SONNETS: BY 'QUINCE.'

——'some pulse of good must liveWithin a human nature.'

And there were children with wet eyes, for the rare old man who had always a smile for their joys, and a tear for their troubles; and one, I remember, as her mother lifted her up for the last look, whispered, 'Oh, he is too good a man to bury up in the ground!'

And there, in the midst of this sad company, and with a face quite as sad as his neighbors', stoodLyman Barton. A little urchin, a particular friend of the old colonel's, and of mine too, who stood beside me, pulled my ear down to his lips, and turning his flashing eye upon Barton, whispered,

'Ought not he to be ashamed of himself?'

'Why, Hal, why?'

'He is making believe cry, just like a crocodile!Every bodysayshe has written to old Jackson already to be made post-master. I wish he was in the colonel's place.'

'You could not wish him in a better, my dear.'

'Oh, I did not mean that! I did not mean that!'

He would have proceeded; but I shook my head, and put an end to the explanation he was eager to make.

Thefuneral was over, the cold wind was howling without, the sigh of the mourners alone was heard, where a few days before all had been cheerfulness and preparation for the happiest event of human life. Paulina had lighted a single lamp, and placed it in the farther part of the room, for there seemed something obtrusive even in the cheerfulness of light. She was seated on a low chair beside the old lady. The passiveness of grief was peculiarly unsuited to her active and happy nature; and, as she sat as if she were paralyzed, not even heeding the Colonel's favorite cat, who jumped into her lap, and purred, and looked up for its accustomed caress, one could hardly believe she was the same girl who was for ever on the wing, laughing and singing from morning till night. Poor Loyd too, who had so gently acquiesced in the evils of his lot, who had bent like the reed before the winds of adversity, suffered now as those only do who resist while they suffer. Perhaps it was not in human nature not to mingle the disappointment of the lover with the grief of the son, and, while he was weeping his loss, to ponder over some of his father's last words. 'Of course, my children,' he had said, 'you will dismiss all thoughts of marriage—for the present, I mean. It will be all, I am afraid more, than you can do, Loyd, when the post-office and the pension are gone, to get bread for your mother. If you marry, you can't tell how many claims there may be upon you. But don't be discouraged, my children; cast your care upon the Lord—something may turn up—wait—blessed are they who wait in faith.'

Both promised to wait, and both, as they now revolved their promise, religiously resolved to abide by it, cost what it might.

Their painful meditations were interrupted by a knock at the outer door, and Loyd admitted Major Perrit, one of his neighbors, and one of those everlasting meddlers in others' affairs, who, if a certain proverb were literal, must have had as many fingers as Argus had eyes.

'I am sorry for your affliction, ma'am,' said he, shaking Mrs. Barnard's extended hand, while a sort of simpering smile played about his mouth, in spite of the appropriate solemnity he had endeavored to assume; 'don't go out, Miss Paulina; what I have to communicate is interesting to you, as well as to the widow and son of the deceased.'

'Some other time, Sir,' interposed Loyd, whose face did not conceal how much he was annoyed by the officiousness and bustling manner of his visitor.

'Excuse me, Loyd; I am older than you, and ought to be a little wiser; we must take time by the fore-lock; others are up and doing; why should we not be?'

Loyd now comprehended the Major's business, and, pained and somewhat shocked, he turned away; but, remembering the intention was kind, though the mode was coarse, he smothered his disgust, and forced himself to say:

'We are obliged to you, Major Perrit, but I am not in a state of mind to attend to any business this evening.'

'Oh, I know you have feelings, Loyd; but you must not be more nice than wise. Theymust notget the start of us. I always told my wife it would be so, and now she sees I was right. I tell you, Loyd, in confidence, your honored father was not cold, before Lyman Barton was handing round his petition for the office.' It was not in human nature for the old lady to suppress an a-hem! at this exact fulfilment of her prediction to the poor colonel. 'Barton's petition,' continued Perrit, 'will go on to Washington in the mail to-morrow, and oursmustgo with it; here it is.' He took the paper from his pocket, and, opening it, showed a long list of names. 'A heavy list,' he added; 'but every one of them whigs; we did not ask a Jackson man; there would have been no use, you know; Lyman Barton leads them all by the nose.'

Here Perrit was interrupted by a knock at the entry door. A packet addressed to Loyd was handed to him. Perrit glanced at the superscription, and exclaimed, 'This is too much, by George! He has had the impudence to send you the petition.'

'I could not have believed this of him,' thought Loyd, as he broke the seal; for he, like his father, reluctantly believed ill of any one. There were a few lines on the envelope; he read them to himself, and then, with that emotion which a good man feels at an unexpected good deed, he read them aloud:

'My dear friend Loyd:'Excuse me for intruding on you, at this early moment, a business matter that ought not to be deferred. You will see by the enclosed, that my friends and myself have done what we could to testify our respect for the memory of your excellent father, and our esteem for you. Wishing you the success you deserve,

'My dear friend Loyd:

'Excuse me for intruding on you, at this early moment, a business matter that ought not to be deferred. You will see by the enclosed, that my friends and myself have done what we could to testify our respect for the memory of your excellent father, and our esteem for you. Wishing you the success you deserve,

'I remain very truly yours,

'Lyman Barton.'

The enclosed paper was a petition, headed byLyman Barton, and signed by almost every Jackson partisan in the town, that the office of post-master might be given to Loyd Barnard. A short prefix to the petition expressed the signers' respect for the colonel, and their unqualified confidence in his son. Perrit ran his eye over the list, and exclaiming, 'This is the Lord's hand! by George!' he seized his hat and departed, eager to have at least the consolation of first spreading the news through the village.

Few persons comprehend a degree of virtue beyond that of which they are themselves capable.

'It is, indeed, in one sense,' said Loyd, as the door closed after Perrit, 'the hand of the Lord; for He it is that makes his creatures capable of such disinterested goodness.'

Those who heard the fervid language and tone in which Loyd expressed his gratitude, when he that night, for the first time, took his father's place at the family altar, must have felt that this was one of the few cases where it wasequally'blessed to give and to receive.'

Loyd's appointment came by return of mail from Washington. In due time the wedding-cake was cut, andOur Village Post-masteris as happy as love and fortune can make him.

It was a bright thought in a philanthropist of one of our cities, to note down the actual good deeds that passed under his observation. We have imitated his example in recording an act of rare disinterestedness and generosity. It certainly merits a more enduring memorial; but it has its fitting reward in the respect it inspires, and in its blessed tendency to vanquish the prejudices and soften the asperities of political parties.

ImperialAutumn! Season's Monarch! thronedIn more than orient pomp and majesty—Earth's harvest king! with smiles and sunshine crowned,Full of perfection and maturity!Thou art the vaunted glory of the year;Scarlet and gold and emerald leaves are thine,Rocks, trees and forests thy rich mantles wear,And all earth's verdures in thy lustres shine:Yet, as the expiring lamp most brightly glows—Or as the hectic on Consumption's cheek—So to the year, thy beauty paints the close,Thy added lustre does grim death bespeak:But even in death thou own'st supremacy,And mayest example—not exampled—be.

Infruit most tempting, ashes hidden lie;In richest flowers lives not the sweetest breath;In berries are, most beauteous to the eye,Poisons impregnate, in whose taste is death;The sweetest song-bird's plumage is not gay,But birds which sing not are most fair to see,Yet from the beautiful we turn away,To list the song-bird's dulcet melody!So homely virtue sometimes lowly lies,By brazen vice's gaudy lustre seen;But vice discerned, in ermine we despise;And virtue known, we honor as a queen.From fruit, flower, bird, from all the inference is,We may mistake, full oft,appearances.

Hecomes with stealthy step and restless eye,Meagre and wan—a living skeleton—To where his god, his golden treasures lie,He comes to feast (his only meal) thereon:'Rich! rich!' he cries—' I am as Crœsus rich!'Poor, poor he is!—not Lazarus more poor;Envy him not, thou houseless, wandering wretch,Who beg'st for charity from door to door;It is gaunt Avarice! If he could feedHis famished body through his greedy eye,Or carry to the grave his gold—indeed!Envied on earth he'd live, and envied die;But he is like the wave which covers o'erGems unenjoyed, it leaves, in ebbing from the shore.

Strike, strike the golden strings,And to their glorious sound,Fill, fill the red wine high,And let the toast go round:To woman, dearest woman,Quaff we the generous wine;Give me thy hand, my brother,Here's to thy love and mine,Thy love and mine!

II.

Strike, strike the harp, that everThrilled to dear woman's praise;Of all the themes the brightestMay win a poet's lays:To woman, dearest woman,Quaff the warm blood of the vine;And hand in hand, my brother,Drink we to thine and mine,To thine and mine!

A. A. M.

NUMBER XXI.

Weparted, good my reader, last at the Catskills—no? 'It was a summer's evening;' and with my shadow on the mountain mist, I ween, vanished in your thoughts the memory of me. Well, that was natural. A hazy, dream-like idea of my whereabout may have haunted you for a moment—but it passed. I cannot allow you to escape so easily. 'Lend us the loan' of your eye, for some twenty minutes; and if you are a home-bred and untravelled person, 'tis likely, as the valet says in Cinderella, that 'I may chance to make you stare!'

Indiscoursing of the territorial wonderments in question, which have been moulded by the hand of the Almighty, I cannot suppose that you who read my reveries will look with a compact, imaginative eye upon that which has forced its huge radius upon my own extended vision. I ask you, howbeit, to take my arm, and step forth with me from the piazza of the Mountain House. It is night. A few stars are peering from a dim azure field of western sky; the high-soaring breeze, the breath of heaven, makes a stilly music in the neighboring pines; the meek crest of Dian rolls along the blue depths of ether, tinting with silver lines the half dun, half fleecy clouds; they who are in the parlors make 'considerable' noise; there is an individual at the end of the portico discussing his quadrupled julep, and another devotedly sucking the end of a cane, as if it were full of mother's milk; he hummeth also an air fromIl Pirata, and wonders, in the simplicity of his heart, 'why the devil that theresteam-boat from Albany, doesn't begin to show its lights down on the Hudson.' His companion of the glass, however, is intent on the renewal thereof. Calling to him the chief 'help' of the place, he says: 'Is that other antifogmatic ready?'

'No, Sir.'

'Well, now, person, what's the reason? What was my last observation? Says I to you, says I, 'Make me a fourth of them beverages;' and moreover I added, 'Just you keep doing so; beconstantlymaking them, till the order is countermanded.' Give us another; go!—vanish!—'disappear, and appear!''

The obsequious servant went; and returning with the desired, draught, observed, probably for the thousandth time: 'There! that's what I call the true currency; them's theginooynemint drops;HA—ha—ha!'—these separate divisions of his laughter coming out of his mouth at intervals of about half a minute each.

Thereis a bench near the verge of the Platform where, when you sit at evening, the hollow-sounding air comes up from the vast vale below, like the restless murmurs of the ocean. Anchor yourself here for a while, reader, with me. It being the evening of the national anniversary, a few patriotic individuals are extremely busy in piling up a huge pyramid of dried pine branches, barrels covered with tar, and kegs of spirits, to a height of some fifteen or twenty feet—perhaps higher. A bonfire is premeditated. You shall see anon, how the flames will rise. The preparations are completed; the fire is applied. Hear how it crackles and hisses! Slowly but spitefully it mounts from limb to limb, and from one combustible to another, until the whole welkin is a-blaze, and shaking as with thunder! It is a beautiful sight. The gush of unwonted radiance rolls in effulgent surges adown the vale. How the owl hoots with surprise at the interrupting light! Bird of wisdom, it is the Fourth! and you may well add your voice to swell the choral honors of the time. How the tall old pines, withered by the biting scathe of Eld, rise to the view, afar and near—white shafts, bottomed in darkness, and standing like the serried spears of an innumerable army! The groups around the beacon are gathered together, but are forced to enlarge the circle of their acquaintance, by the growing intensity of the increasing blaze. Some of them, being ladies, their white robes waving in the mountain breeze, and the light shining full upon them, present, you observe, a beautiful appearance. The pale pillars of the portico flash fitfully into view, now seen and gone, like columns of mist. The swarthy African who kindled the fire regards it with perspiring face and grinning ivories; and lo! the man who hath mastered the quintupled glass of metamorphosedeau-de-vie, standing by the towering pile of flame, and, reaching his hand on high, he smiteth therewith his sinister pap, with a most hollow sound—the knell, as it were, of his departing reason. In short, he is making an oration!

Listen to those voiceful currents of air, traversing the vast profound below the Platform! What a mighty circumference do theysweep! Over how many towns, and dwellings, and streams, and incommunicable woods! Murmurs of the dark, sources and awakeners of sublime imagination, swell from afar. You have thoughts of eternity and power here, which shall haunt you evermore. But we must be early stirrers in the morning. Let us to bed.

Youcan lie on your pillow at Catskill, and see the god of day look upon you from behind the pinnacles of the White Mountains in New-Hampshire, hundreds of miles away. Noble prospect! As the great orb heaves up in ineffable grandeur, he seems rising from beneath you, and you fancy that you have attained an elevation where may be seenthe motion of the world. No intervening land to limit the view, you seem suspended in mid-air, without one obstacle to check the eye. The scene is indescribable. The chequered and interminable vale, sprinkled with groves, and lakes, and towns, and streams; the mountains afar off, swelling tumultuously heavenward, like waves of the ocean, some incarnadined with radiance, others purpled in shade; all these, to use the language of an auctioneer's advertisement, 'are too tedious to mention, but may be seen on the premises.' I know of but one picture which will give the reader an idea of this ethereal spot. It was the view which the angel Michael was polite enough, one summer morning, to point out to Adam, from the highest hill of Paradise:

'His eye might there command wherever stoodCity of old or modern fame, the seatOf mightiest empire, from the destined wallsOf Cambalu, seat of Cathaïan Can,And Sarmachand by Oxus, Temir's throne,To Paquin of Sinæan kings; and thenceTo Agra and Labor of great MogulDown to the golden Chersonese; or whereThe Persian in Ecbatan sat, or sinceIn Hizpahan; or where the Russian KsarIn Mosco; or the Sultan in Bizance,Turchestan born; nor could his eye not kenThe empire of Negus, to his utmost port,Erocco; and the less maritime kingsMombaza, and Quiloa, and Melind,And Sofala, thought Ophir, to the realmOf Congo and Angola, farthest south;Or thence from Niger flood to Atlas' mount,The kingdoms of Almanzor, Fez, and Suz,Morocco, and Algier, and Tremizen;On Europe thence, and where Rome was to swayThe world; in spirit perhaps he also sawRich Mexico, the seat of Montezume,(And Texas too, great Houston's seat—who knows?)And Cusco in Peru, the richer seatOf Atabalipa; and yet unspoiledGuiana, whose great city Geyron's sonsCall El Dorado.'

Ofthe falls, sooth to say, little can be ejaculated in the eulogistic way. The cataract is only 'on hand' for a part of the time. It is kept in a dam, and let down for two shillings. The demand for the article has sometimes exceeded the supply, especially in dry weather.We quote the sales, as per register, while there, at perhaps some three hundred yards. Oh, Mercury! Scenery by the square foot! Sublimity by the quintal!

Itlooks to be a perilous enterprise, to descend the Catskills. You feel, as you commence the 'facilis descensus,' (what an unhackneyed phrase, to be sure!) very much the sort of sensation probably experienced by Parachute Cocking, whose end was so shocking. The wheels of the coach are shod with the preparation of iron slippers, which are essential to a hold-up; and as you bowl and grate along, with wilderness-chasms and a brawling stream mayhap on one hand, and horrid masses of stone seemingly ready to tumble upon you on the other—the far plain stretching like the sea beneath you, in the mists of the morning—your emotions arefidgetty. You are not afraid—not you, indeed! Catch you at such folly! No; but you wish most devoutly that you were some nine miles down, notwithstanding—and are looking eagerly for that consummation.

Wepaused just long enough at the base of the mountain, to water the cattle, and hear a bit of choice grammar from the landlord; a burly, big individual, 'careless of the objective case,' and studious of ease, in bags of tow-cloth, (trowsers by courtesy,) and a roundabout of the same material; the knees of the unmentionables apparently greened by kneeling humbly at the lactiferous udder of his only cow, day by day. He addressed 'the gentleman that driv' us down:'

'Well, Josh—I seen themrackets!'

'Wa'n't they almighty bright?' was the inquisitive reply.

This short colloquy had reference to a train of fire-works which were set off the evening before at the Mountain-House—long snaky trails of light, flashing in their zig-zag course through the darkness. It was beautiful to see those fiëry sentences written fitfully on the sky, fading one by one, like some Hebrew character—some Nebuchadnezzar scroll—in the dark profound, and showing, as the rocket fell and faded, that beneath the lowest deep to which it descended, there was one yet lower still, to which it swept 'plumb-down, a shower of fire.'

We presently rolled away, and were soon drawn up in front of the Hudson and the horse-boat, at the landing. The same unfortunate animals were peering forth from that aquatic vehicle; one of them dropping his hairy lip, with a melancholy expression, and the other strenuously endeavoring to remove a wisp of straw which had found a lodgment on his nose. The effort, however, was vain; his physical energies sank under the task; he gave it up, and was soon under way for the opposite shore, with his four-legged fellow traveller, and three bipeds, who were smoking segars.

Itis right pleasant and joyous to see the number of juvenile patriots who are taken forth into the country, (whose glories for the first time, perhaps, are shed upon their town-addicted eyes,) on the greatnational holiday. To them, the flaunting honors of the landscape have a new beauty, and a joyous meaning; the sun hangs above them like a great ball of fire in the sky; the waters wear a glittering sheen; and the wide moving pulse of life beats with a universal thrill of happiness to them. I could not but note the number of urchins in the steamer, whom their 'paternal derivatives' were guiding around, and showing, totheirvision at least, 'all the kingdoms of the world, and the glory of them.'

Well, to those who are disposed to glean philosophy from the mayhap less noticeable objects of this busy world, there are few sights more lovely than childhood. The little cherub who now sits at my knee, and tries, with tiny effort, to clutch the quill with which I am playing for you, good reader; whose capricious taste, varying from ink-stand to paper, and from that to books, and every other portable thing—all 'movables that I could tell you of'—he has in his little person those elements which constitute both the freshness of our sublunary mortality, and that glorious immortality which the mortal shall yet put on. Gazing upon his fair young brow, his peach-like cheek, and the depths of those violet eyes, I feel myself rejuvenated. That which bothered Nicodemus, is no marvel to me. I feel that I have a new existence; nor can I dispel the illusion. It is harder, indeed, to believe that he will ever be what I am, than that I am otherwise than he is now. I cannot imagine that he will ever become a pilosus adult, with harvests for the razor on that downy chin. Will those golden locks become the brown auburn? Will that forehead rise as a varied and shade-changing record of pleasure or care? Will the classic little lips, now colored as by the radiance of a ruby, ever be fitfully bitten in the glow of literary composition?—and will those sun-bright locks, which hang about his temples like the soft lining of a summer cloud, become meshes where hurried fingers shall thread themselves in play? By the mass, I cannot tell. But this I know. That which hath been, shall be: the lot of manhood, if he live, will be upon him; the charm—the obstacle—the triumphant fever—the glory, the success—the far-reaching thoughts,

——'That make them eagle wingsTo pierce the unborn years.'

I might 'prattle out of reason,' and fancy what, in defiance of precedent furnished by propinquity of blood, he possiblymightbe; an aldermanic personage, redolent of wines and soup—goodly in visage, benevolent in act, but strict in justice. I might fancy him with a most voluminous periphery, and a laugh that shakes the diaphragm, from theimo pectoreto the vast circumference of the outer man. These things may be imagined, but not believed. Yet it is with others as with ourselves: 'We know what they are, but not what they may be.' Time adds to the novel thoughts of the child, the tricks and joyance of the urchin—the glow of increasing years, the passion of the swelling heart, when experience seems to school its energies. But in the flush of young existence, I can compare a child—the pride and delight of its mother and its kindred—to nothingelseon earth, of its own form or image. It is like a youngand beautiful bird—heard, perhaps, for once, in the days of our juvenescence, and remembered ever after, though never seen again. Its thoughts, like the rainbow-colored messenger discoursed of in the poetic entomology of La Martine,

'Born with the spring, and with the roses dying—Through the clear sky on Zephyr's pinion sailing;On the young flowret's open bosom lying—Perfume, and light, and the blue air inhaling;Shaking the thin dust from its wings, and fleeing,And soaring like a breath in boundless heaven:How like Desire, to which no rest is given!Which still uneasy, rifling every treasure,Returns at last above, to seek for purer pleasure.'

Intruth, I do especially affect that delightful period in the life of every descendant of old Fig Leaves, in Eden, which may truly be called theAprilof the heart. How sweet are its smiles! And on the face of babyhood, 'the tears,' to use the dainty term of Sir Philip Sidney, 'come dropping down like raine in yesunshine, and no heed being taken to wype them, they hang upon the cheekes and lippes, as upon cherries which the dropping tree bedeweth.' Halcyon season! Its pure thoughts and rich emotions come and go, like the painted waftage of a morning cloud; or most like that fulness of pearls which may be shaken from the matin spray. The night, to such, comes with its vesper hush and stillness, like the shadow of a shade. Sorrow is transient, and Hope ever new. Sabbath of the soul, fresh from its God! To the vision of these, how brightly the leaves move, and the breeze-crisped waters quiver! How their quick pulses bound, in the newness of existence, at that which is ancient and disdained of the common eye! To them, every color is prismatic, and wears the hue of Eden. With thoughts like these, howeverun-novel, I apostrophize 'My Boy:'

Thouhast a fair, unsullied cheek—A clear and dreaming eye,Whose bright and winning glances speakOf life's first revelry;And on thy brow no look of careComes like a cloud, to cast a shadow there.In feeling's early freshness blest—Thy wants and wishes few:Rich hopes are garnered in thy breast,As summer's morning dewIs found, like diamonds, in the rose—Nestling, midst folded leaves, in sweet repose.Keep thus, in love, the heritageOf thy ephemeral spring;Keep its pure thoughts, till after ageWeigh down thy spirit's wing;Keep the warm heart—the hate of sin.And heavenly peace will on thy soul break in.And when the even-song of yearsBrings in its shadowy trainThe record of life's hopes and fears,Let it not be in vain,That backward on existence thou canst look,As on a pictured page or pleasant book.

Thouhast a fair, unsullied cheek—A clear and dreaming eye,Whose bright and winning glances speakOf life's first revelry;And on thy brow no look of careComes like a cloud, to cast a shadow there.

In feeling's early freshness blest—Thy wants and wishes few:Rich hopes are garnered in thy breast,As summer's morning dewIs found, like diamonds, in the rose—Nestling, midst folded leaves, in sweet repose.

Keep thus, in love, the heritageOf thy ephemeral spring;Keep its pure thoughts, till after ageWeigh down thy spirit's wing;Keep the warm heart—the hate of sin.And heavenly peace will on thy soul break in.

And when the even-song of yearsBrings in its shadowy trainThe record of life's hopes and fears,Let it not be in vain,That backward on existence thou canst look,As on a pictured page or pleasant book.

Inthe wonder which we feel as to children growing old, we are apt to associate ourselves with them. When one who, in the hey-dey of his blood, and before the glow of thepurpureum lumenof his 'better-most hours' has begun to diminish, is led to regard (and tohear, beside, for the fact rings often at his auricular portals,) that a vital extract is extant, he wonders if that 'embryon atom' will ever come to denominate the agent of his being as 'the old gentleman!' Of course, it must be impossible. Yet 'there is no mistake on some points.' In the course of his travels, Old Time effects many a marvel; but he pushes on with his agricultural implement, and streaming fore-lock; (nobody 'does him proud,' and he disdains the toupée,) until hisoldestfriends are metamorphosed, and his youngest begin to experience how 'tempora mutantur, et nos mutamur in illis.' This reminds me of a song, which I like amazingly, because it contains such a mingling of truth, beauty, and melody:

I oftenthink each tottering formThat limps along in life's decline,Once bore a heart as young, as warm,As full of idle thoughts, asmine!And each has had his dream of joy,His own unequalled, pure romance;Commencing, when the blushing boyFirst thrills at lovely woman's glance.And each could tell his tale of youth—Would think its scenes of love evinceMore passion, more unearthly truth,Than any tale, before or since.Yes! they could tell of tender laysAt midnight penned, in classic shades,Of days more bright than modern days—Of maids more fair than living maids.Of whispers in a willing ear,Of kisses on a blushing cheek—Each kiss, each whisper, far too dear,For modern lips to give or speak.Of prospects, too, untimely crossed,Of passion slighted or betrayed—Of kindred spirits early lost,And buds that blossomed but to fade.Of beaming eyes, and tresses gay,Elastic form and noble brow,And charms—that all have passed away,And left them—what we see them now!And is it thus!—ishuman loveSo very light and frail a thing!And must Youth's brightest visions moveFor ever on Time's restless wing?Must all the eyes that still are bright,And all the lips that talk of bliss,And all the forms so fair to sight,Hereafter only come to this?Then what are Love's best visions worth,If we at length must lose them thus?If all we value most on earth,Ere long must fade away from us?If thatonebeing whom we takeFrom all the world, and still recurTo allshesaid, and for her sakeFeel far from joy, when far from her;If that one form which we adore,From youth to age, in bliss or pain,Soon withers and is seen no more—Why do we love—if love be vain!

I oftenthink each tottering formThat limps along in life's decline,Once bore a heart as young, as warm,As full of idle thoughts, asmine!

And each has had his dream of joy,His own unequalled, pure romance;Commencing, when the blushing boyFirst thrills at lovely woman's glance.

And each could tell his tale of youth—Would think its scenes of love evinceMore passion, more unearthly truth,Than any tale, before or since.

Yes! they could tell of tender laysAt midnight penned, in classic shades,Of days more bright than modern days—Of maids more fair than living maids.

Of whispers in a willing ear,Of kisses on a blushing cheek—Each kiss, each whisper, far too dear,For modern lips to give or speak.

Of prospects, too, untimely crossed,Of passion slighted or betrayed—Of kindred spirits early lost,And buds that blossomed but to fade.

Of beaming eyes, and tresses gay,Elastic form and noble brow,And charms—that all have passed away,And left them—what we see them now!

And is it thus!—ishuman loveSo very light and frail a thing!And must Youth's brightest visions moveFor ever on Time's restless wing?

Must all the eyes that still are bright,And all the lips that talk of bliss,And all the forms so fair to sight,Hereafter only come to this?

Then what are Love's best visions worth,If we at length must lose them thus?If all we value most on earth,Ere long must fade away from us?

If thatonebeing whom we takeFrom all the world, and still recurTo allshesaid, and for her sakeFeel far from joy, when far from her;

If that one form which we adore,From youth to age, in bliss or pain,Soon withers and is seen no more—Why do we love—if love be vain!

In what strange contrast with a picture like this, does the beautifulUhlandplace some of his nature-colored characters! How sweetly does he draw the picture of two devoted beings, practising palmistry, with palm to palm, and uttering a world of downy nonsense beneath the rolling moon:

'Ina garden fair were roaming,Two lovers, hand in hand;Two pale and shadowy creatures,They sat in that flowery land.On the lips, they kissed each other,On the cheeks so full and smooth;They were wrapt in close embracings—They were warm in the flush of youth.'

'Ina garden fair were roaming,Two lovers, hand in hand;Two pale and shadowy creatures,They sat in that flowery land.

On the lips, they kissed each other,On the cheeks so full and smooth;They were wrapt in close embracings—They were warm in the flush of youth.'

These are very apt verses to be made directly out of a man's head, ar'n't they? How the author must have been haunted with visions; all

'Sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes,Or Cytherea's breath.'

I forgotto observe, that the postillion of whom I have spoken, wasratherprofane. He told a story of his experience some years before, with a divine, who was riding with him, on his professional seat, in the west, to attend a 'protracted meeting.' 'It was about 'lection time,' said he, 'and I had just gi'n in my vote. Ofcourse, I was used withhospitality; and I was a leetle 'how-come-you-so?' as Miss Kimball says in her Tower. Well I driv on, at an uncommon rapid rate; (that's a fact;) and whensumever I threw out the mail-bags at a stoppin' place, I replenished the inner individual. At last I became, as the parson observed, 'manifestly inebriated;' and he ondertook for to lecterme! I said nothing, until he observed, or rather remarked, that 'he should not be surprised if I fell from my seat some day, and would be found with my head broke, and extravagantsated blood on the pious matter.''

'Well,' says I, 'I shouldn't be surprised; it would be just my d——d etarnal luck!''

'He didn't say no more all the trip. I shot him up.'

'But the election'—it was inquired—'did you succeed in that?'

'Oh, yes; and the man that we put in, made a fool of himself at Albany, into the Legislature, and there was a piece put into a book about him a'terwards.'

'Ah?—what was it?

'Here it is,' was the reply of my gentleman, as he drew from his pocket a worn fragment of a printed page.

'On the first day of the session, he was enabled to utter the beginning of a sentence, which would probably have had no end, if it had not been cut short, as it was, by the Speaker. On the presentation of some petitions, which he thought had a bearing on his favorite subject, the election by the people of public notaries, inspectors of beef and pork, sole-leather, and staves and heading, he got on his legs. 'When,' said he, 'Mr. Speaker, we consider the march of intellect in these united, as I may say confederated, states, and how the genius of liberty soars, in the vast expanse, stretching her eagle plumes from the Pacific Ocean to Long-Island Sound, gazing with eyes of fire upon the ruins of empires——' just at which point of aërial elevation, the Speaker brought down the metaphorical flight of the genius, and that of the aspiring orator together, by informing the latter that he should be happy to hear him when in order, but that there was now noquestion before the House!'[20]

'But what was the name of this man?' was a query following this eloquent extract.

'Smith, Sir, was his name; Smith, John Smith, of Smithopolis, and surrogate of Smith County. He was the first man in Smithville; was a blacksmith in his youth, a goldsmith a'terwards, and John Smith through all. A consistent man, Sir; nochangewith him; always upright, but always poor; unchanging, for he had nothing to change with! He was a distinguished man; had letters advertised in the post office; owned a blood horse; led the choir at church; read 'the Declaration' on every Fourth-of-July; made all the acquaintances he could; was exceedingly fussy on all occasions. In short, he was a very great man in a small way. His speech will stand as a memorial of his genius, when the Kattskill shall be troubled with the mildew of time, and the worms of decay!'

Well—the reign of autumn, for the present year, has come; and there will doubtless be the annual quotations of description in the newspaper market. Some of it will remain on first hands, and the rest will find a ready circulation. Meditation will vent itself upon apostrophe; poetry will be engendered; old songs will be re-sung. It is, in truth, a delicious season, and no one can be blamed for yielding himself up to its influences. When the first yellow surges of September sunlight seem to roll through the atmosphere; when the dust of the city street, as you look at some stately carriage, whose wheels are flashing toward the west, seems rising around them like an atmosphere, colored betwixt the hue of gold and crimson; when the mountains put on their beautiful garments, where tints of the rainbow mingle with the aërial blue of the sky; when the winds have a melancholy music in their tone, and the heaven above us is enrobed in surpassing purity and lustre—then, the dwellers in great capitals may perhapsconceiveof the richness and fruition of the country; but they cannot approach the reality. The harvest moon has waned; the harvest home been held; the wheat is in the garner;the last peaches hang blushing on the topmost branches where they grew; the fragrant apples lie in fairy-colored mounds beneath the orchard trees, and the cheerful husbandman whistles at the cider-press. As September yields her withered sceptre into the grasp of October, the hills begin to invest themselves in those many-colored robes which are the livery of their new sovereign. As my observant friend, (a well-belovéd Epinetus,) who hath discoursed of matters outre-mer, so richly hymns it, then there comes

A mellow richness on the clustered trees;And, from a beaker full of richest dyes,Pouring new glory on the autumn woods,And dipping in warm light, the pillared clouds,Morn, on the mountain, like a summer bird,Lifts up her purple wing; and in the valesThe gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer,Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up lifeWithin the solemn woods of ash deep crimsoned,And silver beech, the maple yellow leaved—Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits downBy the way-side a-weary. Through the treesThe golden robin moves; the purple finch,That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds,A winter bird comes with its plaintive whistle,And pecks by the witch hazel; while aloud,From cottage roofs, the warbling blue-bird sings.

To me, there is nothing of that dark solemnity about the autumnal season, which it has to the morbid or the foreboding. It comes, laden with plenty, and breathing of peace. There seems a sweet monition in every whisper of the gale, and the rustle of every painted leaf, which may speak a world of tranquillity to the contemplative mind. If there be sadness around and within, it is the sadness which is cherished, and the gloom that purifies; it is that doubtful twilight of the heart, which is succeeded at last by a glorious morning. We think with the serene and heavenly-minded Malcolm, of the distant, or the departed, who have gone before us to lay down their heads upon pillows of clay, and repose in the calm monotony of the tomb. Reflection asserts her sway, and the spirit expands into song:

Sweet Sabbath of the Year!When evening lights decay,Thy parting steps methinks I hear,Steal from the world away.Amid thy silent bowers,'Tis sad but sweet to dwell,Where falling leaves and fading flowers,Around me breathe farewell.Along thy sun-set skies,Their glories melt in shade;And like the things we fondly prize,Seem lovelier as they fade.A deep and crimson streak,The dying leaves disclose,As on Consumption's waning cheek,Mid ruin, blooms the rose.The scene each vision bringsOf beauty in decay;Of fair and early-faded things,Too exquisite to stay:Of joys that come no more;Of flowers whose bloom is fled;Of farewells wept upon the shore;Of friends estranged, or dead!Of all, that now may seemTo memory's tearful eyeThe vanished beauty of a dream,O'er which we gaze and sigh!

Sweet Sabbath of the Year!When evening lights decay,Thy parting steps methinks I hear,Steal from the world away.

Amid thy silent bowers,'Tis sad but sweet to dwell,Where falling leaves and fading flowers,Around me breathe farewell.

Along thy sun-set skies,Their glories melt in shade;And like the things we fondly prize,Seem lovelier as they fade.

A deep and crimson streak,The dying leaves disclose,As on Consumption's waning cheek,Mid ruin, blooms the rose.

The scene each vision bringsOf beauty in decay;Of fair and early-faded things,Too exquisite to stay:

Of joys that come no more;Of flowers whose bloom is fled;Of farewells wept upon the shore;Of friends estranged, or dead!

Of all, that now may seemTo memory's tearful eyeThe vanished beauty of a dream,O'er which we gaze and sigh!

Andnow, reader,Benedicite! 'Hail—and farewell!'

Decidedly thine,

Ollapod.

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