has it,) we shall dress as well as we can, according to our condition in life. He who has clothed the earth so beautifully, and has given us to perceive and enjoy it, can never have intended 'that we should not bring into exercise, in connection with the clothing of ourselves, the perception of the beautiful implanted in our natures. It must be a strange taste which prefers the untasteful for its own sake. It is not natural. Leave people to their choice, and ninety-nine out of a hundred will choose as an associate, other things being equal, the best (in the best sense of the word) dressed person. If I were to put another petition in the prayer book, it should be somewhat as follows: From all slatterns, from all slovens, Good Lord, deliver us!
THERE is a land, of every land the pride,
Beloved of Heaven o'er all the world beside,
Where brighter suns dispense serener light,
And milder moons imparadise the night-
A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth,
Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth.
The wandering mariner, whose eye explores
The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores,
Views not a realm so beautiful and fair,
Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air.
In every clime, the magnet of his soul,
Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole;
For in this land of Heaven's peculiar grace,
The heritage of nature's noblest race,
There is a spot of earth supremely blest,
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest,
Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside
His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride,
While in his softened looks benignly blend
The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend.
Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife,
Strews with fresh flowers the narrow way of life;
In the clear heaven of her delighted eye,
An angel guard of loves and graces lie;
Around her knees domestic duties meet,
And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet.
Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found?
Art thou a man? a patriot? Look around.
O, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam,
That land thy country, and that spot thy home!
THE pride of the village was sweet Annie Fay,
So winsome and winning, so gladsome and gay;
She ruled all the swains by her beauty's bright sway,
And won hearts by dozens to throw them away.
This could not last always: young Love flitted by,
And shone in the glance of Willie's dark eye;
He aimed at sweet Annie, and barbed was the dart,
And fatal the power that pierced her young heart.
Young Willie was missing one morning in June,
The month of all others when hearts play in tune,
When hopeful affection the soft bosom fills,
Aud mutual confession with happiness thrills.
He could not be found; and rumor had said
He was jilted by Annie for rich Squire Ned.
And where was our Annie? The fond one had flown
With her Willie from church to a cot of their own.
YES, dear one, to the envied train
Of those around thy homage pay;
But wilt thou never kindly deign
To think of him that's far away?
Thy form, thine eye, thine angel smile
For many years I may not see;
But wilt thou not, sometimes the while,
My sister dear, remember me?
But not in fashion's brilliant hall,
Surrounded by the gay and fair, And thou the fairest of them all
O, think not, think not of me there; But when the thoughtless crowd is gone, And hushed the voice of senseless glee, And all is silent, still, and lone,
And thou art sad, remember me.
Remember me but, loveliest, ne'er
When, in his orbit fair and high,
The morning's glowing charioteer
Rides proudly up the blushing sky;
But when the waning moonbeam sleeps
At moonlight on that lonely lea,
And Nature's pensive spirit weeps,
And all her dews, remember me.
Remember me, I pray — but not
In Flora's gay and blooming hour, When every brake hath found its mate, And sunshine smiles in every flower; But when the fallen leaf is sear,
And withers sadly from the tree, And o'er the ruins of the year,
Cold autumn weeps, remember me.
Remember me but choose not, dear,
The hour when, on the gentle lake,
The sportive wavelets, blue and clear,
Soft rippling to the margin, break ;
But when the deafening billows foam
In madness o'er the pathless sea,
Then let thy pilgrim fancy roam
Across them, and remember me.
Remember me - but not to join,
If haply some thy friends should praise; 'Tis far too dear, that voice of thine, To echo what the stranger says.
They know us not but shouldst thou meet Some faithful friend of me and thee,
Softly, sometimes, to him repeat
My name, and then remember me.
In scenes of festal week-day joy,
For then it were not kind or meet
That thought thy pleasure should alloy;
|