"Now with shrill and wondering shout, As some new-found prize they pull, Prattlers range the fields about, Till their laps with flowers are full; On the ground, Now they sort the wonders found. "Now do those in cities pent, Laboring life away, confess, Now their eyes such visions see Times that yet again might be. Very like the dainty lyrics of Barry Cornwall are the following Epitaphs for Infants. To slightly alter the saying of Shelley, in speaking of Keats's burial-place, it might almost make one in love with death to have so sweet a funeral rhyme. "EPITAPHS FOR INFANTS. I. "Here the gusts of wild March blow II. "On this little grassy mound III. "Here in gentle pity, Spring, And through all June's honey'd hours IV. "Haunter of the opening year, Of another stamp is the sonnet to Miss Mitford. Seldom, we fancy, has “Our Village" had so appreciative and poetical a reader. "Out have I been this morning-out-away, Far from the bustling carefulness of towns, Through April gleams and showers-on windy downs, By rushy meadow-streams with willows gray; In thick-leaf'd woods have hid me from the day Sultry with June-and where the windmill crowns The hills' green height, the landscape that renowns Thy own green country, have I, as I lay Crushing the sweetness of the flowering thyme, Track'd through the misty distance. Village greens All shout and cheerfulness in cricket time, But the sweetest poem in the volume is that written upon his child May. It is sure to be a favorite with all fathers and mothers. Miss Mitford thus speaks of it in her "Recollections of a Literary Life:" "Of all writers, the one who has best understood, best painted, best felt infant nature, is my dear and valued friend Mr. Bennett. We see at once that it is not only a charming and richly-gifted poet who is describing childish beauty, but a young father, writing from his heart. So young, indeed, is he in reality and appearance, that he was forced to produce a shoemaker's bill for certain little blue kid slippers before he could convince an incredulous critic (I believe poor Ebenezer Elliott, the CornLaw Rhymer,) that Baby May was really his own child, and not an imaginary personage invented for the nonce; and yet Greenwich can tell how much this young ardent mind, aided by kindred spirits, has done in the way of baths and wash-houses, and schools, and lectures, and libraries, and mechanics' institutes to further the great cause of progress, mental and bodily. THE FESTIVAL OF ALL-SAINTS'-DAY: So well do strength and tenderness of character go together, and so fine a thing is the union of activity with thought. "Baby May' is among the most popular of Mr. Bennett's lyrics, and among the most original, as that which is perfectly true to nature can hardly fail to be. "BABY MAY. "Cheeks as soft as July peaches- That's May Bennett-that's my baby." We are certain that our readers thank us for copying these poems, and that they desire to know more of their author. They shall, in some future number, and of the other young authors of England. In the meantime let them ponder on what they have read, and remember W. C. Bennett, -an author who will be better known to our children than to ourselves. R. H. STOddard. NEW-YORK, January, 1853. IN A BIT OF ROMANCE. N the south of Germany the old and venerable custom of adorning the graves in the burying-grounds on the first and second day of November with garlands and lamps, is still kept up. It is an affecting festival which the survivers prepare for their deceased relations and friends. On those days the whole population of the town assemble in the church-yard, and gaze with melancholy recollection, or joyful confidence in the future, on the adorned death-feast, and pray, while the priest, using the requisite forms, draws from the holy well the sacred flood with which he is to sprinkle the graves in order to consecrate them. Death, then garlanded with flowers, becomes a friendly teacher; the lamps and tapers are images of the everlasting light, and the passing from the joys of summer and autumn to the quiet advent time, involves a very peculiar preparation. This festival is celebrated nowhere so beautifully as at Munich. On the morning of All-Saints'-Day, the families greet each other over the resting-places of those they loved, arranging, adorning, and praying in faithful hope, or weeping in sad remembrance. There are but few signs of mourning to be seen. Light and life reign everywhere; the loveliest flowers and plants bloom on the graves; cypresses and weeping-willows wave and rustle in the breeze; and, if anything reminds us of the chillness of death, or the gloom that we dread, it is the lifeless forms of the hired male and female gravewatchers, who stand near the mounds, to tend the lamps and flowers, mechanically repeating their rosary, contemplating sullenly and indifferently the imposing spectacle around them, and longing for the evening, when the reward which has been promised them is to be paid. In the evening these repugnant figures leave the garden, but they take away with them the flowers and lights, and the feast is at an end. The variegated lamps are hung up again in the rooms, and the flowers and plants are taken to the gardeners' hothouses, to the milliner's shop-counter, or to the boudoir of some lovely maiden. Such is life! Speaking of this festival, a story occurs to me. I was once at this death-feast, and had just turned from a mound watereded to my lodgings late, and quickly yielded by the tears of a numerous family, to go into the more desolate parts of the grounds, where the watchers are more thinly scattered, and where only individual mourners are to be seen. Suddenly I stood before a friend whom I had not seen for many years. With a pale countenance and hollow eyes, he leaned upon an urn, and he shuddered like a criminal when I addressed him. My greeting was short but sincere; and my next question was, "What is the matter with you: does your bride sleep here?" He shook his head and said, "A maiden rests here, who, in the bloom of her youth, sank into the grave, swept away by the drunken spirit of the dance. A maiden whom I never knew, and yet a bitter enemy, has robbed me of all my peace. Place yourself beside me on this hillock, and listen :— myself to sleep, in which jovial toasts and "Many years ago business led me through this town, at this very time of the year, and I saw the festival that they are celebrating to-day. At that time this grave was newly made, and as abundantly adorned with flowers as it is now destitute of them. This was natural, for the love and grief of a mother had adorned it with roses and branches; but love and grief soon laid the fond mother by the side of her only daughter. Now no one cares for the beautiful dead as they did at that time, when all the town spoke of her, and I, a stranger, was curious to see her grave, and was tempted, in remembrance of her early departed charms, to take one of the roses which bloomed on her place of rest. I stole the flower, and hastened to the gates, bearing it on my heart. There I perceived an inscription, affecting, simple, and touching. It ran thus: Respect the property of the dead!' I trembled involuntarily, conscious of my robbery; and the pious belief of my childish years was so strong, that I was on the point of returning the rose to the place whence I had taken it. O that I had done so! but false shame was triumphant, and a species of free-flamed with the most burning colors, and thinking overcame the pure childish emotion. I returned home, indulged my self for some minutes with the rare beauty of the lovely flower, which did not appear to have grown in a hot-house, but in the fields by the Arno. I then placed it carefully in a glass of water, and left the inn to seek a friend. "The evening passed merrily; I return- the clods of earth, choked by the embraces "The maiden's grave alone was dark and forsaken, and no flower blossomed on it. "At a sign from the shadow, I scratched up the dry earth with my fingers, and planted the rose. Instantly the hill around the stars rocked themselves in the newlysprung flowers. So, it is well,' said the figure, in a hollow voice; but now thou art mine!' The hill opened, the grave yawned on me, and the corpse, sinking like a light flake of snow, drew me irresistibly down with her. The whole weight of the earth rushed upon me. Oppressed by of the ghost, I lost all consciousness-and and, with a blush of pleasure, she showed I awoke, and found myself in bed, the me the ornament, woven of fresh myrtle bright sun shining full upon me, and, with and artificial orange-blossoms. a sigh of relief, I set the past down entirely as a dream. But as this dream seemed to become more and more impressed on my memory, I rose to convince myself that I had really only dreamed, but, on going to the window to look at my rose, and to breathe its fragrance, it had disappeared. The glass was empty; the window was firmly closed, and the door was bolted. All inquiries after the flower were in vain. No one had seen it, no one had taken it, and I was obliged to conceal my anguish, in order not to be laughed at by the irreligious, or shunned by the religious. But since that time my rest is gone, and from hour to hour I await the irreconcilable enemy who will take me away to punish me for the violence I practiced on her grave." Deeply and securely buried among the trembling leaves and stalks, I soon detected a flower, unusual in a bridal garland-a rose. Werner smiled, as I pointed it out, and said, "That is a whim of my own. This faded flower, which has been preserved for years, is the foundation of our domestic happiness, the first pledge of our love; and therefore I took it from my pocket-book, and placed it, like a religious relic, in the bridal wreath. It is just five years ago to-day, when my Anna, who was then a poor servant-maid in the inn opposite, entered my shop. I had often seen the charming girl, but had never ventured to say how much I was attached to her. But on that evening she wore in her bosom this rose, almost shaming the blushes on her cheeks; and with this rose I opened my conversation. I spoke with courage and fire, confessed my affection, obtained Anna's in return, and received from her, as a pledge of it, this rose. Heaven be praised! it was a talisman which constantbound us together, and has united us at last at the altar." "It is most curious," said I; "as a rose has caused your happiness, so also a rose has caused my friend's misery." Of course I said everything I could to assuage his melancholy-to banish his fear; but rooted prejudices are not easily taken from the mind. In vain I proposed to him to accompany me to a merry company; he had been to none for years he said.ly I wished to carry him to a concert; it disgusted him. At length I recollected that I had been invited to a little party which was to be given that evening by an acquaintance of mine, who some days previously had married a young girl of obscure rank, but honest, pious, and industrious, and who, therefore, appeared likely to make my honest Werner happy. He had frequently shown me a variety of kind offices, and appeared sincerely attached to me. My friend accompanied me to the frugal repast of these good people, and, at their patriarchal table, at which Werner's aged mother presided, like a household goddess, the mourner enjoyed an hour's peace; but the evil spirit came over him again, and, scarcely bidding the company farewell, he flew to his lodging, again to bury himself with his melancholy. Werner and his family naturally asked the cause of this mournful frame of mind, and I answered, "It is because it is so mournful that I would not willingly disturb the joys of this marriage festival by relating its cause :" and, in order to divert all curiosity from the subject, Werner begged his young wife to show me the beautiful bridal garland she had worn at her wedding. She brought out the box, I then related his story, and I remarked the lovely Anna first became red, then pale, and at last she interrupted me-"I recollect your friend now, and I acknowledge, with repentance, that my indiscretion has, perhaps, been the cause of his misfortunes. He lived in our inn; and in his room, which I arranged very late on the evening of All-Saints'-Day, I found this magnificent flower, which allured and tempted me so much that I took it away, convinced that the young gentleman would not think much about a rose which he had plucked the day before. It turned out differently. The landlady questioned us all severely about the lost flower; but could I confess its fate, without at the same time confessing my little theft, and my love to Werner?" I started up, embraced Werner and Anna, and that very night I brought back my friend, who suddenly saw his anguish fall from him, like scales from the eyes; and, becoming instantly a new man, he thoroughly enjoyed the social hilarities of the evening. THE WIFE OF GUIZOT: THP HER LIFE AND WRITINGS. HE wife of Guizot, Elizabeth Charlotte Pauline de Meulan, was born at Paris, on the 2d November, 1773. Her parents had all the feelings and tastes which distinguished good society at the end of the last century. They took advantage of their large fortune and position in the world, to open their house to a brilliant and literary society, that made conversation its only occupation and its primary amusement. This liberality of mind, then so common in the Parisian world, gave them some leaning toward the new opinions, which they adopted with confidence, but not with zeal; and among the distinguished men of the time they preferred those of the moderate party. It was one of those families of which M. Neckar was the minister; that is to say, who prepared the way for the Revolution, without either desiring or foreseeing it. Madame de Meulan showed an early and marked partiality for her daughter, and lavished on her all the cares which a weak and sickly childhood required. From her earliest years she manifested a lively sensibility, a perfect integrity, and, when her education commenced, an extreme facility in learning. Her mind, however, still appeared inactive, tractable, and thoughtful;| she gave herself up to the employments of her age, without taking any interest in them; her lessons neither wearied her nor gave her pleasure. She went through her duties because she liked order; and it was more easy to obey than to resist. When, between ten and fourteen years of age, the quickness of her understanding struck the attention of her masters, and excited the hopes of her family, she still continued to carry but little spirit or taste into her studies. She sometimes composed fables and little dramas, as many children do who never afterward excel. These essays, destitute of originality and invention, were only remarkable for singular correctness, and here and there some happy strokes of feeling; but there was nothing that indicated either that energy or that independence which were one day to rank high in the qualities of her disposition and her mind. Thoughtful and silent, she seemed to be waiting for that external cause which was to give her the impulse that she wanted. It is seldom that the stimulating power of circumstances can be dispensed with in the development of the mind, more especially that of a female, of even the most distinguished talents. Called by nature to hold, in a certain degree, a position of dependence, and her own instinctive modesty keeping her talents in the shade, a woman's mind is never fully known, even to herself, till some powerful cause arises, and calls forth the latent powers of her mind, and shows her what she is. She quietly awaits a voice to say, "Arise and walk." As Mademoiselle de Meulan began to advance from childhood, she felt a vague necessity of finding some employment for her faculties, though she was conscious of her inability to bring them herself into play. She has described this feeling in a letter dated 1822. She says "At that period (1787) I was exactly at the age when I began to take some interest in life, when, after a childhood to which no one knew how to give the impetus that I had not strength to find in myself, I began to feel the energy of existence. I was coming out of the clouds, and awoke as on a fine day in Spring. This is the remembrance that I have of that age." She was nearly sixteen when the revolution broke out. She lived in the midst of every opinion, but held none of them. It was not long before discontent and disturbance were spread around her, and, though she judged of the events of this time with severity, yet she enjoyed the liberty, the excitement, it occasioned. She always preserved a very lively recollection of the society of that period, and of the two sittings of the National Assembly, at which she had been present. From that time a strong leaning toward equality took possession of her mind; therefore it was not through the changes introduced into the social system that the revolution wounded her; the violence and injustice, the readiness to sacrifice right to power, the taste for licentiousness and disorder,in short, all the evils unhappily inseparable from civil strife, struck her so forcibly, that she retained through life a kind of resentment against the revolution, for having caused her so much suffering. Such was the impression it left on her, that she was not able to speak of it with calmness thirty years afterward; and it required all the influence of her reason to appreciate that period with the impartiality due to history. She herself distrusted her |