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las mountain of my childhood I that afar
term thy summit sunward to the sky,
Is* often hare I gazed upon thy form
Muli with glittering beauty—to my eye
V boundary of my mimic Paradise,
Stile all beyond was heaven 1 A single star
ha rose above thy forehead banging still
laotioolees enjoyment glancing down
Rt ita mild looks as loving thy grey mien,
h mournfully I gazed, for then as yet

bid not heard of the strange legend told
• •;<•.! with thy memory—a sad tale,
itieh mil In futnre daya would make me weep.

Tiiitrsnge—the objects of material sense
corporate with our memories. Once more
i pin mj native hill-top, and 1 breathe
l purer sir as from yon rocky ledge
>7 childhood's home, I view the lsndscape near,
bavena! what a prospect bursts upon the eye,—
^unplepark—Nature's magnificence

mad lsTishly around, not the wild forms Ctf rougher scenery—mass piled on mass, With avalanche terrific (though more near task imitation of ber guise beheld,) Sot now, her softer aspect wooing fond Wis. her mild gentleness th' observer's gaze,— A panoramic view of hill and dale, tad distant village with its rising ground *r.d humble vale between, through which ■ * thread of silver dimpling in the sun Cpon Its winding course the river steals. Fit ornament for such a back-ground rare— The mountain still its faithful sentinel, Embosoming a landscape yet more dear.

I have s love of mountains—and my soul
■I of them ss their lineaments of me I
1 breathe the freer on their lofty tops,
Ai nearer to the Infinite o'er all 1
The mountains are God's building,
Toe scsffolding by which we din
'■ ■i! «o I call to mind 1
On which tbe ark lira rented in the waste
Of that wide deluge which o'erwhelmed the world;
'Sid thunderinge and lightnings on that mount.
Dread Sinai named, Jehovah gave his laws;
loses expired on Plsgah, and the height
Of Giiboa murmurs back moat plaintive strains
For that vile king -anointed' still 'with oil':
Fonno of departed worthies hallow yet
The Mount of the Transfigured on, while
Go Calvary was hung the Incarnate God I

Mountain of Lamentations t on thy top
E'en now s memory lingers, and thy face
"o:h gather a dark shadow as it lies
Ssirted with banks of clouds. My mnae recalls
That legend of old time when In these woods
Wandered erewhile a Patriot of the Past,

To venture farther or retrace his steps.
Plunged in the trackless gloom. Perplsxed he stands
la the uncertain path, the distant forma
Oi wife and child appearing In his sight.
And now, alas I lost in the forest depths.
At hand no help succeeds. In vain bis f riends
Amy to find the wanderer pressing on,

'Tbe tradition is, that in tbe early settlement of the ■try on the Connecticut Elver, Mr Chester, of Weth1,-ua sncestor of the families of that nsme in that ^ceni town,—was lost on a mountain some twelve milea "tat southwest from his home, whence the name Mt. ^•ouilon. The seeonnte differ as to bis fate. The JJJ utdlble story is, that he was at length rescued by

And startling the rude echoes with his name.
Night closes round and to the anxious flock
No tidings of tbe fugitive appear.
The morning dawns and with its rising light
A fresh recruit seek to renew the search:
They call aloud—the echoes answer back I
They fire a gun—Oh ) moat transporting sound,
The woods send back a voice—the wanderer *
The dead returns to life—the lost Is found I

Such Is the legend of thee—such the tale
Enshrined within my memory, which now,
E'en as I gaze upon thee, thrills my soul.
Surveying thy blue outline yet once more.
Again 1 scan thine azure peak afar,
Just pillowing the clouds as in the time
When Life was all one careless holiday.
Still rise forever, Giiboa or the Paatl
Mountain of Lamentations still lament I
Kensington, Conn., 1847.

Dream not, bat Work!

There ia great danger in some youthful minds, of spending life in a dreamy state of inactivity, without feeling the obligation resting upon every man to work. This is particularly true of thoae for whom fortune has already so scattered her profuse gifts as not to goad them on by necessity in the path of labor. To such, our motto speaks a word in season that should be heeded—"Dream not, but work!" There is a world of sin, of misery, before you that requires your efforts. There is work enough for every band and for every head among God's subjects. This work is a duty—is a requisition of your Maker. You cannot escape the responsibility of labor in this world. You cannot escape the penalty of its neglect in another. You are needed tn teach the world its duties—to instruct the ignorant, to lift up tbe bowed down, to strengthen the weak, to encourage the timid, to succor the needy. >t, then, but Work." "Dream not, but work I Be bold I be brave I Let not a coward spirit crave

Escape from tasks allotted I
Thankful for toil and danger be;

Duty's high cull 1

ill make thee flee The vicious—the besotted."

How many young men there are that need this exhortation, who are passing listlessly through life, dreaming as they move, with an intuitive shrinking from all labor—floating down the stream of time, engaged only in the sleepy observation of the bubbles on the current! How many young women spend their hours in the same dreamy state of mere amusement, doiog no good in the world in which God has placed them! How many there are among us, whose whole life is spent

**In dropping buckets into empty wells,
And growing old in drawing nothing up."
"What shall I doT" Ah! that querulous tone
does not indicate that the dream is yet shaken off!
Do? Young man! •

Wage ceaseless war 'gainst lawless might,
Speak out the truth—aot out the right—

Shield the defenceless.
Be firm—be strong—improve the time—
Pity the sinner—but for crime,
Crush it relentless 1

Young woman!

Forget thyself, but besrinmind
The elalms of suffering human kind;

So shail the welcome night
Unseen o'ertake thee, and thy soul,
Sinking In slumber st the goal.

Wake in eternal light I

There is enough to do. The world is full of wrong that requires bold, brave, wakeful men to crush; it is full of suffering that calls for kind, tender, affectionate women to alleviate. Will you do nothing but dream T Will you be the drones of the great hive of humanity, feeding upon others' labor, and adding nothing yourselves to the stock of honeyf You have a place and a station in the world for other and better purposes, for higher and holier objects. "Dream not then, but work!"

The exigencies of the world require your assistance. There never was a time when energy and systematic labor for the good of community was so much needed.

Arise 1 for the dsy Is passing,
While you lie dreaming on;
Your brothers are cased in armor,
And forth to the fight have gone;
Your place in the ranka awaits you;

Each man has a part to play;
Tbe past and the future are nothing
In the face of the stern to-day.

Action is what is needed. The day of idle con temptation has passed—poetic reveries are but dreams. The times demand sober realities, powerful exertions, benevolent sacrifices. "Dream not, then, but work."


Scenes Here and There.

The scenes and parties of the chapters of experience hereafter sketched, are familiar to many of your readers. The light-house keeper, spoken of in the last, has been mentioned in your columns before, and is well known to our sea-shore visitors. It waa from his own lips that the story was derived.

In a bumble house an old man was lying. His withered frame bad long withstood the assaults of disease, and his eye still glistened brightly, as in tbe dew of youth or the heyday of manhood. Scarcely a relative was left him. No wife or child bent o'er him to relieve suffering nature. The faithful nurse and tbe attendant physician were at bis side. The power of sickness was now struggling with his enduring body, and tbe angel of death was waiting to shout victory over another of its myriads slain. He bad long loved and worshipped money. While others, perhaps no less greedy of the precious dust, had carefully invested their gains in stocks and bonds, he had deposited his earnings iu a strong chest, which now lay closely locked beneath his bed. Never had he laid his head upon a pillow that did not cover that key. And now, as he felt a deeper sleep settling upon him than ho had known before,bis treasure seemed doubly precious. Alike unconscious of his physician's words and attentions, his mind still trembles for the safety of his chest. But death's couvulsions are mastering him. In norvous paroxysm he thrusts out his arm wildly from the bed. His heart ceases to beat, and his lips have stopped quivering, but bis long bony lingers still clasp the key, and the last sign of life passes away, as that band relaxes silently, and the heavy key drops. The temptations of life and the calls of humanity had never been able to unloose that hold, and it was only the stem mastery of death which had conqttefed, bnt not persuaded

It was a rough March day. The ice-fields once broken, were sealed again, as if winter, once departed, hud returned to bid farewell to tbe earth

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