MEMORIES.

Оn, pleasant are the memories
Of childhood's forest home,
And oft, amid the toils of life,
Like blessed dreams they come :
Of sunset hours when I lay entranced,
Mid shadows cool and green,
Watching the winged insects glance,

In summer's golden sheen:
Their drowsy hum was a lullaby
To Nature's quiet sleeping,
While o'er the meadow's dewy breast
The evening winds were creeping:
The ploughman's whistle heard afar,
To his humble home returning ;
And faintly in the gathering shade
The firefly's lamp was burning.

Up in the old oak's pleasant shade,

Where mossy branches swing,
With gentle twitterings, soft and low,
Nestling with fluttering wing-
Were summer birds-their tender notes
Like love's own fond caressing,
When a mother folds her little flock,

With a whispered prayer and blessing.
The cricket chirps from the hollow tree,
To the music of the rill,
And plaintively echoes through the wood
The song of the whip-poor-will.
Tinged with the last faint light of day,
A white cloud in the west
Floats in the azure sea above,

Like a ship on ocean's breast.

The evening star as a beacon shines

On the far horizon's verge,

And the wind moans through the distant pines, Like the troubled ocean's surge.

From lowly vales the rising mist

Curls up the hillside green,

And its summit, 'twixt the earth and sky,
Like a fairy isle is seen.

Away in the depths of ether shine
The stars serenely bright--
Gems in the glorious diadem,

Circling the brow of night.

Our Father! if thy meaner works
Thus beautiful appear,

If such revealings of thy love
Enkindle rapture here-

If to our mortal sense thou dost

Thy treasures thus unfold,

When death shall rend this earthly veil,
How shall our eyes behold

Thy glory-when the spirit soars
Beyond the starry zone,

And in thy presence folds her wing,
And bows before thy throne!

ENDURANCE.

WHEN, upon wings of rainbow hues,
Hope flits across thy pathway here,
And gently as the morning breeze
Her waving pinion dries thy tear,
Oh, yield not all thy soul to joy,

Let not her blandishments allure:
Life's greenest spot hath withered flowers-
Whate'er thy lot, thou must endure.
If, on the mountain's topmost cliff,

The flag of victory seems unfurled, And Faith, exulting, sees afar

Earth's idol, Error, downward hurled, Deem not the triumph thou shalt shareGod keeps his chosen vessels pure: The final reckoning is on high,

On earth thy meed is to endure.
With chastened heart, in humble faith,
Thy labor earnestly pursue,

As one who fears to such frail deeds
No recompense is due :

Wax not faint-hearted-while thou toil'st,

Thy bread and water shall be sure; Leaving all else to God, be thou Patient in all things to endure.

DUTY AND REWARD.

EVERY day hath toil and trouble,

Every heart hath care:
Meekly bear thine own full measure,

And thy brother's share.

Fear not, shrink not, though the burden
Heavy to thee prove;

God shall fill thy mouth with gladness,
And thy heart with love.
Patiently enduring, ever

Let thy spirit be

Bound by links, that can not sever,
To humanity.

Labor-wait! thy Master perished

Ere his task was done;

Count not lost thy fleeting moments,
Life hath but begun.

Labor and the seed thou sowest

Water with thy tears;

God is faithful-he will give thee
Answer to thy prayers.

Wait in hope! though yet no verdure
Glad thy longing eyes,

Thou shalt see the ripened harvest
Garnered in the skies.

Labor-wait! though midnight shadows

Gather round thee here,

And the storms above thee lowering

Fill thy heart with fear

Wait in hope the morning dawneth
When the night is gone,

And a peaceful rest awaits thee
When thy work is done.

LAURA M. HAWLEY, afterward Mrs. THURSTON, was born in Norfolk, Connecticut, in December, 1812. She completed her education in the Hartford Female Seminary, and subsequently was a teacher in Hartford and New Milford, Connecticut, in Philadelphia, and in New Albany, Indiana. In the latter place she was married, in September, 1839, to Mr. Franklin Thurston, a merchant; and surren

dering the school of which she had been the principal, to other hands, she resided there until her death, which occurred on the twenty-first of July, 1842. Under the signature of "Viola" Mrs. Thurston had made herself known by many productions marked by feeling and a melodious versification, which were for the most part originally published in the Louisville Journal.

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THE GREEN HILLS OF MY FATHERLAND.

THE green hills of my fatherland

In dreams still greet my view:

I see once more the wave-girt strand,
The ocean depth of blue;

The sky, the glorious sky, outspread
Above their calm repose;
The river, o'er its rocky bed

Still singing as it flows;
The stillness of the sabbath hours,

When men go up to pray;
The sunlight resting on the flowers,
The birds that sing among the bowers
Through all the summer day.
Land of my birth-mine early love-
Once more thine airs I breathe:
I see thy proud hills tower above,

Thy green vales sleep beneath;

Thy groves, thy rocks, thy murmuring rills,
All rise before mine eyes;

The dawn of morning on thy hills,

Thy gorgeous sunset skies;
Thy forests, from whose deep recess

A thousand streams have birth,
Gladdening the lonely wilderness,
And filling the green silentness

With melody and mirth.

I wonder if my home would seem
As lovely as of yore;

I wonder if the mountain stream
Goes singing by the door;

And if the flowers still bloom as fair,
And if the woodbines climb,

As when I used to train them there,
In the dear olden time;

I wonder if the birds still sing

Upon the garden tree,

As sweetly as in that sweet spring
Whose golden memories gently bring
So many dreams to me.

I know that there hath been a change,
A change o'er hall and hearth-
Faces and footsteps new and strange
About my place of birth:

The heavens above are still as bright
As in the days gone by,
But vanished is the beacon light

That cheered my morning sky;
And hill, and vale, and woodland glen,
And rock, and murmuring stream,
That wore such glorious beauty then,
Would seem, should I return again,
The record of a dream.

I mourn not for my childhood's hours,
Since, in the far-off west,
'Neath sunnier skies, in greener bowers,
My heart hath found its rest.

I mourn not for the hills and streams
That chained my steps so long,
Yet still I see thee in my dreams,
And hail them in my song;
And often by the hearth-fire's blaze,
When winter eves shall come,
We'll sit and talk of other days,
And sing the well-remembered lays
Of my green mountain home.

CROSSING THE ALLEGANIES.

THE broad, the bright, the glorious West,
Is spread before me now!
Where the gray mists of morning rest
Beneath yon mountain's brow!
The bound is past, the goal is won;
The region of the setting sun

Is open to my view:

Land of the valiant and the free-
My own Green Mountain land--to thee
And thine a long adieu!

I hail thee, Valley of the West,

For what thou yet shalt be;

I hail thee for the hopes that rest Upon thy destiny!

Here, from this mountain height, I see
Thy bright waves floating to the sea,
Thine emerald fields outspread;
And feel that, in the book of fame,
Proudly shall thy recorded name
In later days be read.

Yet, while I gaze upon thee now,
All glorious as thou art,
A cloud is resting on my brow,
A weight upon my heart.
To me, in all thy youthful pride,
Thou art a land of cares untried,
Of untold hopes and fears;
Thou art-yet not for thee I grieve;
But, for the far-off land I leave,
I look on thee with tears.

Oh! brightly, brightly glow thy skies
In Summer's sunny hours!
The green earth seems a paradise
Arrayed in summer flowers!
But oh! there is a land afar,
Whose skies to me are brighter far,

Along the Atlantic shore!
For eyes beneath their radiant shrine
In kindlier glances answered mine:
Can these their light restore?

Upon the lofty bound I stand

That parts the East and West;

Before me lies a fairy land—

Behind, a home of rest!

Here, Hope her wild enchantment flings,
Portrays all bright and lovely things
My footsteps to allure;

But there, in Memory's light, I see
All that was once most dear to me-
My young heart's cynosure!

MISS DAY was a daughter of the late eminent president of Yale College, and was born in New Haven on the thirteenth of February, 1813. She was educated at the best schools in Connecticut, and was particularly distinguished for her acquirements in mathematics and languages. She died suddenly, when but twenty years of age, on the second of December, 1833, and in the following year

HYMN.

FATHER Almighty!

a collection of her Literary Remains, with Memorials of her Life and Character, was published at New Haven by her friend and relative, Prof. Kingsley. Her poems were buds of promise, which justified the anticipa tions that were entertained of her eminence in literature. The following hymn was designed to be inserted in an unwritten drama, suggested by an incident in the life of David.

Father, her heart from all her idols tearing,

Thine erring child again would turn to thee; To thee she bends, trembling, yet not despairing: From fear, remorse, and sin, O Father! set her free.

LINES ON PSALM CII.
THE boundless universe,

All that it hath of splendor and of life,
The living, moving worlds, in their bright robes
Of blooming lands and heaving, glittering waters,
Even the still and holy depths of heaven,
Where the glad planets bathe in floods of light,
For ever pouring from a thousand suns,
All, all are but the garments of our God,
Yea, the dark foldings of his outmost skirts!
Mortal! who with a trembling, longing heart,
Watchest in silence the few rays that steal,
In their kind dimness, to thy feeble sight-
Watch on, in silence, till within thy soul,
Bearing away each taint of sin and death,
Springs the hid fountain of immortal life!
Then shall the mighty veil asunder rend,
And o'er the spirit-living, strong, and pure-
Shall the full glories of the Godhead flow!

MISS DODD is a daughter of Mr. Elisha Dodd, of Hartford, Connecticut, and was born in 1813. Her first appearance as an author was in 1834, when she contributed a few poems to The Hermenethean, a miscellany conducted by the students of Washington (now Trinity) College. She has since written frequently for the Ladies' Repository, a monthly magazine, and The Rose of Sharon, an annual, edited for several years by her friend the late Mrs. Mayo. A collection of

her poems was published at Hartford in 1843. Miss Dodd writes with taste and feeling, and her writings would have been known more generally and perhaps more favorably if she had not confined herself so much to denomi national channels of publication. Like Mrs. Scott, Mrs. Mayo, Mrs. Sawyer, Mrs. Case, the Careys, and some others who are quoted in this volume, she is of the Universalist church, though her religious compositions are all addressed to universal sympathies.

LAMENT.

SUMMER departs! the golden hours are dying!
In the green glade its minstrelsy is still;
A purple haze, like a thin veil, is lying

On the calm waters and the distant hill.
Cooler the breeze that waits upon the morning;
Paled is the splendor of the noontide ray;
Fewer the flowers the forest path adorning;
Earlier the twilight fades in gloom away.
Summer departs, and thou, too, hast departed!
Thou, who wert joy and sunshine to thy friends;
What have they now, the lonely and sad-hearted,
But the low mound which o'er thy slumber bends?
The Power that pales the season as its closes,
And folds the brightness in the blossom's breast,
Bade Death go forth among the fading roses,
And bear thy spirit to its promised rest.
Summer, sweet Summer! saddened in thy waning,
A shadow falleth on thy garlands gay;
A deeper gloom is on thy path remaining,

Since one beloved hath with thee passed away! Thou wilt come back; but when thy skies are burnAnd thy fair presence gladdens all the plain, [ing, How can we ever joy in thy returning?

How can we welcome thee with smiles again? Thou wilt not wake the dead, in silence sleeping, Who vanished from us with thy long, bright days; Thou wilt not call the form the grave is keeping, Once more to meet and bless our lingering gaze. So is it best-thou friend, returning never! Thou, the true-hearted, generous, and kind! For thee 'tis best: when kindred spirits sever, They only suffer who remain behind. Thou art secure from ill. Life's toil is ended; Finished, for thee, its feverishness and strife; Its discords in one harmony are blended; Its seeming gloom is all with brightness rife. Oh! in that glorious land the good inherit, Canst thou the anguish of a mourner see, Who finds the only spell that soothes her spirit In weaving thus a sad lament for thee?

THE MOURNER.

THOU weepest for a sister! In the bloom
And spring-time of her years to Death a prey,
Shrouded from love by the remorseless tomb,
Taken from all life's joys and griefs away.
'Tis hard to part with one so sudden called,
So young, so happy, and so dearly loved;
To see the arrow at our idol hurled,

And vainly pray the shaft may be removed.
Young, loving, and beloved! O cruel Death!

Couldst thou not spare the treasure for a while? There are warm hearts that wait to yield their breath, And aged eyes that can no longer smile. Why pass the weary pilgrims on their way

Bowed down with toil, and sighing for relief; To make the blossom in its pride thy prey, Whose joyous heart had never tasted grief? Sad sister, turn not hopelessly away;

Nor longer at the will of Heaven repine; Fold not thy hands in agony and say,

"There is no sorrow in the world like mine." Oh! could my numbers soothe the sinking soul, Or one hope waken with the wreath I twine, Soft sounds of sympathy should round thee roll Warm from a heart that knows such pain as thine. I, too, have been a mourner. Sorrow deep Its lava-tide around my pathway rolled; And sable weeds a hue could never keep,

Sad as the heart they hid beneath their fold. All joy grew dim before my tearful eye, Which but the shadow of the grave could see; There was no brightness in the earth or sky,

There was no sunshine in the world for me. Oh! bitter was the draught from Sorrow's cup, And stern the anguish which my spirit wrung, When I was called to give mine idol up,

And bend a mourner o'er the loved and young. And for the lost to weep is still my choice: I ask for one whose pilgrimage is o'er, And vainly listen for a vanished voice, Whose pleasant tones shall greet my ear no more.

There is a spell around my spirit cast,

A shadow where the sanbeam smiled before; 'Tis grief, but all its bitterness is past;

"T is sorrow, but its murmurings are o'er. Within my soul, which to the storm was bowed, Now the white wing of Peace is folded deep; And I have found, I trust, behind the cloud, The blessing promised to the eyes that weep. So thou wilt find relief. For deepest wo

A fount of healing in our pathway springs; Like Lethe's stream, that silver fountain's flow A soothing draught unto the sufferer brings. A Father chastened thee! oh, look to Him, And his dear love in all thy trials see; Look with the eye of faith through shadows dim, And he will send the Comforter to thee.

TO A CRICKET.

CEASE, cricket! cease thy melancholy song! Its chiming cadence falls upon mine ear With such a saddening influence all day long, I can not bear those mournful notes to hear; Notes that will often start the unbidden tear, And wake the heart to memories of old days, When life knew not a sorrow or a fear: For ever basking in the sunny rays Which seem so passing bright to youth's all-trustful gaze.

Once more my steps are stayed at eventide,
Beneath the fairest moon that ever shone;
Where the old oak threw out its branches wide
Over the low roof of mine early home;
Ere yet my bosom knew a wish to roam
From the broad shelter of that ancient tree,
Or dreamed of other lands beside our own,
Beyond the boundary of that flowery lea;
For the green valley there was world enough for me.
A group are gathered round the household hearth,
Where chilly Autumn bids the bright flame play;
And social converse sweet, and childhood's mirth,
Swiftly beguile the lengthened eve away:
A laughing girl shakes back her tresses gay,
With a half-doubtful look and wondering tone--
Hark! there is music! do you hear the lay?
Mother, what is it singing in the stone?
Some luckless fairy wight imprison'd there alone?"...

Wake not remembrance thus! for stern the fate
That marks my pathway with a weary doom;
And to a heart so worn and desolate,
Thy boding voice may add a deeper gloom.
Though few the clouds which o'er the blue sky
And green the livery of our forest bowers, [roam,
To warn us of a sure decay ye come,

In sable guise, trailing the faded flowers,
Singing the death-song sad of Summer's waning
hours!

Those emerald robes will change to russet brown,
Which Summer over vale and hillside cast;
To other skies, that know no wintry frown,
Bright birds shall wing their weary way at last;
And Autumn's hectic hues which fade so fast,

Will make the dark old woods a while look gay; But Death must come when the rare show is past: Then cease thy chant, dark prophet of decay! I can not bear to hear thy melancholy lay!

THE DREAMER.

"A dark, cold calm, which nothing now can break,
Or warm, or brighten; like that Syrian lake,
Upon whose surface Morn and Summer shed
Their smiles in vain, for all beneath is dead!"

HEART of mine, why art thou dreaming!
Dreaming through the weary day,
While life's precious hours are wasting,
Fast and unimproved away?

With a world of beauty round me, Lone and sad I dwell apart; Changing scenes can bring no pleasure To this wrecked and worn-out heart. Now I tempt the quiet Ocean

While the sky is bright above, And the sunlight rests around me, Like the beaming smile of Love. Or by streamlet softly flowing

Through the vale I wander now; And the balmy breath of Summer Fans my cheek and cools my brow. But as well, to me, might darken

Over all the gloom of night;
For no quick and sweet sensations
Fill my soul with new delight.
In the grass-grown, silent churchyard,
With a listless step I rove;
And I shed no tear of sorrow
By the graves of those I love.

Could I weep, the spell might vanish;

Tears would bring my heart relief— Heart so sealed to all emotion,

Dead alike to joy and grief.
When the storm that shook my spirit

Left its mission finished there,
Then a calm more fearful followed

Than the wildness of despair.

Whence the spell that chills my being,
Bidding every passion cease,
Closing every fount of feeling ?-
Say, my spirit, is it peace?

Wake, oh spell-bound Soul! awaken—
Bid this sad delusion flee:
Such a lengthened dream is fearful:
Such a peace is not for thee.

Life is thine, and "life is earnest,"

Toil and grief thou canst not shun; But be hopeful and believing,

Till the prize of faith is won. Then the peace thou shalt inherit By the Savior promised free; Peace the world destroyeth never— Father, give that peace to me!