. To soar to upper regions bright, Hold! hold! my wandering, maddening October 18. A CLOUDY day, the woods I ranged 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 With scarlet, gold, and damask streaked. And loosened leaves whirled swarming there, Like glittering sparks along the air. Of sunset glory, they expire! October 20. My task is done for Julia meant, Nor show the world my naked heart: 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 Deceitful as the evening sun, Who tints the clouds that round him press, With an unstable loveliness: A moment glads them with his light, Woman, farewell! thy dangerous smile To meet the young of thy dear kind: 'Tis sweet to see the fledglings try On coming harms they're doomed to do; The groans, the tears, the wounds, the smarts, The bleeding and the broken hearts; When tired of harmless joys like these, Where'er my wandering footsteps ply, And queenly on a rainbow hill He'll find, whate'er his suffering, POSTSCRIPT. DEAR Reader! if my tedious song Have waked an interest in my fate, Yet in life's steady noon confessed Now pangs, and fears, and perils past, 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, Or deeming else that aught so fair It plucked the flower at dawn of day, Lost cherub! in our musings lone, V. And I, thy earthly teacher, VI. Thy brain so uninstructed, 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; 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, For beauty is a travelling grace, For who could love a cloudless sky, THE With one wide-blazing glow of light, No! since the strife the spirit mends, END. NARRATES A WALK OUT OF TOWN: BY THE AMERICAN IN PARIS.' THE sun peeps like a cherub over Greenwich Hill; the buds are bursting from their husks in Saint James' Park; and the swallow repairs its nest under the eaves of the old Abbey: 'Furor jam cœli æquinoctialis Mens jam prætrepidans avet vagari.' It is well there are odes ready made to the Spring: I should have otherwise begun this letter with an invocation to the Muses. Our rural tastes revive with this season as naturally as the vegetation. We leave the town instinctively, as the bees their hive. England has a full compensation for the damps and vapors of winter, in the length and beauty of her summer's days. In July Aurora opens her eye-lids at three, and Apollo unyokes his steeds not sooner than ten of an evening. Day and Night, too, meet each other with gentle and courteous approaches, and not with blunt, unceremonious obtrusion, as in our unmannerly Pennsylvania. At six, I stood upon the Westminster Bridge, looking out upon the misty wilderness of houses, and the steeples and towers peering over the smoke of the dim city. It is a low, squat-looking town, Westminster, but prettily relieved by the winding Thames, and palace gardens, the Abbey, Houses of Lords and Commons, and in the distant prospect are old Sommerset, the Tower, Monument, Bank, and Gresham's Palace, where meet the antipodes on 'Change. Hindostan, 'And thy silvery soil, Peru, To get themselves discounted by the Jew.' The river, too, is scanned by broad, uncovered bridges, alive with their pigmy multitudes, and covered with all sorts of craft, more than twelve thousand at a look; frigates, barges, scullers, skiffs, the grave East-India-man, moving with solemn gravity toward the dock, and the gilded wherry scudding along, beautiful as Cleopatra's; the air love-sick with clustered ladies and their cavaliers; and a pitchy cloud of coal-boats, with swarms of smutty coal-heavers and sailors, float with the lubberly stream, knocking against each other, or warp inward with the east wind; and steamers at the wharf-side lie fizzing, or puffing, and blustering set out upon their voyages; or afar off, streak the heavens with their smoke. Boa-sa? Boa-sà?' croaked a dozen of watermen, as I slipped from the bridge, hoarse as the ravens of the Mahonoy, and with a brevity worthy of Negro Hill, recommending their boats. But I had allowed myself a wider charter, and pursued my journey on foot to the south west. I passed Vauxhall in its morning deshabille, smelling of the night's debauch, and bowed respectfully to the reverend Lambeth, the dwelling of the Archbishop; its Gothic confusion of battlements; its thirteen acres of exquisite gardens; its lawn, covered with the soft emerald green of the new spring, and venerable trees that overshade the palace to its roofs; with its parish church, St. Mary's. I saw here in the cemetery the grave of a woman once notoriously celebrated through the world, the Countess de la Motte. The Saxon kings had a mansion here, and the great Hardicanute died in it in 1042; a merry death, amid the jollity of a wedding dinner. The king's sister, the Countess Goda, lived on the very site of the present palace; and here Toni, a noble dame, led Gytha, Clapa's beauteous daughter, to the altar; and here stands, facing the Thames on the southwest corner, a silent monument of human folly and cruelty; the Lollard's Tower, the prison-house of the followers of Wickliffe. Among the existing relics are staples and rings in the wall, to which the victims were chained, before being brought to the stake. One beautiful niche you see, between the windows in the third story, used to contain a statue of Saint Thomas à Becket. What has become of it? In the garden, Cardinal Pole planted with his own Catholic hands two fig-trees, which are celebrated all over the country for the fine white and delicious fruit they furnish to his heretical descendants. They are above fifty feet high, and cover a surface of forty feet in diameter. In the great Gothic wall, which is ninety-three feet by thirty-eight, and fifty high, and carved with a profusion of images, there is a mitre between four negroes' heads; and the crest of the Archbishop is the head of a negro crowned. What is the reason ecclesiastical and also ladies' arms of now-a-days have no crests? Among the distinguished tenants of this palace, you must not forget Archbishop Cranmer. Here he confirmed, and after three years annulled, the marriage of Anna Boleyn with Henry. Do you wish to see an abridged list of his household! A steward, treasurer, comptroller, garnators, clerk of the kitchen, caterer, clerk of the spicery, yeoman of the ewry, bakers, pantlers, yeoman of the horse, yeoman ushers, butlers of wine and ale, larders, squilleries, ushers of the hall, porters, sewers, cup-bearer, grooms of the chamber, marshal, groom ushers, almoner, cooks, chandler, butchers, master of the horse, yeo |