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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 iempted 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 ca

Wildly along the autumn sky: [reered All dismal as myself appeared,

And lent my heart sad sympathy.

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 ofience
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 fame, till it or I,
Whoe'er the vanquished be, shall die.

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How kindly Nature deals to leaves their doom, And lends their suuset bright apparrelling! They burn, they glow, and every breeze's wing Faps them to faines which seemiugly con

sume: Brilliant with hues, they drop into the tomb, Out-blooming all the blossoms of their spring. Oh! thus, fair maiden! wben the Terror-King Shail come to change thy glory into gloom, Thus may be time, in thy calm hour of even, Thy features lighted with a sunset glow Caught from the opening realms of souls for

given 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.

.

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 tighily rolled, Untwist their fringes to ihe cold, In lonely beauty ; save the bloom That lights the sick leaves to the tomb : And widely round me, as I gazed, The final contlagration blazed! [o'er, Poor leaves! thus scarred and crimsoned They seem all butchered in their gore : Siabbed 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 wheru each leaf o'erlaps its fellow, The hidden edge is gilt with yellow; While crimson vines the cedars screen, And starry gum-leaves tease 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,

Long years my heart the ache endured,
Before the rankling wound was cured:
Meanwhile, with lingering suffering tried,
My Julia faded, drooped, and died.
There is a dread, a fatal pest,
That plants its seeds within the breast,
Which, festering there to wide disease,
Eats out the life by slow degrees :
Where once those deadly seeds are laid,
Farewell all hope from mortal aid !
Unerring as with fieetest dart,
The slow destroyer wastes the heart ;
Whose ravenous fang, that constant

preys,
Far more than rare contagion slays.

As fades a bloomy cloud at eve,
When all its scattering shreds unweave,
So gauzy as it sinks in blue,
Th’lights of heav'n show twinkling thro',
So soft she melted from the sighi,
And from her features broke strange light,
As if through dwindling flesh had stole
The glimmering star-light of the soul.

She fell ! in distant land she lies, Denied the bliss of dying eyes,

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 ily: '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 :

The only love of all the rest
That smil'd the more, the more I press'd:
Whose chains the earliest held me fast-
My first love, thou shalt be my last !
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 seck 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 wani, 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,

And I, thy carthly 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 realnis of space: Look down upon the rolling stars,

Look up to God's own face !

VIII.

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 wenlih 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 hasits 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 suinmer sigh that heaves
Among the chaling 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!'

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.

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.

1.

Our God, to call us homeward,

His only Son sent down; And now, still more to tempt us there,

Has taken up our own.

Thou bright and star-like spirit !

That in my visions wild I see mid heaven's seraphic host,

Oh! canst thou be my child ?

CONCLUSION.

II.

My grief is quenched in wonder,

And pride arrests my sighs : A branch from this unworthy stock,

Now blossoms in the skies!

III.

Our hopes of thee were lofty

But have we cause to grieve? Oh! could our proudest, fondest wish

A nobler fate conceive?

Fair reader ! for thy gentle eyes,
However critics may despise
My siinple 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 ;

IV.

The little weeper, tearless

The sinner snatched from sin, The babe to more than manhood grown,

Ere childhood did begin!

For beauty is a travelling grace,
That knows no long abiding-place;
Whose welcome is a cheating bliss,
Whose greeting is her parting kiss :
And he, the youth now by thee wooing,
With eyes in vain thy favor suing,
If haply on his face like mine
No proud and winning graces shine,
Let him learn patience; soon departs
The hour when beauty governs hearts;
On which a wiser time shall press,
To crown his struggles with success :
Let all with trials weary, wait
With better patience from my fate;
And soon will fly disheartening gloom,
Or, lingering, will with rainbows bloom.
For who could love a cloudless sky,
With one perennial blue on high,

With one wide-blazing glow of light,
Untempered to the aching sight ?
Without one passing vapor, brief,
To yield a moment's cool relief,
To hedge the heaven in fleecy coil,
And raise its beauty by the foil ?
Without one solemn thunder-speech,
Allegiance to our God to teach?
No! since the strife the spirit mends,
We'll greet the storm His wisdom sends ;
And, like the sun in tempest-fray,
Fight through the wrack our gallant
Till, safe at sunset-hour at last, (way;
Triumphant over trials past,
The very clouds that prostrate lie,
Reflcct ihe blaze of victory;
And, like bright ranks of captive foes,
Complete our triumph at the close!

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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 cæli æquinoctialis
Jucundis zephyri silescit auris.
Valete hominum cetus,
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-? 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

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