folded, with pride, all the pomp of its colors, ignorant of the short duration of its frail existence. Every where the ground was enamelled with flowers, the concaves of which glistening with dew presented so many cups full of precious liquid. The sweet-briar seemed to have turned its thorns against itself; and from the trembling of its foliage, one might think the willow feared for its life. The Narcissus, reclining its head, dropped erystal tears; and the tulip, placed beneath the rose, received in its beauteous chalice the precious rubies which distilled from the perfumed bosom of the superincumbent tree But, alas! the duration of the one is but an instant, and the other is old before the end of the day.

Happy flowers! The period of their existence is determined by the setting sun, and they bloom, without anxiety for the moment that is to succeed. The philosopher, having retired with regret from this delicious place, had occasion to return a few months after. Alas! how changed! Instead of the rose-instead of the nightingale, which lately joined to embellish this happy spot, the car was struck with the piercing cries of the kite and the mournful croaking of the frog. The smiling verdure of the shrubbery, was changed into greyish gloom, and the once charming clusters of roses presented nothing but masses of pointed thorns. He cast a look of regret on the place which had so lately enchanted him, and was unable to refrain from tears as he meditated upon the short duration of existence.

"We have only a few instants to live!" exclaimed he―" let us, then, endeavor to take advantage of them all to insure happiness; to effect which, there is only one mode-by consecrating them to virtue!"

ON NOVELS.

A French writer speaking of female education, says, that in the ancient system of female education, the chapter of things, not to be known, was of very great extent: at present, thanks to the novels, this chapter is a blank. A young girl enters into the

world with her novel in her head; she has made choice of her faults before she has any; her excuses are prepared, and only await her errors; she sees in every thing that can happen to her, only one or two pages of an adventure which she has read; and she considers the reproaches which she may sustain, as similar to those reflections which she passed over in the novels, and which she may in like manner pass over in life.

VOL. I.

ON PUBLIC WORSHIP.

LORD, at thy sacred feet
Joyful would we appear;
Within thy earthly temple meet,
To see thy glory here.

We come to worship thee,
For thou art God alone;
In humble prayer to bend the knee,
Before thy holy throne.

Thy WORD is our delight,

Thy truth will make us free;

'Tis from thyself, a heavenly light,
It leads our souls to thee.

THE ROSE-BUD.

How sweet was the rose-bud that blush'd on the tree,

In ELEANOR's beautiful bower!

Allured by its presence, came bee after bee,
And sipp'd without wounding the flower.

A keen little worm chanced its beauty to view,
And creeping with wonderful art,

It nibbled, and nibbled, and eat its way through,
Nor ceased till it lodged in the heart.

The fair, little dreaming how short was its date,
Too late the rude spoiler descried;

Beheld the sweet blossom submit to its fate,
It faded-it droop'd-and it died.

Yourself but a flower, pretty maiden beware,
Distinguish the spoiler and fly;

For MAN is a worm, that oft preys on the fair,
And you, like a rose-bud, may die.

THE JOURNEY OF LOVE.

NOW ANTEROS* lend me thy gossamer pinion,
And teach nie the speed of ARMATA's† sweet dove,

I fly to the seat of thy blissful dominion,

For CATHARINE's breast is the mansion of love.

No longer shall FORTUNE be whelm'd with invective,
If my journey the goddess but bless with her smile,
I heed not its length, while I view in perspective
The sharer, rewarder, and end of my toil.

If love has its sorrows, yet who would refuse 'em,
So sweetened with rapture, so mingled with joy?
What mortal the rose would discard from his bosom,

Lest the thorn which attends it should chance to annoy ?

Separation was such-but the wound it inflicted
Will soon be forgot in the glow of a kiss;
Though grief on the visage has oft been depicted,
The tear shall soon glisten a tribute of bliss.

Ah! still on my vision the object increases!
The cottage of peace and affection I spy!
HOPE smiles, as my bosom unconscious releases
The murmur of wishes respired in a sigh.

Now, now am I blest. But, ah! language it fails me,
No pencil can paint love's extatic alarms:
'Tis she that approaches-'tis CATHARINE hails me,
She gazes! she smiles! I am prest in her arms!

Revilers of Hymen may talk of privations,
They are but to sweeten the chaplet of love,
If the wreath hide a thorn, yet the pang it occasions,
The balm of its roses will ever remove.

THE TEAR OF BEAUTY.

Deep pierced by rude misfortune's dart,
My bleeding bosom throbs with woe,
And long has grief forbid my heart

The calm of peace and joy to know:
But yet, tho' doomed on sorrow's wave,
To suffer tortures more severe,
With joy each danger I would brave,
Would Beauty bless me with a TEAR.

When Pity, dew-eyed maid divine,

Had left the radiant climes above,
To seek on earth a mortal shrine,

And shed her balm of heavenly love;
To chase from misery's breast the sigh,

And sorrow's woe-worn heart to cheer,
The shrine she chose was Beauty's cye;
The balm she shed was Beauty's TEAR.

And this shall heal misfortune's wound,
And raise a smile in sorrow's eye;
Bid the torn heart with rapture bound,
And hush chill penury's suffering cry:
The heart shall know the calm of peace,
Nor feel anticipation's fear;
E'en torturing memory's pain shall cease,
While Beauty sheds the pitying TEAR,

SELIM.

Tho' unrelenting fate's command
Should force me from my native home,
Thro' every barbarous foreign land,
A hapless exile, doom'd to roam;
Yet scarcely would my bosom grieve,
For foreign climes, remote and drear,
My friends and native home to leave,
Would Beauty shed one parting TEAR.

Or should the fatal, stern decree

Give license to the darts of DEATH,
His darts would have no sting for me,
For joyful I'd resign my breath;
And meet, without one sigh, my doom,
If sorrowing Beauty, round my bier,
Or bending o'er my humble tomb,

Would grace my relics with a TEAR.

THE ROSES.

Addressed to a Friend, on the Birth of his First Child.

Two Roses, on one slender spray,

In sweet communion grew, Together hailed the morning ray,

And drank the evening dew;

While sweetly wreathed in mossy green,

There sprang a little bud between.

Through clouds and sunshine, storms and showers,

They open'd into bloom,

Mingling their foliage and their flowers,

Their beauty and perfume;

While foster'd on its rising stem,

The bud became a purple gem.

But soon their summer splendor pass'd,

They faded in the wind,

Yet were these Roses to the last,

The loevliest of their kind,

Whose crimson leaves, in falling round,

Adorn'd and sanctifi'd the ground.