SORROW.

SORROW is uneasiness in the mind, upon the thought of a good lost, which might have been enjoyed longer; or the sense of a present evil. The sharpest and most melting sorrow is that which arises from the loss of those whom we have loved with tenderness.

The safe and general antidote against sorrow is employWhoever will keep his thoughts continually busy, will find himself less affected with irretrievable losses.

ment.

Sorrow is a kind of rust to the soul, which every new idea contributes to scour away. It is the putrefaction of stagnant life, and is remedied by exercise and motion.

Thrice sager than I e'er shall be —

For what saith Time?

Alas! he only shows the truth

Of all that I was told in youth!

The thoughts now budding in my brain, —
The wisdom I have bought with pain,
The knowledge of life's brevity,
False friendship,- false philosophy,
And all that issues out of wo,
Methinks were taught me long ago!

Then what says Time?

Alas! he but brings back the truth
Of all I heard, and lost, in youth!

Truths!-hardly earned and lately brought
From many a far forgotten scene!

Had I but listened as I ought,

To your words sage, serene,

Oh! what might I not have been
In the realms of thought!

THE WOUNDED HUSSAR.

ALONE to the banks of the dark-rolling Danube,
Fair Adelaide hied when the battle was o'er:
Oh, whither, she cried, hast thou wander'd, my true love,
Or here dost thou welter and bleed on the shore?
What voice have I heard? 't was my Henry that sigh'd;
All mournful she hasten'd, nor wander'd she far,
When bleeding and low, on the heath, she descried,
By the light of the moon, her poor wounded Hussar.

From his bosom that heaved, the last torrent was streaming,
And pale was his visage, deep mark'd with a scar,
And dim was that eye, once expressively beaming,
That melted in love, and that kindled in war-
How smit was poor Adelaide's heart at the sight!
How bitter she wept o'er the victim of war!

Hast thou come, my fond love, this last sorrowful night,
To cheer the lone heart of thy wounded Hussar ?

Thou shalt live, she replied, heaven's mercy relieving
Each anguishing wound, shall forbid me to mourn.
Ah! no, the last pang in my bosom is heaving;
No light of the morn shall to Henry return:
Thou charmer of life, ever tender and true!
Ye babes of my love, that await me afar!
His faltering tongue, could scarce murmur, adieu!
When he sank in her arms, the poor wounded Hussar.

NONE ARE COMPLETELY HAPPY.

So many and so various are the evils incident to human nature, and so frequently are our greatest earthly comforts dashed with alloys of pain and uneasiness, that no state of life, whether of youth or age, of riches or poverty, of grandeur or meanness, is exempt from difficulties and troubles. To hope for perfect happiness is vain; Even joy has ever its alloys of pain.

Since then, an entire and unmixed happiness is not to be expected in our present state, let us not be too sanguine in our wishes to find it here, but place our happiness on things above, and on that state which approaches nearest to it; which is doing our duty in whatever station God has pleased to place us.

THE GARDEN OF EDEN.

THUS was this place

A happy rural seat of various view;

Groves whose rich trees wept odorous gums and balm,
Others whose fruit, burnish'd with golden rind,

Hung amiable, Hesperian fables true,

If true, here only, and of delicious taste!
Betwixt them, lawns, or level downs, and flocks
Grazing the tender herb, were interposed,

Or palmy hillock; or the flowery lap

Of some irriguous valley spread her store,
Flowers of all hue, and without thorn the rose!
Another side, umbrageous grots and caves
Of cool recess, o'er which the mantling vine
Lays forth her purple grape, and gently creeps
Luxuriant; meanwhile murmuring waters fall
Down the slope hills, dispersed, or in a lake,

That to the fringed bank with myrtle crown'd
Her crystal mirror holds, unite their streams.
The birds their choir apply; airs, vernal airs,
Breathing the smell of field and grove, attune
The trembling leaves, while universal Fan,
Knit with the Graces and the Houries in dance,
Led on th' eternal Spring.

ON THE LOSS OF PROFESSOR FISHER,

O F YALE

COLLEGE.

THE breath of air that stirs the harp's soft string,
Floats on to join the whirlwind and the storm;
The drops of dew exhaled from flowers of spring,
Rise and assume the tempest's threatening form;
The first mild beam of morning's glorious sun,

Ere night, is sporting in the lightning's flash;
And the smooth stream, that flows in quiet on,
Moves but to aid the overwhelming dash
That wave and wind can muster, when the might
Of earth, and air, and sea, and sky unite.

So science whisper'd in thy charmed ear,
And radiant learning beckon'd thee away.
The breeze was music to thee, and the clear
Beam of thy morning promised a bright day.
And they have wreck'd thee! But there is a shore

Where storms are hush'd, where tempests never rage; Where angry skies and blackening seas, no more With gusty strength their roaring warfare wage. By thee its peaceful margent shall be trod Thy home is Heaven, and thy friend is God.

THE WORLD DANGEROUS TO VIRTUE.

VIRTUE, forever frail and fair below,

Her tender nature suffers in the crowd,
Nor touches on the world without a stain.
The world's infectious; few bring back at eve,
Immaculate, the manners of the morn.
Something we thought, is blotted; we resolved,
Is shaken; we renounced, returns again.
Each salutation may slide in a sin
Unthought before, or fix a former flaw.

Nor is it strange; light, motion, concourse, noise,
All scatter us abroad. Thought, outward-bound,
Neglectful of our home-affairs, flies off

In fume and dissipation, quits her charge,
And leaves the breast unguarded to the foe.

THE RAINBOW.

SYMBOL of peace! lo, there the ethereal bow!
And see, on flagging wing, the storm retreats
Far 'mid the depths of space; and with him fleets
His lucid train- the while in beauty glow
Vale, hill, and sky, once more. How lustrous now
Earth's verdant mantle! and the woods how bright!
Where grass, leaf, flower, are sparkling in the light-
Prompt ever with the slightest breeze to throw
The rain-drops to the ground. Within the grove
Music awakes; and from each little throat,

Silent so long, bursts the wild note of love;
The hurried babblings of the rill denote

Its infant joy; and rushing swift along,

The torrent gives to air, its hoarse and louder song.