To soar to upper regions bright,
Robed in some angel form of light?
Sure 't is no murder to set free
A half-made, wretched thing like me!

Hold! hold! my wandering, maddening
Nor dare to act for Providence! [sense,
Oh! rather let me bear my load,
Than rush so rudely on my God!
Shall I, a low-born, guilty thing,
Intrude me on the heavenly King,
And brave his sacred presence? No!
When he invites me, will I go;
For never will unbidden guest
Find welcome to immortal feast.
Try, try me, Heaven, if thou wilt,
But keep my tempted soul from guilt!

October 18.

A CLOUDY day, the woods I ranged
To chase in vain the form I see:
All nature, like my heart, was changed-

An Autumn change to her and me! Unconscious to the spring I strayed, Where late we roved; there stood the oak,

There gushed the waters in its shade,

Then into sighs my feelings broke. Not tears I cannot shed a tear; [now: Those rain-drops shower no longer The passion-fire within my heart [flow.

Has dried their fount they cannot Winds, clouds, and drizzling mists caWildly along the autumn sky: [reered All dismal as myself appeared,

And lent my heart sad sympathy.

Not all not all; one speck of blue Shoots through my clouds the heavenly hue:

The gentian flower, whose azure clear
Completes the garland of the year;
Which ends with blue as it began, [man.
To mark whence dropped the wreath to
Sweetly its petals tightly rolled,
Untwist their fringes to the cold,
In lonely beauty; save the bloom
That lights the sick leaves to the tomb :
And widely round me, as I gazed,
The final conflagration blazed!
[o'er,
Poor leaves! thus scarred and crimsoned
They seem all butchered in their gore :
Stabbed by the frost, and left for dead,
With Murder's mark of bloody red.
What tints! the sumach bush is seen
Vermillion-tipped, with base of green;
And where each leaf o'erlaps its fellow,
The hidden edge is gilt with yellow:
While crimson vines the cedars screen,
And starry gum-leaves tcase the eyes
With purple, pink, and creamy dyes;
With livid spots bespattered, these,
As if devoured by strange disease
But monarch of the glowing trees,
The maple rules the dazzling hour,
Upsoaring like a blazing tower;
All patched with hues, all pied and
freaked,

With scarlet, gold, and damask streaked.
And when the chill wind rushing came,
The forests heaved with billowy flame,

And loosened leaves whirled swarming

there,

Like glittering sparks along the air.
Yes! Nature, in our clime of blooms,
On funeral pile her dead consumes:
No slow gradations of decay
Deform them as they fade away:
No sickly hues, no foul offence
Of rank corruption, shock the sense;
But in one universal fire

Of sunset glory, they expire!

October 20.

My task is done for Julia meant,
My heart this farewell sonnet sent:
Last token of my hapless love!
Henceforth, whatever thrills may move,
Alone unpitied will I smart,

Nor show the world my naked heart:
Locked ever in my breast shall lie
The smouldering flame, till it or I,
Whoe'er the vanquished be, shall die.

SONNET TO JULIA.

How kindly Nature deals to leaves their doom, And lends their sunset bright apparrelling! They burn, they glow, and every breeze's wing Fans them to flames which seemingly con

sume:

Brilliant with hues, they drop into the tomb, Out-blooming all the blossoms of their spring. Oh! thus, fair maiden! when the Terror-King Shall come to change thy glory into gloom, Thus may he find, in thy calm hour of even, Thy features lighted with a sunset glowCaught from the opening realms of souls forgiven

From those best rays that glad the heart below,

Past virtue, present peace, and coming Heaven, More bright than all the roses on them now!

END OF JOURNAL.

To shed their last fond lingering rays
On form that cheered their earliest gaze.
Now, love! forever am I free-
That hast so traitorous proved to me:
That smiled when wooing, frowned when
won,

Deceitful as the evening sun,

Who tints the clouds that round him

press,

With an unstable loveliness:

A moment glads them with his light,
Then gives them up to misty night.
Each rose is girt with thousand thorns,
Each favor by a thousand scorns;
And where one sunny smile appears,
There gush a thousand sighs and tears.

Woman, farewell! thy dangerous smile
No more my sore heart shall beguile :
Now safer pleasure do I find,

To meet the young of thy dear kind:
Green buds before their charms are blown
With thorns too soft to wound, or slay;
As with young leopards one would play,
Before their dangerous fangs are grown.
Sweet, gentle pets! I love to see
Your tricks, to place you on my knee;
To watch your eyes, whose morning rays
Though bright, yet burn not with their
blaze:
[tips,
And cheeks, whose peach the bloom just
Not yet too tempting for the lips:
And lips, whose cheaply-granted kiss
Declares unripe their precious bliss:
And shouting laugh, unquelled by guile
To the still venom of the smile :
As is the snake of warning sound
Less fell than silent adder found.

'Tis sweet to see the fledglings try
Their feeble wings before they fly:
"T is sweet to search the well of eyes,
To find where truth of beauty lies:
To watch within her armory fair,
How darts are forged and polished there:
To mark beginners learn to wield
Of beams the sword, of lids the shield;
And feel them, harmless as they be,
Thus try their "prentice hand' on me,
Before their graduated charms
Make war on hearts with practised arms.
Thus gazing, I fall musing too,

On coming harms they're doomed to do; The groans, the tears, the wounds, the smarts,

The bleeding and the broken hearts;
Rejoicing in my safety here,
Though purchased at a price most dear.

When tired of harmless joys like these,
I've hidden stores among the trees;
And in the wild-wood ever find
Fresh beauties to delight the mind.
Dear Nature! truest love to me,
When shunned by all, I fly to thee;
By every winning grace adorned,
Thee can I love, and be unscorned:
To thy true lover constant still,
Thy charms ne'er wound the heart they
thrill:

Where'er my wandering footsteps ply,
Still Beauty meets my gladdened eye.
No steepy rock, no humble sod,
I find by her light foot untrod.
However lone my hiding-place,
Still welcomes me her winning face.
I mount the hills to fields of air,
She waves me from the tree-tops there:
Now twines in dance with frolic vines,
Now coy on mossy couch reclines;
And, breathing odors on the air,
Sleeps with her sister violets there:
I seek the valleys; there her beam
Of silver flashes from the stream,
And 'mid the tinkling drops her voice
Rings in my ear, 'Rejoice! Rejoice!'
I walk at eve before the gloom,
And there her richest blushes bloom:
I greet the sunrise from the hill,
In vain; she is before me still.
And when the thunder-ridden cloud
Groans from its tortured bosom loud,
As on its cruel rider dashes,
And thickly deals his fiery lashes,
All lost she seems, but soon divide
The terror-folded curtains wide,

And queenly on a rainbow hill
With crown of every brilliant stone,
With wreath of every blossom blown,
She smiles, and hails me from her throne
'Behold me with you still!'
Dear Nature! of physicians best,
To heal the ills that wear the breast,
Whose skill in mortal case is sure
To soothe the pang it cannot cure,
Still let to thy asylum fair
The heart-sick invalid repair:

He'll find, whate'er his suffering,
A balmy clime in every bower,
A curing herb in every flower,
And health in every spring!

POSTSCRIPT.

DEAR Reader! if my tedious song
Have held thy patient ear so long,
And if the trials I relate

Have waked an interest in my fate,
To farther trace my wayward track,
Till thirty years are on my back,'
A moment's patience will disclose
The happy issue of my woes:
Yes, happy! Reader, give me joy!
The form that witched me when a boy
Long-parted, is at last my own:
An early widow, childless, lone,
In want, for he that won her eyes
Had proved unworthy such a prize
My aid was claimed to shield from harm :
Love walks with Pity arm in arm,
And hearts long-lost on truant track,
Still to their early haunts go back:
And she, that in her morning hour
Felt not my sun of passion's power,

Yet in life's steady noon confessed
The melting god had won her breast.

Now pangs, and fears, and perils past,
In peaceful port I'm anchored fast;

And, after trial's heavy toll, Long-sought promotion, reign at last The idol of a woman's soul ! But hark! what tones of merry cheer Now challenge to a romp my ear? 'T is little Anna's shout I hear! Dear child! she has her mother's eyes, Blue, softly blue, as summer skies; And all her wealth of waving hair, And all the twinkling spangles there, Bright sparks! that in my early days Kindled my heart to such a blaze!

But though its blessings be not few,
Even wedlock has its trials too: [blow,
Heaven gave, then smote with sudden
Our pride, our eldest born, as though
Repenting of a gift so rare,

Or deeming else that aught so fair
No worldly ordeal need endure,
To prove a soul already pure,

It plucked the flower at dawn of day,
Before the earliest breath of care
Had brushed its morning dews away.
When the first stunning blow had passed,
Came comfort in its suite at last.

Lost cherub! in our musings lone,
We feel thou art not wholly gone:
There's not a star in yon blue deep,
That seeks from twilight cloud to peep,
But our fond, willing hearts declare
Thy own dear eyes are trembling there :
There's not a summer sigh that heaves
Among the chafing forest leaves,
But in the gentle rush it brings,
We hear the rustling of thy wings:
At hush of night, when every thrill
In Silence' smothering arms is still,
Creeps thy soft whisper in my brain,
'Be just! and we shall meet again!'

V.

And I, thy earthly teacher,
Would blush thy powers to see:
Thou art to me the parent now,
And I a child to thee!

VI.

Thy brain so uninstructed,
While in this lowly state,
Now threads the mazy track of spheres,
Or reads the book of fate.

VII.

Thine eyes so curbed in vision,

Now range the realms of space: Look down upon the rolling stars, Look up to God's own face!

VIII.

Thy little hand, so helpless,

That scarce its toys could hold, Now clasps its mate in holy prayer, Or strikes a harp of gold."

IX.

Thy feeble feet, unsteady,

That tottered as they trod, With angels walk the heavenly ways, Or stand before their God.

X.

Nor is thy tongue less skilful;
Before the throne divine
'T is pleading for a mother's weal,
As once she prayed for thine!

XI.

What bliss is born of sorrow! 'T is never sent in vain : The heavenly surgeon maims, to save He gives no useless pain.

XII.

Our God, to call us homeward,

His only Son sent down;

And now, still more to tempt us there, Has taken up our own.

CONCLUSION.

FAIR reader! for thy gentle eyes,
However critics may despise
My simple tale, will grieve to part
With lowliest lay that feeds the heart
With notes of honest love and truth,
And all the rosy dreams of youth,
And every trial, grief, and scorn,
For woman's sake by lover borne,
And reverence deep for beauty's sheen,
In flower, or sky, wherever seen:
But most in her true dwelling-place,
The rosy clime of woman's face-
Fair reader! in whose morning cheek
The chasing blushes freshly break,
My moral, if thou fain wouldst find
Such fruit with flowery verse entwined,
Is, not to boast thee of thy power,
In blooming youth's triumphant hour;