While these enjoy the mirth that suits their years, Round the home fires their peaceful elders meet. A gentler mirth their friendly converse cheers; And yet, though calm their pleasures, they are sweet:

Through the cold shadows of the autumn day Oft breaks the sunshine with as genial heat As o'er the soft and sapphire skies of May, Though Nature then be young and exquisitely gay. On the white wings of peace their days have flown, Nor wholly were they thralled by earthly cares; But from their hearts to Heaven's paternal throne Arose the daily incense of their prayers. And now, as low the sun of being wears,

The God to whom their morning vows were paid, Each grateful offering in remembrance bears; And cheering beams of mercy are displayed, To gild with heavenly hopes their evening's pensive shade.

But now, farewell to thee, Thanksgiving Day! Thou angel of the year! one bounteous hand The horn of deep abundance doth display, Raining its rich profusion o'er the land; The other arm, outstretched with gesture grand, Pointing its upraised finger to the sky, Doth the warm tribute of our thanks demand For him, the Father God, who from on high Sheds gleams of purest joy o'er man's dark destiny.

MISS FRANCIS, now Mrs. DAVID L. CHILD, is a native of Massachusetts, and a sister of the Rev. Dr. Conyers Francis, of Harvard University. She is one of the most able and brilliant authors of the country, as is shown by her Philothea, Letters from New York,

and other works, of which an account is given in the Prose Writers of America. Most of her poems are contained in a small volume which she published many years ago, under the title of The Coronal. She resides in New York.

MARIUS.

SUGGESTED BY A PAINTING BY VANDDELYN, OF MARIUS SEATED AMONG THE RUINS OF CARTHAGE.

PILLARS are falling at thy feet,

Fanes quiver in the air,

A prostrate city is thy seat

And thou alone art there.

No change comes o'er thy noble brow,
Though ruin is around thee-
Thine eye-beam burns as proudly now,
As when the laurel crowned thee.

It can not bend thy lofty soul,
Though friends and fame depart;
The car of fate may o'er thee roll,
Nor crush thy Roman heart.
And Genius hath electric power,
Which earth can never tame;

Bright suns may scorch, and dark clouds lower-
Its flash is still the same.

The dreams we loved in early life

May melt like mist away;

High thoughts may seem, mid passion's strife,
Like Carthage in decay.

And proud hopes in the human heart
May be to ruin hurled,

Like mouldering monuments of art
Heaped on a sleeping world.

Yet there is something will not die,
Where life hath once been fair:
Some towering thoughts still rear on high,
Some Roman lingers there!

LINES,

ON HEARING A BOY MOCK THE SOUND OF A CLOCK
IN A CHURCH-STEEPLE, AS IT RUNG AT MID-DAY.

Av, ring thy shout to the merry hours:
Well may ye part in glee;

From their sunny wings they scatter flowers,
And, laughing, look on thee.

Thy thrilling voice has started tears:
It brings to mind the day

When I chased butterflies and years

And both flew fast away.

Then my glad thoughts were few and free: They came but to depart,

And did not ask where heaven could be-
'Twas in my little heart.

I since have sought the meteor crown,
Which fame bestows on men:
How gladly would I throw it down,
To be so gay again!

But youthful joy has gone away:
In vain 't is now pursued;
Such rainbow glories only stay
Around the simple good.

I know too much, to be as blessed
As when I was like thee;
My spirit, reasoned into rest,

Has lost its buoyancy.

Yet still I love the winged hours:
We often part in glee-

And sometimes, too, are fragrant flowers
Their farewell gifts to me.

LOUISA JANE PARK, now Mrs. HALL, was born in Newburyport, Massachusetts, on the seventh of February, 1802. Her father was a physician, but when she was about two years of age he abandoned his profession to remove to Boston, for the purpose of editing The Repertory, a leading political journal of the Federal party. In a few years he became weary of the conflict, then waged with so much violence, and, urged to do so by some of the most intelligent citizens, opened a school for young women, in which a more thorough education might be received than was common in that period. His daughter was then in her tenth year; he had already made her familiar with Milton and Shakspere; and it was partly with the view of executing his plans for her education that he decided to become a public teacher. His school was opened in the spring of 1811, and for twenty years was eminently successful. His daughter, except when her studies were interrupted by ill health, was eight years his pupil. She early showed symptoms of a susceptible constitution, and her experience, of a spirit ever prompting action, and a body incapable of fulfilling its commands without suffering, has been perpetual.

never again to attempt anything so long in the form of poetry. Her eyesight failed for four or five years, during which time she was almost entirely deprived of the use of books, the pen, and what she says she most regretted, the needle.

Previously to this, however, in 1831, her father had retired to Worcester, carrying with him a library of some three thousand volumes, containing many valuable works in Latin, French, and Italian. During her partial blindness, he read to her several hours every day, and assisted her in collecting the materials for her tale of Joanna of Naples, and for a biographical notice of Elizabeth Carter, the English authoress.

On the first of October, 1840, she was married to the Rev. Edward B. Hall, of Providence, Rhode Island, where she still resides, too much interested in domestic affairs, and in the duties which grow out of her relation to her husband's society, to bestow much further attention upon literature.

Miriam was published in 1837. It received the best approval of contemporary criticism, and a second edition, with such revision as the condition of the author's eyes had previously forbidden, appeared in the following year. Mrs. Hall had not proposed to herself to write a tragedy, but a dramatic poem, and the result was an instance of the successful accomplishment of a design, in which failure would have been but a repetition of the experiences of genius. The sub

iam only for amusement, as she did many little poems and tales which she destroyed. The first half of this drama, written in 1825, was read at a small literary party in Boston. The author, not being known, was present, and was encouraged by the remarks it occasioned to finish it in the following summer. Her father forbade her design to burn it; it was read, as completed, in the winter of 1826, and the authorship disclosed; but she had not courage to publish it for several years. She saw its defects more distinctly than before, when it appeared in print, and resolved

human race, but one which has never been treated with a more just appreciation of its nature and capacities. It is the first great conflict of the Master's kingdom, after its full establishment, with the kingdoms of this world. It is Christianity struggling with the first persecution of power, philosophy, and the interests of society. Milman had attempted its illustration in his brilliant and stately tragedy of The Martyr of Antioch; Bulwer had laid upon it his familiar hands in The Last Days of Pompeii; and since, our countryman, William Ware, has exhibited it with

power and splendor in his masterly romance of The Fall of Rome; but no one has yet approached more nearly its just delineation and analysis than Mrs. Hall in this beautiful

poem.

The plot is single, easily understood, and steadily progressive in interest and in action. Thraseno, a Christian exile from Judea, dwells with his family in Rome. He has two children, Euphas, and a daughter of remarkable beauty and a heart and mind in which are blended the highest attributes of her sex and her religion. She is seen and loved by Paulus, a young nobleman, whose father, Piso, had in his youth served in the armies in Palestine. The passion is mutual, but secret; and having failed to win the Roman to her faith, the Christian maiden resolves to part from him for ever. The family are summoned to the funeral of an aged friend, but she excuses herself for not going, and the agitation of her countenance arrests attention and leads to the most affectionate inquiries from Thraseno and Euphas. She replies:

My father! I am ill. A weight is on my spirits, and I feel The fountain of existence drying up, Shrinking I know not where, like waters lost Amid the desert sands. Nay! grow not pale! I have felt thus, and thought each secret spring Of life was failing fast within me. Then In saddest willingness I could have died. There have been hours I would have quitted you, And all that life hath dear and beautiful, Without one wish to linger in its smiles: My summons would have called a weary soul Out of a heavy bondage. But this day A better hope hath dawned upon my mind. A high and pure resolve is nourished there, And even now it sheds upon my breast That holy peace it hath not known so long. This night-ay! in a few brief hours, perchance, It will know calm once more-(or break at once!)

[Aside.

This is unsatisfactory; their suspicions are
excited, and they urge her to dispel the mys-
tery that invests her conduct. She says:
I can not can not yet.
Have I not told you that a starlike gleam
Was rising on my darkened mind? When Hope
Shall sit upon the tossing waves of thought,
As broods the halcyon on the troubled deep,
Then, if my spirit be not blighted, wrecked,
Crushed, by the storm, I will unfold my griefs.
But until then-and long it will not be !-
Yet in that brief, brief time my soul must bear
A fiercer, deadlier struggle still!-Ye dear ones!
Look not upon me thus but in your thoughts,

Within these mighty walls of sceptred Rome A thousand temples ise unto her gods, Bearing their lofty domes unto the skies, Grac'd with the proudest pomp of earth; their shrines Glittering with gems, their stately colonnades, Their dreams of genius wrought into bright forms, Instinct with grace and godlike majesty, Their ever smoking altars, white robed priests, And all the pride of gorgeous sacrifice. [ascend And yet these things are naught. Rome's prayers To greet th' unconscious skies, in the blue void Lost like the floating breath of frankincense, And find no hearing or acceptance there. And yet there is an Eye that ever marks Where its own people pay their simple vows, Though to the rocks, the caves, the wilderness, Scourged by a stern and ever watchful foe! There is an Ear that hears the voice of prayer Rising from lonely spots where Christians meet, Although it stir not more the sleeping air Than the soft waterfall, or forest breeze. Think'st thou, my father, this benignant God Will close his ear, and turn in wrath away From the poor sinful creature of his hand, Who breathes in solitude her humble prayer? Think'st thou he will not hear me, should I kneel Here in the dust beneath his starry sky, And strive to raise my voiceless thoughts to him, Making an altar of my broken heart?

They are at length persuaded to leave her, and they are scarcely gone when Paulus enters, with expressions of confidence and love, which are quickly checked by the changed expression of her countenance:

Paulus. Never, except in dreams, have I beheld Such deep and dreadful meaning in thine eye, Such agony upon thy quivering lip!

Speak, Miriam! breathe one blessed word of life;
For in the middle watch of yesternight
Even thus I saw a dim and shadowy ghost
Standing beneath the moon's uncertain light,
So mute-so motionless-so changed-and yet
So like to thee!

Miriam. My Paulus! Paul. 'Tis thy voice!

Praised be the gods! it never seemed so sweet.
Say on my spirit hangs upon thy words.
What blight hath stricken thee since last we met?
Mir. A blight that is contagious, and will fall
Perchance upon thy fairest, dearest hopes,
With no less deadly violence than now

It hath on mine. Paulus! is there no word

These lips can utter, that may make thee wish Eternal silence there had stamped her seal?

Paul. I know not, love! thou startlest me!

no! none!

Unless it be of hatred-change or death! And these-it can be none of these!

Mir. Why not?

Paul. Ye gods, my Miriam! look not on me thus! My blood runs cold. "Why not," saidst thou? BeThou art too young, too good, too beautiful, [cause To die; and as for change or hatred, love, Not till I see yon clear and starry skies Raining down fire and pestilence on man, Turning the beauteous earth whereon we stand Into an arid, scathed, and blackening waste, Miriam, will I believe that thou canst change.

Mir. Oh, thou art right! the anguish of my soul, My spirit's deep and rending agony,

Tell me that though this heart may surely break,
There is no change within it! and through life,
Fondly and wildly-though most hopelessly-
With all its strong affections will it cleave
To him for whom it nearly yielded all
That makes life precious-peace and self esteem,
Friends upon earth, and hopes in heaven above!
Paul. Mean'st thou-I know not what. My
mind grows dark

Amid a thousand wildering mazes lost.
There is a wild and dreadful mystery
Even in thy words of love I can not solve.

Mir. Hear me: for with the holy faith that erst Made strong the shuddering patriarch's heart and

hand,

When meek below the glittering knife lay stretched The boy whose smiles were sunshine to his age, This night I offer up a sacrifice

Of life's best hopes to the One Living God! Yes, from this night, my Paulus, never more Mine eyes shall look upon thy form, mine ears Drink in the tones of thy beloved voice.

Paul. Ye gods! ye cruel gods! let me awake And find this but a dream!

Mir. Is it then said?

O God! the words so fraught with bitterness
So soon are uttered-and thy servant lives!
Ay, Paulus; ever from that hour, when first
My spirit knew that thine was wholly lost,
And to its superstitions wedded fast,
Shrouded in darkness, blind to every beam
Streaming from Zion's hill athwart the night
That broods in horror o'er a heathen world,
Even from that hour my shuddering soul beheld
A dark and fathomless abyss yawn wide
Between us two; and o'er it gleamed alone
One pale, dim twinkling star! the lingering hope
That grace descending from the Throne of Light
Might fall in gentle dews upon that heart,
And melt it into humble piety.
Alas! that hope hath faded; and I see
The fatal gulf of separation still
Between us, love, and stretching on for aye
Beyond the grave in which I feel that soon
This clay with all its sorrows shall lie down.
Union for us is none, in yonder sky:
Then how on earth ?-so in my inmost soul,

Nurtured with midnight tears, with blighted hopes,
With silent watchings and incessant prayers,

A holy resolution hath ta'en root,
And in its might at last springs proudly up.
We part, my Paulus! not in hate, but love,
Yielding unto a stern necessity.
And I along my sad, short pilgrimage,
Will bear the memory of our sinless love
As mothers wear the image of the babe
That died upon their bosom ere the world
Had stamped its spotless soul with good or ill,
Pictured in infant loveliness and smiles,

Close to the heart's fond core, to be drawn forth
Ever in solitude, and bathed in tears.-
But how! with such unmanly grief struck down,
Withered, thou Roman knight!

Paul. My brain is pierced!

Mine eyes with blindness smitten! and mine ear
Rings faintly with the echo of thy words!
Henceforth what man shall ever build his faith
On woman's love, on woman's constancy?-
Maiden, look up! I would but gaze once more
Upon that open brow and clear, dark eye,
To read what aspect Perjury may wear,
What garb of loveliness may Falsehood use,
To lure the eye of guileless, manly love!
Cruel, cold blooded, fickle that thou art,
Dost thou not quail beneath thy lover's eye?
How! there is light within thy lofty glance,
A flush upon thy cheek, a settled calm
Upon thy lip and brow!

Mir. Ay, even so.

A light-a flush-a calm-not of this earth!
For in this hour of bitterness and wo,
The grace of God is falling on my soul
Like dews upon the withering grass which late
Red scorching flames have seared. Again
The consciousness of faith, of sins forgiven,
Of wrath appeased, of heavy guilt thrown off,
Sheds on my breast its long forgotten peace,
And shining steadfast as the noonday sun,
Lights me along the path that duty marks.
Lover too dearly loved! a long farewell!
The bannered field, the glancing spear, the shout
That bears the victor's name unto the skies-
The laurelled brow-be thine-

Before the conclusion of this scene, which is
full of natural pathos and the illustrations of
a passionate fancy, they are interrupted by
Euphas, who suddenly returns to inform his
sister that the funeral party had been sur-
prised by a band of Roman soldiers, some
slain, and others, among whom was their
father, borne to prison. The indignation of
Euphas is excited by finding Paulus with
Miriam, and she answers to his reproaches:
Stay, stay, rash boy! Alas!
The thickening horrors of this awful night
Have flung, methinks, a spell upon my soul.
I tell thee, Euphas, thou hast far more cause,
Proudly to clasp my breaking heart to thine,
And bless me with a loving brother's praise,
Than thus to stand with sad but angry eye,

Hurling thy hasty scorn upon a brow
As sinless as thine own-breaking the reed
But newly bruised-pouring coals of fire
Upon my fresh and bleeding wounds! Oh, tell me,
What hath befallen my father? Say he lives,
Or let me lay my head upon thy breast,
And die at once!

Euphas answers harshly, and by the aid of a body of Christians, armed for the emergency, he seizes Paulus as a hostage, and goes to the palace of Piso to claim the liberation of Thraseno. Miriam, who had fainted during this scene, on her recovery follows him on his hopeless errand; and we are next introduced to the palace, where the young Christian is urging, on the ground of humanity, the release of his father, in a manner finely contrasted with the contemptuous fierceness of the hardhearted magistrate. Piso is inexorable, and Euphas reminds him of his son, tells him that he is a hostage, and discloses his love for Miriam. The Roman exclaims: Knowest thou not

Thou hast but sealed thy fate? His life had been
More precious to me than the air I breathe;
And cheerfully I would have yielded up
A thousand Christian dogs from yonder dens
To save one hair upon his head. But now-
A Christian maid! Were there none other? Gods!
Shame and a shameful death be his, and thine!

Euph. It is the will of God. My hopes burnt dim Even from the first, and are extinguished now. The thirst of blood hath rudely choked at last The one affection which thy dark breast knew, And thou art man no more. Let me but die First of thy victims

Piso. Would that she among themWhere is the sorceress? I fain would see The beauty that hath witched Rome's noblest youth. Euph. Hers is a face thou never wilt behold. Piso. I will. On her shall fall my worst revenge; And I will know what foul and magic artsHere Miriam glides in, and changes the whole current of Piso's feelings, by her extraordinary resemblance to a Jewess whom he had loved in youth and never ceased to lament. He addresses her as the spirit of the object of his early passion:

Beautiful shadow! in this hour of wrath, What dost thou here? In life thou wert too meek, Too gentle for a lover stern as I.

And, since I saw thee last, my days have been
Deep steeped in sin and blood! What seekest thou?
I have grown old in strife, and hast thou come,
With thy dark eyes and their soul searching glance,
To look me into peace? It can not be.
Go back, fair spirit, to thine own dim realms!
He whose young love thou didst reject on earth,
May tremble at this visitation strange,
But never can know peace or virtue more!

Thou wert a Christian, and a Christian dog
Did win thy precious love. I have good cause
To hate and scorn the whole detested race;
And till I meet that man, whom most of all
My soul abhors, will I go on and slay!
Fade, vanish, shadow bright! In vain that look,
That sweet, sad look! My lot is cast in blood!
Mir. Oh, say not so!

Piso. The voice that won me first!
Oh, what a tide of recollections rush
Upon my drowning soul! my own wild love-
Thy scorn-the long, long days of blood and guilt
That since have left their footprints on my fate!
The dark, dark nights of fevered agony,
When, mid the strife and struggling of my dreams,
The gods sent thee at times to hover round,
Bringing the memory of those peaceful days
When I beheld thee first! But never yet
thou appeared
Fair spirit!

Before my waking eyes hast
Distinct and visible as now.
What wouldst thou have?

Mir. Oh, man of guilt and wo!
Thine own dark fantasies are busy now,
Lending unearthly seeming to a thing
Of earth, as thou art.

Piso. How! Art thou not she?

I know that face! I never yet beheld
One like to it among earth's loveliest.
Why dost thou wear that semblance, if thou art
A thing of mortal mould? Oh, better meet
The wailing ghosts of those whose blood doth clog
My midnight dreams, than that half pitying eye!

Mir. Thou art a wretched man! and I do feel
Pity even for the suffering guilt hath brought.
But from the quiet grave I have not come,
Nor from the shadowy confines of the world
Where spirits dwell, to haunt thy midnight hour.
The disembodied should be passionless,
And wear not eyes that swim in earthborn tears,
As mine do now. Look up, thou conscience struck!
Piso. Off! off! She touched me with her damp,

cold hand,

But 'twas a hand of flesh and blood! Away!
Come thou not near me till I study thee.

Mir. Why are thine eyes so fixed and wild?— thy lips

Convulsed and ghastly white? Thine own dark
Vexing thy soul, have clad me in a form [sins,
Thou darest not look upon-I know not why.
But I must speak to thee. Mid thy remorse,
And the unwonted terrors of thy soul,

I must be heard, for God hath sent me here.
Piso. Who, who hath sent thee here?
Mir. The Christian's God,

The God thou knowest not.

Piso. Thou art of earth!

I see the rose tint on thy pallid cheek,
Which was not there at first: it kindles fast!
Say on. Although I dare not meet that eye,
I hear thee.

Mir. He hath given me strength,
And led me safely through the broad, lone streets,
Even at the midnight hour. My heart sunk not;
My noiseless foot paced on unfaltering
Through the long colonnades, where stood aloft