soul had passed away in prayer. There was one friend-the friend of LucyFor several minutes after her spirit had left its Mr. Lyne, who was now my only visitor, and his beautiful shrine, there was unbroken silence in the attentions were equally judicious and kind. He room. I held her still supported against a heart began by talking to me of her, whom, in this world, that was ready to break, but oh! I was now so I should see no more, dwelling much and soothused to wretchedness, that, in my utmost agony, I ingly upon her many claims to remembrance and uttered no complaint, but bent my head over my affection. When he marked the softening of my dead, assured that the world had now nothing more heart, as he thus spoke, he gave me her letter. bitter in store for me. The physician quietly with- It contained her earnest entreaties that I would, drew from the house. The lady took my poor with his assistance, "search the Scriptures," for little boy from the chamber of death. Mr. Lyne, the words of eternal life. She added her hope, her as if he felt that the house of mourning was the prayer that we should again meet, in that world proper place for the servant of heaven, sat down where Change and Death could sever us no more. beside the bed in solemn silence. With humane I wept long and bitterly over this letter. It had wisdom he made no attempt to restrain my feel- evidently been written with effort, and with a tremings. He knew well that the human heart is some-bling hand. It recommended her child to my care, times its own best teacher. And I-all this ex- and expressed so tender an anxiety for my peace, cess of anguish had fallen so suddenly upon me, that that I was wholly unmanned. Mr. Lyne suffered I could scarcely believe in the reality of its cause. me to weep without restraint. But the moment came when I was forced to leave my Lucy. The sad arrangements for our final separation were now to be made, and the friends whom her influence had gathered around me in this time of infinite distress, were kindly anxious to spare me the knowledge of these things. When I became composed, he began to speak to me of the Future-of my relation to that world whither one so dear had gone before me. "Where thy treasure is, there will thy heart be also." Mine dwelt upon this point of Mr. Lyne's consolations, and I was irresistibly drawn to a subject with I shall not attempt to convey to the reader an which Lucy was connected, as living-not dead, idea of my sensations at this time. How indeed as yet to be restored-not lost to me. Every day could I describe torments with which I seemed did the good clergyman visit me. Faithfully did he fulfil his promise to Lucy, and light began to break into my mind, and to illumine my deep regrets and bitter repentance for the past. Deep and unvarying melancholy settled down upon me, but my soul had now occupation, and a “hope set before it ;" and I bore my misfortunes with the greater patience, because the love of my heart now looked to Heaven. In the morning he seemed to be calm from exhaustion. And now I began to concentrate my cares upon my child. His extreme beauty, his likeness to my poor Lucy, the gentleness of his disposition were all strong claims upon my devotion; and when I perceived the wants that gathered around him, wants which only a mother's foresight could have prevented, his need of some tender guide of early impulses, some fond and attentive watch over his infancy, I was drawn towards him by pity and affection, such as no one less unfortunate could comprehend. Perhaps I loved him too well, and Heaven was willing to take my flower to its own bright|tered upon the breath of those parted and gasping atmosphere, before the influences of this world could impair its loveliness. At night, his small couch was placed beside my own, and within my reach. By day he was almost my sole companion, and my endeavors to render him happy were repaid by the most unbounded fondness and confidence. And yet, ere the sunset of this miserable day my boy was dying; and I stood beside him, and saw the struggle of his spirit to be free! It flat lips, like the wing of some bird that strives to spring towards the sky. And the wings were freed, and the bird loosed—and my last, my young, my only earthly hope, was garnered in Heaven. I looked upon this, and long-long after, it was but upon beautiful clay that I gazed, my eyes and my heart continued to dwell upon my boy. But, oh! reader, I now was kindred with Death. It had treasured up all I loved in the desolate world, and every fear that could haunt my life was lulled upon It was but a few months after the death of Lucy that I was one night awakened by the extreme restlessness of my little Henry. I laid my hand upon his head. He was feverish, and seemed to the bosom of my child. I have never, since that suffer, but I knew not then how great was my moment, averted my thoughts from Death. It is reason to be alarmed. I watched beside him until now blended with all my hopes, and all my wishes. the day dawned, and then sent for Dr. We buried the son beside the mother. She has The physician frankly declared that he believed regained her nursling. Nor has the friend of Lucy his disorder to be an infectious fever. Many such with harsh zeal represented my bereavement as cases had lately occurred within his practice, and the sad punishment of my own past errors, but some of them of a malignant character. At pre- rather as a blessing from a Father's hand! HE has sent, however, he saw no ground for alarm. He but borne before me the objects of my love into left his prescription upon the table, and departed. the "better land," thitherward to draw the soul of In a state of mind such as I shall not describe, I deep affection. They "will not come to me, bat remained beside my child, and endeavored to quiet I shall go to them." him into sleep. In vain towards evening the fever rose fearfully, and he was evidently worse. I again summoned Dr. and he now no longer "The disease," he combatted my uneasiness. "Mr. Filkin, what do you think of it!-isn't it beautiful?" said Miss Truelove, wiping her eyes. Miss Truelove was just eighteen, and had been før said, "had assumed an unfavorable aspect-he a year emancipated from the boarding school, in would not flatter me-it was a serious case." which a sub-governess had taught her-novels. Once more he left me, and during the night I maintained a solitary vigil, by the bedside of my boy. Already I began to relinquish hope. It was "Why, no! upon my word," cried stont Mr. apparent that he was delirious, for, in the wander- Filkin, rising from his chair, and buttoning his ings of his mind, he spoke of things and persons coat, as men sometimes do preparatory to a senno longer present, as if they were around him. tence of condemnation-"I think, for my part, the He seemed to suffer intensely, and sometimes ut- whole story is a sort of much ado about nothing, tered, in a murmured tone of complaint, words and if the writer expects to interest people in a which were but half articulate. How would Lucy hero as weak as a cup of damaged milk and water— have watched over him!-how have softened even it shews very little knowledge of human nature— illness by her patient tenderness! But he had now that's my idea!" And he looked triumphantly into no mother, and, ill could I supply to him her place!' the face of Mr. Dobbs. "As weak as a cup of damaged milk and water!" vociferated Miss Truelove-" Oh! Mr. Filkin." "It was a case of monomania, sir, you know," explained Mr. Dobbs. "Monomania? fudge! nonsense! such a case as no doctor could ever acknowledge. Monomania that can sometimes talk common sense about itself—who ever heard of such a thing?” “I think it was nervous!" suggested Miss Truelove, as if she had made a discovery. "I'll tell you what, my dear-no! no! no!" cried Mr. Filken-" half knave, half fool-beneath contempt, in my opinion. Such a fellow ought to have been flogged-that's it-flogged! Sitting still, weeping and mourning like a baby, whilst he was letting every reasonable chance of happiness slide past him, without ever once putting out his stupid fingers to catch one. And then to turn gamester, with such a good, worthy, excellent wife as he had! My dear, I doubt if flogging wasn't too good for him-in my opinion 'twas!" "Why, sir, he wasn't a real live man!" cried Mr. Dobbs, in amazement. "If he wasn't, he might have been. But I don't like the tale-its all grief, from beginning to end and I hate misery!" "It only shows the writer's intimate acquaintance with the springs of human sympathies," said Miss Truelove, sighing. "Mr. Dobbs did not smile, though he might have done it very well, but, as he did not comprehend Miss Truelove, he may be perhaps excused. Mr. Filkin looked at her with great contempt, and wondered what was the object of modern education. The reader will seek in vain to know more of the circle around Mr. Peter Filkin's fireside. They are not of our acquaintance. T. H. E. BEAUTIFUL SCENIC DESCRIPTION. (From the Antiquary.) As Sir Arthur and Miss Wardom paced along, enjoying the pleasant footing afforded by the cool moist hard sand, Miss Wardom could not help observing, that the last tide had risen considerably above the usual water-mark. Sir Arthur made the same observation; but without its occurring to either of them to be alarmed at the circumstance. The sun was now resting his huge disk upon the edge of the level ocean, and gilded the accumulation of towering clouds through which he had travelled the livelong day, and which now assembled on all sides, like misfortunes and disasters around a sinking empire and a falling monarch. Still, however, his dying splendor gave a sombre magnificence to the massive congregation of vapours, forming out of their unsubstantial gloom, the show of pyramids and towers, some touched with gold, some with purple, some with a hue of deep and dark red. The distant sea, stretched beneath this varied and gorgeous canopy, lay almost portentously still, reflecting back the dazzling and level beams of the descending luminary, and the splendid coloring of the clouds amidst which he was setting. Nearer to the beach, the tide rippled onward in waves of sparkling silver, that imperceptibly, yet rapidly, gained upon the sand. Our gallant Steamer speeds along!- Seem moving quickly up the stream, Like some bright serpent, winds along; And never was a lovelier, never, Renowned by bard in olden song! Ah, had the days of Nymph and Naiad,- Of half seen spirits at their freaks! Save where yon Steamer holds her way; Lo! from her deck, her painted streamer, And softly too!-what sounds of pleasure Ah, well may music's bells be ringing, To celebrate a NUPTIAL FETE, II. Change we the scene; our numbers change, Trophies to fame and memory dear : But turn from this: yon sculptured form III. Such decorations meet the eye, Where'er it turns entranced around; But oh, a double witchery, The senses, hold in thraldom bound: For lofty mirrors, ranged between, Reduplicate the lovely scene!Mirrors as bright as that which won The gaze of Liriopè's son, The world's most famed and beauteous one,Showing his features all so fair Until, fond youth, he perished there !- Or clear as that calm crystal wave, Which our first Mother's heart beguiled, As back her charms it sweetly gave, While, o'er her shoulder, Angels smiled!-- These lofty mirrors range the halls, The limits of an earthly scene, IV. Such is the scene: but who are these What lofty plumes nod on the eye!- * It may be well enough to remark that the festivities here recorded, took place on the birth-day of the Father of his Country. How proudly up the hall they march, A Brother dear to every heart,— And now within the hall they stand, V. But lo! what brilliant visions come, Glows not the air with added light?-- Is't not some magic wins the sight?Have kindlier planets lent their rays ?-Look where they come !-ah no, 'tis real No vision from the realm ideal!-These are the maidens of our land, Oh lovelier creatures never shone on earth!Sweet Alabama's daughter's, bland And fair, as the fair clime that gave them birth! Our Southern women!-You may talk By old Anacreon's numbers sung; Like pearls in some dark casket flung: Yet, if you once will gaze with me, Your bosom tuned for beauty's call,You'll own that though divine they be, Our Southern women beat them all! VII. Now winding on, the maidens come, Their soft eyes beam with pleasure! Is that the warbling of a bird?— Strew your flowers, blushing flowers, 1. Strew them at their feet, Strew your flowers, in rosy showers, Offerings bright and sweet! 2. Wave your banners, gorgeous banners, The bride now comes, the beauteous bride, 3. Last eve beheld their nuptials sweet, In festive mood round pleasure's shrine! 4. Then strew your flowers, your banners wave, VIII. Through the portals now they enter, O'er her brow what blushes speeding, Blossoms and birds around her playing,- And who is he, the favored one, That thus this beauteous bride has won ?-- For what is wealth, or what is fame, The Nymph that dwells from courts apart, The leaf brought by the ark-returning dove, The rainbow o'er a world of strife,Fitly belongs to any, 'tis to such, As feel most deep the magic of her touch,'Tis to those souls, where Genius-spark of heavenShines with the glory of its native levin! X. And such the bridegroom: though the leaves And she now blushing by his side, Is, sweetest name on Earth!-a Poet's Bride! XI. Oh, had the bard, who faintly sings These gladsome nuptials now, But half the music on his strings, But half the wild poetic glow, That unto SYLVAN'S muse belongs, He'd wake a glad, melliferous strain,- A garland for the bridal shrine, XII. A POET'S BRIDE!-what visions come, From the long past, by memory stirred!They come, they come, and now they pass, Like shadows over old Agrippa's glass!— Lo! standing 'neath Italian skies, I see a laurelled bard arise! "Tis he, whose songs, all Oh, all his songs are dear to fame, And LAURA lives with PETRARCH's name !* Another scene- For a favored son of song!- Is the gentle one that long Hath held his heart in homage bound! And the sweetest boon of heaven, * In this, as in two of the succeeding instances, so much regard is not had to those who were united in the holy estate of matrimony,' as to those who were indissolubly associated in poetic interest,-who were wedded in soul and feeling, as in fame. |