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THE INFANT'S DREAM.

Oh! cradle me on thy knee, mamma,

And sing me the holy strain That soothed me last, as you fondly prest My glowing cheek to your soft white breast; For I saw a scene when I slumbered last,

That I fain would see again.

And smile as you then did smile, mamma,

And weep as you then did weep;
Then fix on me thy glistening eye,
And gaze and gaze 'till the tear be dry,
Then rock me gently, and sing and sigh,

Till you lull me fast asleep. -
For I dream'd a heavenly dream, mamma,

While slumbering on thy knee,
I lived in a land where forms divine
In kingdoms of glory eternally shine,
And the world I'd give, if the world were mine,

Again that land to see.
I fancied we roam'd in a wood, mamma,

And we rested, as under a bough;
Then near me a butterfly, flaunted in pride ;
And I chased it away through the forest wide,
And the night came on and I lost my guide,

And I knew not what to do.

The spirits which came from this world of distress; And there was the joy no tongue can express,

For they know no sorrow there. / Do you

mind when sister Jane, mamma, Lay dead, a short time agone ? Oh! you gaz’d on the sad, but lovely wreck, With a full flood of woe, you could not check, And your heart was so sore you wish'd it would

break, But it lov'd, and you still sobbed on ! But Oh! had you been with me, mamma,

In realms of unknown care; And seen what I saw, you ne'er had cried, Though they buried pretty Jane in the grave when

she died, For shining with the blest, and adorn'd like a bride,

Sweet sister Jane was there.

My heart grew sick with fear, mamma,

And I loudly wept for thee; But a white-rob’d maiden appear'd in the air, And she flung back the curls of her golden hair, And she kiss'd me softly ere I was aware,

Saying “come pretty babe with me.”

Do you mind that silly old man, mamma,

Who came very late to our door,
And the night was dark, and the tempest loud,
And his heart was sick, and his soul was proud,
And his ragged old mantle serv'd for his shroud,

Ere the midnight hour was o'er?
And think what a weight of wo, mamma,

Made heavy each long drawn sigh,
As the good man sat on papa's old' chair,
While the rain dripp'd down from his thin grey hair,
And fast as the big tear of speechless care

Ran down from his glazing eye.
And think what a heavenly look, mamma,

Flash'd through each trembling tear,
As he told how he went to the baron's strong hold,
Saying " Oh! let me in for the night is so cold,"
But the rich man cried, “go sleep in the wold,

For we shield no beggars here." Well, he was in glory too, mamma;

As happy as the blest can be ; He needed no alms in the mansions of light, For he sat with the patriarchs, clothed in white, And there was not a seraph had a crown more bright,

Nor a costlier robe than he.

My tears and fears she beguiled, mamma,

And she led me far away ; We enter'd the door of the dark, dark tomb, We pass'd through a long, long vault of gloom; Then opend our eyes on a land of bloom,

And a sky of endless day.

And heavenly forms were there, mamma,

And lovely cherubs bright ; They smiled when they saw me, but I was amaz’d, And wond'ring, round me, I gaz'd and gaz'd, And songs I heard, and sunny beams blaz'd;

All glorious in the land of light.

But soon came a shining throng, mamma,

Of white-winged babes to me; Their eyes looked love, and their sweet lips smil'd, And they marvell’d to meet with an earth-born child; And they gloried that I from the earth was exil'd,

Saying, “ here love, blest thou shalt be."

Now sing, for I fain would sleep mamma,

And dream as I dream'd before, For sound was my slumber, and sweet was my rest, While my spirit in the kingdom'of Life was a guest, And the heart that has throbb'd in the climes of the

blest, Can love this world no more.

Then I mixed with the heavenly throng, mamma,

With cherub and seraphim fair;
And saw as I roam'd the regions of peace,

- There is a comfort in the strength of love ; 'Twill make a thing endurable, which else Would overset the brain or break the beart.”

WORDS WORTU.

No. 12.

BY JOHN G. WHITTIER.

THE BEAUTIFUL.

woods--scattered trees with moist sward and bright mosses at their roots-great clumps of green sha

dow, where limb entwists with limb, and the rustle - A beautiful form is better than a beautiful face; of one leaf stirs a hundred others-stretching up a beautiful behavior is better than a beautiful form; steep hill-sides, flooding with green beauty the valit gives a higher pleasure than statues or pictures; | leys, or arching over with leaves the sharp ravines,it is the finest of the fine arts."— Emerson's Essays, every tree and shrub unlike its neighbor in size and Second Series, iv. p. 162.

proportion, the old and storm-broken Jeaning on the A few days since, I was walking with a friend, young and vigorous—intricate and confused, withwho, unfortunately for himself, seldom meets with out order or method! Who would exchange this any thing in the world of realities worthy of com.

for artificial French gardens, where every tree stands parison with the ideal of his fancy, which, like the stiff and regular, clipped and trimmed into unvary, bird in the Arabian tale, glides perpetually before ing conformity, like so many grenadiers under rehim, always near, yet never overtaken. I felt my

view? Who wants eternal sunshine or shadow ? arm suddenly pressed. • Did you see that lady,

Who would fix for ever the loveliest cloud-work of who has just passed us ?” he inquired. I turned and an autumn sunset; or hang over him an everlastthrew back a glance. «I see her," I replied ; «a

ing moonlight ? If the stream had no quiet eddying good figure, and quite a graceful step—what of her ?": place, could we so admire its cascade over the rocks?

Why, she is almost beautiful,-in fact very nearly Were there no clouds, could we so hail the sky perfect,” said my friend. " I have seen her several shining through them

its still, calm purity? Who times before, and were it not for a chin slightly out shall venture to ask our kind Mother Nature to reof proportion, I should be obliged to confess that move from our sight any one of her forms or colors ? there is at least one handsome woman in the city." Who shall decide which is beautiful, or otherwise, " Aud but one, Í

in itself considered ? suppose,"

,” said I, laughingly. “ That I am sure of,” said he: “I have been to all

There are too many like my fastidious friend, the churches, from the Catholic to the Mormon, and who go through the world « from Dan to Beersheeon all the Corporations, and there is not a handsome ba, finding all barren”—who have always some fault woman here, although she whom we have just pass or other to find with Nature and Providence, seemed comes nearer the standard than any other.''

ing to consider themselves especially ill-used beJust as if there were any standard of beauty,—a cause the one does not always coincide with their fixed, arbitrary model of form and feature, and color! taste, nor the other with their narrow notions of per

sonal convenience. The beauty which my friend seemed in search of,

In one of his early poems, was that of proportion and coloring; mechanical ex

Coleridge has beautifully expressed a truth, which actness ; a due combination of soft curves, and obtuse is not the less important because it is not generally angles, of warm carnation, and marble purity! Such admitted. I have not in my mind at this moment a man, for aught I can see, might love a graven image, the entire passage, but the idea is briefly this : that like the girl of Florence, who pined into a shadow the mind gives to all things their coloring, their for the Apollo Belvidere, looking coldly on her with gloom or gladness ; that the pleasure we derive from his stony eyes, from his niche in the Vatican. One external Nature is primarily from ourselves : thing is certain; he will never find his faultless piece of artistical perfection, by searching for it amidst

A light, a glory, a fair luminous mist,

Enveloping the earth.” flesh and blood realities. Nature does not, as far as I can perceive, work with square and compass, or The real difficulty of these life-long hunters after lay on her colors by the rules of royal artists, or the the Beautiful, exists in their own spirits. They dunces of the academies. She eschews regular out- set up certain models of perfection in their imaginalines. She does not shape her forms by a common tions, and then go about the world in the vain exmodel. Not one of Eve's numerous progeny in all pectation of finding them actually wrought out ac. respects resembles her who first culled the flowers cording to pattern; very unreasonably calculating of Eden. It is in the infinite variety and picturesque that nature will suspend her everlasting laws for the inequality of Nature, that her great charm and un- purpose of creating faultless prodigies for their especloying beauty consists. Look at her primitive cial gratification.

23

“ From the mind itself must issue forth

The authors of « Gaities and Gravities,” give it, winter, seemed the diminutive, smoke-stained woas their opinion, that no object of sight is regard- men of Lapland, who wrapped him in their furs, ed by us as a simple, disconnected form, but that an and ministered to his necessities with kindness and instantaneous reflection as to its history, purpose, or gentle words of compassion. Lovely to the homeassociations, converts it into a concrete one-a pro. sick heart of Park seemed the dark maids of Sego, cess, they shrewdly remark, which no thinking being as they sung their low and simple song of welcome can prevent, and which can only be avoided by the beside his bed, and sought to comfort the white unmeaning and stolid stare of " a goose on the com- stranger, who had « no mother to bring him milk, mon, or a cow on the green.” The senses and the and no wise to grind him corn.” 0! talk as we faculties of the understanding are so blended with, may, of beauty as a thing to be chiselled from mar. and dependent upon, each other, that not one of them ble or wrought out on canvass,-speculate as we can exercise its office alone, and without the modi- may upon its colors and outlines, what is it but an fication of some extrinsic interference or suggestion. intellectual abstraction, after all? The heart feels Grateful or unpleasant associations cluster around a beauty of another kind ;-looking through the outall which sense takes cognizance of: the beauty ward environment, it discovers a deeper and more which we discern in an external object is often but real loveliness, the reflection of our own ininds.

This was well understood by the old painters. In What is Beauty, after all? Ask the lover, who their pictures of Mary, the Virgin Mother, the beaukneels in homage to one who has no attractions for ty which melts and subdues the gazer, is that of the others. The cold on-Jooker wonders that he can call soul and the affections—uniting the awe and mystethat unclassic combination of features, and that awk- ry of that mother's miraculous allotment with the ward form, beautiful. Yet so it is. He sees, like irrepressible love, the unutterable tenderness of Desdemona, her - visage in her mind,” or her affec

young maternity-Heaven's crowning miracle with tions. A light from within shines through the ex. Nature's holiest and sweetest instinct. And their ternal uncomelinesss, softens, irradiates and glorifies pale Magdalens, holy with the look of sins forgiven, it. That which to others seems common-place and how the divine beauty of their penitence sinks into the unworthy of note, is to him, in the words of Spenser, heart? Do we not feel that the only real deformity “ A sweet, attractive kind of grace,

is sin, and that goodness evermore ballows and san A full assurance given by looks,

tifies its dwelling place? When the soul is at rest. The lineaments of Gospel books."

when the passions and desires are all attuned to the " Handsome is that handsome does—hold up your

divine harmony,heads, girls !" was the language of Primrose in the

“ Spirits moving musically play, when addressing her daughters. The worthy

To a'lute's well ordered law," matron was right. Would that all my female readers, who are sorrowing foolishly because they are do we not read the placid significance thereof in the not in all respects like Dubufe's Eve, or that Statue human countenance ? " I have seen," said Charles of the Venus, " which enchants the world,” could Lamb, "faces upon which the dove of peace sat be persuaded to listen to her. What is good look- brooding.” In that simple and beautiful record of ing, as Horace Smith remarks, but looking good ? Be a holy life, the Journal of John Woolman, there is good, be womanly, be gentle-generous in your a passage of which I have been more than once resympathies, heedful of the well-being of all around minded in my intercourse with my fellow beings :you, and my word for it, you will not lack kind " Some glances of real beauty may be seen in their words of admiration. Loving and pleasant associations faces, who dwell in true meekness. There is a harwill gather about you. Never mind the ugly reflec- mony in the sound of that voice to which divine love tion which your glass may give you. That mirror gives utterance." has no heart. But quite another picture is yours Quite the ugliest face I ever saw was that of a on the retina of human sympathy. There the beau. woman whom the world calls beautiful. Through ty of holiness, of purity, of that inward grace -- which its « silver veil" the evil and ungentle passions look. passeth show,” rests over it, softening and mellow- ed out, hideous and hateful. On the other hand, ing its features, just as the full, calm moonlight there are faces which the multitude at the first glance melts those of a rough landscape into harmonious pronounce homely, unattractive, and such as « nature lovelinesss. “ Hold up your heads, girls !" I repeat fashions by the gross,” which I always recognize after Primrose. Why should you not ?—Every with a warm heart-thrill; not for the world would mother's daughter of you can be beautiful. You can I have one feature changed; they please me as they envelope yourselves in an atmosphere of moral and are; they are hallowed by kind memories; they are intellectual beauty, through which your otherwise beautiful through their associations ; nor are they plain faces will look forth like those of angels. Beau- any the less welcome, that with my admiration of tiful to Ledyard, stiffening in the cold of a Northern them, “the stranger intermeddleth not.”

Continual comfort in a face,

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NOT ON THE BATTLE FIELD.

BY JOHN PIERPONT.

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" To fall on the battle field, fighting for my

dear country that would not be hard.-MS. in Miss Breneris . Neighbor's.

0, no, no,-let me lie
Not on a field of battle, when I die!

Let not the iron tread
Of the mad war-horse crush my helmed head,

Nor let the reeking knife,
That I have drawn against a brother'slife,

Be in my hand, when death
Thunders along, and tramples me beneath

His heavy squadron's heels,
Or gory felloes of his cannon's wheels.

From such a dying bed,
Though o'er it float the stripes of white and red,

And the bald Eagle brings
The clustered stars upon his wide-spread wings,

To sparkle in my sight,
O, never let my spirit take her flight.

I know that beauty's eye
Is all the brighter where gay penants fly,

And brazen helmets dance,
And sunshine flashes on the listed lance :-

I know that bards have sung,
And people shouted, till the welkin rung,

In honor of the brave,
Who on the battle-field have found a grave;-

I know that, n'er their bones,
Have grateful hands piled monumental stones.

Some of these piles I've seen :-
The one at Lexington, upon the green,

Where the first blood was shed, That to my country's independence led;

And others, on our shore,
"The battle monument," at Baltimore,

And that on Bunker's Hill,
Aye, and abroad, a few more famous still :-

of drums? No-let me die Where the blue heaven bends o'er me lovingly,

And the soft summer air,
As it goes by me, stirs my thin, white hair,

And, from my forehead, dries
The death-damp, as it gathers, and the skies

Seem waiting to receive
My soul to their clear depths ! Or, let me leave

The world, when, round my bed,
Wife, children, weeping friends are gathered,

And the calm voice of prayer
And holy hymning shall my soul prepare

To go and be at rest
With kindred spirits-spirits who have blessed

The human brotherhood
By la bors, cares, and counsels for their good.

And in my dying hour,
When riches, fame, and honor, have no power

To bear the spirit up,
Or from my lips to turn aside the cup,

That all must drink, at last,
O, let me draw refreshment from the past !

Then, let my soul run back,
With peace and joy, along my earthly track,

And see that all the seeds
That I have scattered there, in virtuous deeds,

Have sprung up, and have given, Already, fruits of which to taste is heaven!

And, though no grassy mound Or granite pile, say 'tis heroic ground,

Where my remains repose, Still will I hope-vain hope, perhaps !- that those

Whom I have striven to bless, The wanderer reclaimed, the fatherless,

May stand around my grave, With the poor prisoner, and the poorer slave,

And breathe an humble prayer, That they may die like him, whose bones are

mouldering there.

SONNET.

BY WILLIAM W. STORY.

Thy « Tomb," Themistocles,
That looks out yet upon the Grecian seas,

And which the waters kiss,
That issue from the gulf of Salamis :-

And thine, too, have I seen, The mound of earth, Patroclus, robed in green,

'That, like a natural knoll, Sheep climb and nibble over, as they stroll,

Watched by some turban'd boy,
Upon the margin of the plain of Troy.

Such honors grace the bed,
İknow, whereon the warrior lays his head,

And hears, as life ebbs out,
T'he conquered flying, and the conqueror's shout.

But, as his eyes grow dim,
What is a column, or a mound, to him?

What, to the parting sonl,
The mellow notes of bugles? What the roll

Be of good cheer, ye firm and dauntless few, Whose struggle is to work an unloved good! Ye shall be taunted by revilings rude, Ye shall he scorned for that which ye pursue ! Yet faint not-but be ever strict and true : Greatness must learn to be misunderstood; And persecution is their bitter food, Who the great promptings of the spirit do. Though no one seem to hear, yet every word That thou hast linked unto an earnest thought Hath fiery wings, and shall be clearly heard When thy frail lips to silent dust are brought. God's guidence keeps those noble thoughts, that

chime With the great harmony, beyond all time!

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