SONNET.

THE senses are but prison gates, through which
The mind, incarcerate, looks dimly out

Upon the world; and yet how glorious

This faint and partial glimpse! The ear lets in
Upon a harp, deep set within the soul,

The trembling air; and this, though sepulchred
In clay, hath still the power to shape the lapse
Of the thin fluid into flowing music.

If, then, the soul, by these poor aids of sense,
Hath such a power, what must it be when, free
And franchised from the prison gloom, it looks on God,
And all his work, in the full light of heaven? —
And when it hears the hymning voice of love
Eternal poured from angel voices round?

TO A LADY.

THAT pensive brow may seem to speak of sorrow;
Yet in thine eye a dawn of pleasure lurks,
Just as to-night holds dalliance with to-morrow,
Behind yon hills where blushing morning smirks.

That veil may tell of clouds that dim thy days;
Yet through the mist the sun is fairest seen;
For then we dare to fix the enraptured gaze,
Where all too bright, unclouded, were its sheen.

Thy lip is arched, as if perchance in scorn;
Yet tell me, lady, prithee tell me why
"Tis like to Cupid's bow, which, though it warn,
Wakes the wild wish its gentle shafts to try?

SONG OF ESPOUSAL.

BY LIEUT. WM. B. GREENE, U.S. A.

O, BRIGHT is the glance from a lady's eye,
And soft is the tint on her rosy cheek,
And sweet are the tones of love's minstrelsy,

When the hopes of the bard in his numbers speak; But dearer, far dearer, art thou, my bride,

Than the throbbings of love or the measures of hope; Far brighter thy flash than the glances of pride; Thy language more melting than bard ever spoke.

Then hail to my SWORD! to my own fair bride!
To my first, to my last, to my only love!
In the darkness of death shalt thou dwell by my side,
O my first and my only love!

When the banner shall droop on the broken lance,

And the heart shall beat low to the fleeting breath, Our loves shall be sung, with a wild-measured dance, Where havock keeps time to the harpings of death. The couch of our bridal shall be the damp ground, With the blue cannon-smoke for a canopy spread, While the drum with the bugle shall mingle its sound For a wild serenade to the fair one I wed.

Then hail to my SWORD! to my own fair bride!
To my first, to my last, to my only love!
In the darkness of death shalt thou dwell by my side,
O my first and my only love!

FORT RUSSELL, E. F., Feb. 9, 1840.

BLUE-STOCKINGS.

BY J. A. JONES.

THERE is no word in the English language which is faster losing its signification than that of "blue-stockings." Indeed, it has become so thoroughly changed, that the little Queen should send a peremptory mandamus to the fellows of Brazen Nose or Oriel, commanding them to coin a new word to supply its place. Fifteen years ago, it was understood, in common parlance, to mean a woman between thirty and forty years of age, usually nearer the former than the latter, of questionable claims to strength of mind or solidity of judgment, of a freckled or sallow complexion, with coarse hair, bad eyes, bad teeth, bad gait, large feet, a pug nose, an inordinate snuff-taker, a termagant in disposition, a radical in petticoats, and, in matters of faith, either a bigot or a skeptic. To suppose for a moment that a "blue" could be sensible, or beautiful, or sprightly; could dance with grace, or sing with effect, or be possessed of

-

Α

any of the charms and witcheries which hover around the steps of an elegant and accomplished woman, - would have been accounted a singular hallucination of the judgment, a remarkable mistake of the eyes and ears. "blue" was thought to be estimated at her full value when reckoned at the wholesale price of an old lexicon; her peculiar province being supposed to be the settling of disputes in philology, and the reading of Newton, Locke, and Boyle, with the village schoolmaster. But, reader, mark the change which fifteen years have made in the opinions and feelings of the public. Now, to wit, in the month of in the year

1840-1, to be a "blue," means to be a lady, beautiful, gentle, virtuous, sprightly, musical, dancical; one possessed of all the elegant accomplishments; with a snowy forehead, and a swan-like neck, locks of glossy brown shading it; a foot that touches the earth like snow, and a hand like the down of the cygnet; and a step so light and aërial, that you can compare it to nothing but the attempt of a beautiful bird to light upon a slender-stemmed wild flower. Such is the idea at present attached to bluism. Though a lady aspires to be a leader of the beau monde, let her remember that, at the