fantastic foliage about the margin of the Fountain. It has touched the webs woven among the grass, and they have become pearl-embroidered cloaks for the Fairy queen. Deep and silent, below the foam, is the Immortal Fountain! Its amber-colored waves flow over a golden bed; and as the Fairies bathe in it, the diamonds on their hair glance like sun-beams on the waters.

"Oh let me bathe in the fountain!" cried Marion, clasping her hands in delight. "Not yet," said the queen. "Behold the purple Fairies with golden wands that guard its brink!" Marion looked, and saw beings lovelier than any her eye had ever rested on. "You cannot pass them yet," said the queen. "Go home-for one year drive away all evil feelings, not for the sake of bathing in this Fountain, but because goodness is lovely and desirable for its own sake. Purify the inward motive, and your work is done.”

This was the hardest task of all. For she had been willing to be good, not because it was right to be good, but because she wished to be beautiful. Three times she sought the grotto, and three times she left it in tears; for the golden specks grew dim at her approach, and the golden wands were still crossed, to shut her from the Immortal Fountain, The fourth time she prevailed. The purple Fairies lowered their wands, singing,

Thou hast scaled the mountain,
Go bathe in the Fountain,

Rise fair to the sight

As an angel of light;

Go bathe in the Fountain!

Marion was about to plunge in, but the queen touched her, saying: “Look in the mirror of the waters. Art thou not already as beautiful as heart can wish?"

Marion looked at herself and saw that her eye sparkled with new lustre, that a bright color shone through her cheeks, and dimples played sweetly about her mouth. "I have not touched the Immortal Fountain," said she, turning in surprise to the queen. "True," replied the queen, "but its waters have been within your soul. Know that a pure heart and a clear conscience are the only immortal fountains of beauty."

When Marion returned, Rose clasped her to her bosom, and kissed her fervently. "I know all," said she, "though I have not asked you a question. I have been in Fairy-land, disguised as a bird, and I have watched all your steps. When you first went to the grotto I begged the queen to grant your wish."

How handsome

Ever after that the sisters lived lovingly together, It was the remark of every one, Marion has grown. The ugly scowl has departed from her face; and the light of her eye is so mild and pleasant, and her mouth looks so smiling and good-natured, that to my taste, I declare, she is as handsome as Rose."

I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY.

BY REV. DR. MUHLENBURG.

I would not live alway—live alway below!
Oh, no, I'd not linger when bidden to go.
The days of our pilgrimage, granted us here,

Are enough for life's woes, full enough for its cheer. Would I shrink from the path which the prophets of God,

Apostles and martyrs, so joyfully trod ?

While brethren and friends are all hastening home,
Like a spirit unblest o'er the earth would I roam ?

I would not live alway; I ask not to stay
Where storm after storm rises dark o'er the way;
Where seeking for peace, we but hover around
Like the Patriarch's bird, and no resting is found.
Where hope when she paints her gay bower in the
air,

Leaves its brilliance to fade in the night of despair;
And joy's fleeting angel ne'er sheds a glad ray,
Save the gleam of the plumage that bears him
away.

I would not live alway- thus fettered by sin;
Temptation without, and corruption within:
In a moment of strength, if I sever the chain,
Scarce the victory 's mine, ere I'm captive again,
E'en the rapture of pardon is mingled with fears,
And the cup of thanksgiving with penitent tears;

The festival trump calls for jubilant songs,
But my spirit her own miserere prolongs.

I would not live alway; no-welcome the tomb !
Immortality's lamp burns bright mid the gloom;
There, too, is the pillow where Christ bowed his
head;

Oh, soft are the slumbers on that holy bed;

And glad is the dawn, soon to follow that night
When the sun-rise of glory shall beam on my sight;
When the full matin song, as the sleepers arise,
To shout in the morning, shall peal through the
skies!

Who, who would live alway, away from his God,
Away from yon heaven, that blissful abode;
Where the rivers of pleasure flow o'er the bright
plains,

And the noon-tide of glory eternally reigns?
Where the saints of all ages in harmony meet,
Their Saviour and brethren transported to greet;
While the songs of salvation unceasingly roll,
And the smile of the Lord is the feast of the soul !

That heavenly music! what is it I hear?
The notes of the harpers ring sweet in my ear:
And see, soft unfolding, those portals of gold!
The King all arrayed in his beauty, behold!
O give me, O give me the wings of a dove!
Let me hasten my flight to those mansions above;
Ay, 'tis now that my soul on swift pinions would

soar,

And in ecstacy bid earth adieu ever more!

THE BROWN MUG.

BY SEBA SMITH.

RETURNING from a pedestrian excursion to the Notch of the White Hills, that wonderful gorge which makes the traveller, the first time he approaches it, stop and hold his breath, and look up to the mountains on the right hand and on the left, and down the deep valley that sweeps away below him, and feel, if he never did before, an overpowering sense of the might and majesty of the Eternal; we had wandered down the valley of the clear, swiftlyflowing Saco; had tarried a few hours at the beautiful village of Fryeburg; had been into the little. museum attached to the academy, and tried to hold at arm's length the long gun that shot the Indian Chief Paugus. The sight of this gun gave us a strong desire to behold the scene of that memorable and tragical conflict, where the brave Lovewell and his devoted followers, in the heart of the wilderness, fifty miles from any white inhabitants, fought the long summer day with Paugus and his warriors, till but few on either side were left to tell the news of that bloody encounter. The place was scarcely a mile distant, and, taking a guide, we repaired to the spot. How could we. do otherwise, when we called to mind the ballad, that has embalmed the memory of that unfortunate but heroic little band.

"With footsteps slow shall travellers go

Where Lovewell's Fond shines clear and bright,