THE WINTER BURIAL.

THE deep toned bell peals long and low
On the keen, midwinter air;

A sorrowing train moves sad and slow
From the solemn place of prayer.
The earth is in a winding sheet,

And nature wrapped in gloom;

Cold, cold the path which the mourners' feet
Pursue to the waiting tomb.

They follow one who calmly goes

From her own loved mansion door,

Nor shrinks from the way through gathered snows,
To return to her home no more.

A sable line, to the drift crowned hill,
The narrow pass they wind;

And here, where all is drear and chill,
Their friend they leave behind.

The silent grave they're bending o'er,
A long farewell to take;
One last, last look, and then, no more
Till the dead shall all awake!

THE PEBBLE AND THE ACORN.

"I AM a Pebble! and yield to none!"
Were the swelling words of a tiny stone-
"Nor time nor seasons can alter me;
I am abiding, while ages flee.
The pelting hail and the drizzling rain
Have tried to soften me, long, in vain;
And the tender dew has sought to melt
Or touch my heart; but it was not felt.
There's none that can tell about my birth,
For I'm as old as the big, round earth.
The children of men arise, and pass
Out of the world, like the blades of grass;
And many a foot on me has trod,
That's gone from sight, and under the sod.
I am a Pebble! but who art thou,
Rattling along from the restless bough?"

The Acorn was shocked at this rude salute,
And lay for a moment abashed and mute;
She never before had been so near
This gravelly ball, the mundane sphere;
And she felt for a time at a loss to know
How to answer a thing so coarse and low.
But to give reproof of a nobler sort
Than the angry look, or the keen retort,
At length she said, in a gentle tone,
"Since it is happened that I am thrown
From the lighter element where I grew,
Down to another so hard and new,
And beside a personage so august,
Abased, I will cover my head with dust,
And quickly retire from the sight of one
Whom time, nor season, nor storm, nor sun,
Nor the gentle dew, nor the grinding heel,
Has ever subdued, or made to feel!"
And soon in the carth she sank away

From the comfortless spot where the Pebble lay.
But it was not long ere the soil was broke
By the peering head of an infant oak!

And, as it arose, and its branches spread,
The Pebble looked up, and, wondering, said,
"A modest Acorn-never to tell

What was enclosed in its simple shell!
That the pride of the forest was folded up
In the narrow space of its little cup!
And meekly to sink in the darksome earth,
Which proves that nothing could hide her worth!
And, oh! how many will tread on me,
To come and admire the beautiful tree,
Whose head is towering toward the sky,
Above such a worthless thing as I!
Useless and vain, a cumberer here,
I have been idling from year to year.
But never from this, shall a vaunting word
From the humbled Pebble again be heard,
Till something without me or within
Shall show the purpose for which I've been!"
The Pebble its vow could not forget,
And it lies there wrapped in silence yet.

THE SHIP IS READY.

FARE thee well! the ship is ready, And the breeze is fresh and steady. Hands are fast the anchor weighing; High in air the streamer's playing. Spread the sails-the waves are swelling Proudly round thy buoyant dwelling. Fare thee well! and when at sea, Think of those who sigh for thee. When from land and home receding, And from hearts that ache to bleeding, Think of those behind, who love thee, While the sun is bright above thee! Then, as, down to ocean glancing, In the waves his rays are dancing, Think how long the night will be To the eyes that weep for thee! When the lonely night watch keeping All below thee still and sleepingAs the needle points the quarter O'er the wide and trackless water, Let thy vigils ever find thee Mindful of the friends behind thee! Let thy bosom's magnet be Turned to those who wake for thee! When, with slow and gentle motion, Heaves the bosom of the oceanWhile in peace thy bark is riding, And the silver moon is gliding O'er the sky with tranquil splendor, Where the shining hosts attend her: Let the brightest visions be Country, home, and friends, to thee! When the tempest hovers o'er thee, Danger, wreck, and death, before thee, While the sword of fire is gleaming, Wild the winds, the torrent streaming, Then, a pious suppliant bending, Let thy thoughts, to Heaven ascending, Reach the mercy seat, to be Met by prayers that rise for thee!

THE CHILD ON THE BEACH.

MARY, a beautiful, artless child,

Came down on the beach to me, Where I sat, and a pensive hour beguiled By watching the restless sea.

I never had seen her face before,

And mine was to her unknown;

But we each rejoiced on that peaceful shore
The other to meet alone.

Her cheek was the rose's opening bud,
Her brow of an ivory white;

Her eyes were bright as the stars that stud
The sky of a cloudless night.

To reach my side as she gayly sped,

With the step of a bounding fawn,
The pebbles scarce moved beneath her tread,
Ere the little light foot was gone.
With the love of a holier world than this

Her innocent heart seemed warm;
While the glad young spirit looked out with bliss
From its shrine in her sylphlike form.
Her soul seemed spreading the scene to span
That opened before her view,

And longing for power to look the plan
Of the universe fairly through.

She climbed and stood on the rocky steep,

Like a bird that would mount and fly

Far over the waves, where the broad, blue deep

Rolled up to the bending sky.

She placed her lips to the spiral shell,

And breathed through every fold;
She looked for the depth of its pearly cell,
As a miser would look for gold.
Her small, white fingers were spread to toss
The foam, as it reached the strand:
She ran them along in the purple moss,
And over the sparkling sand.

The green sea egg, by its tenant left,

And formed to an ocean cup,

She held by its sides, of their spears bereft,
To fill, as the waves rolled up.

But the hour went round, and she knew the space
Her mother's soft word assigned;

While she seemed to look with a saddening face
On all she must leave behind.

She searched mid the pebbles, and, finding one
Smooth, clear, and of amber dye,
She held it up to the morning sun,

And over her own mild eye.

Then, "Here," said she, "I will give you this,
That you may remember me!"
And she sealed her gift with a parting kiss,
And fled from beside the sea.

Mary, thy token is by me yet:

To me 'tis a dearer gem

Than ever was brought from the mine, or set
In the loftiest diadem.

It carries me back to the far off deep,
And places me on the shore,

Where the beauteous child, who bade me keep
Her pebble, I meet once more.

And all that is lovely, pure, and bright,

In a soul that is young, and free
From the stain of guile, and the deadly blight
Of sorrow, I find in thee.

I wonder if ever thy tender heart
In memory meets me there,

Where thy soft, quick sigh, as we had to part,
Was caught by the ocean air.

Blest one! over Time's rude shore, on thee
May an angel guard attend,

And a white stone bearing a new name," be
Thy passport when time shall end!

THE MIDNIGHT MAIL.

"Tis midnight-all is peace profound! But, lo! upon the murmuring ground, The lonely, swelling, hurrying sound

Of distant wheels is heard!

They come-they pause a moment—when,
Their charge resigned, they start, and then
Are gone, and all is hushed again,
As not a leaf had stirred.
Hast thou a parent far away,
A beauteous child, to be thy stay
In life's decline-or sisters, they

Who shared thine infant glee?
A brother on a foreign shore?
Is he whose breast thy token bore,
Or are thy treasures wandering o'er
A wide, tumultuous sea?

If aught like these, then thou must feel
The rattling of that reckless wheel,
That brings the bright or boding seal

On every trembling thread

That strings thy heart, till morn appears,
To crown thy hopes, or end thy fears,
To light thy smile, or draw thy tears,
As line on line is read.

Perhaps thy treasure's in the deep,
Thy lover in a dreamless sleep,
Thy brother where thou canst not weep
Upon his distant grave!

Thy parent's hoary head no more
May shed a silver lustre o'er

His children grouped-nor death restore
Thy son from out the wave!
Thy prattler's tongue, perhaps, is stilled,
Thy sister's lip is pale and chilled,
Thy blooming bride, perchance, has filled
Her corner of the tomb.

May be, the home where all thy sweet
And tender recollections meet,
Has shown its flaming winding-sheet
In midnight's awful gloom!
And while, alternate, o'er my soul
Those cold or burning wheels will roll
Their chill or heat, beyond control,

Till morn shall bring relief-
Father in heaven, whate'er may be
The cup which thou hast sent for me,
I know 't is good, prepared by thee,
Though filled with joy or grief!

CAROLINE HOWARD was born in Boston, in 1794, and in 1819 was married to the Rev. Samuel Gilman, one of the most accomplished scholars of the Unitarian church, who is known as an author by his very clever work entitled Memoirs of a New England Village Choir, and by numerous elegant papers in the reviews. Soon after their marriage they removed to Charleston, South Carolina, where Dr. Gilman has ever since been actively engaged in the duties of his profession.

Mrs. Gilman is best known as a writer of prose, and her works will long be valued for the spirit and fidelity with which she has painted rural and domestic life in the northern and in the southern states. Her Recollections of a New England Housekeeper, and Recollections of a Southern Matron, are equally happy, and both show habits of minute observation, skill in character-writing,

ROSALIE.

"TIs fearful to watch by a dying friend, Though luxury glistens nigh; Though the pillow of down be softly spread

Where the throbbing temples lie—

Though the loom's pure fabric enfold the form,
Though the shadowy curtains flow,
Though the feet on sumptuous carpets tread
As "lightly as snow on snow❞—
Though the perfumed air as a garden teems
With flowers of healthy bloom,
And the feathery fan just stirs the breeze
In the cool and guarded room-

Though the costly cup for the fevered lip
With grateful cordial flows,

While the watching eye and the warning hand
Preserve the snatched repose.

Yes, even with these appliances,

From wealth's unmeasured store,
"Tis fearful to watch the spirit's flight
To its dim and distant shore.

But oh, when the form that we love is laid
On Poverty's chilly bed,

When roughly the blast to the shivering limbs
Through crevice and pane is sped-
When the noonday sun comes streaming in
On the dim or burning eye,

and an artist-like power of grouping; they are also pervaded by a genial tone, and a love of nature, and good sense. Her other works are, Love's Progress, a Tale; The Poetry of Travelling in the United States; Tales and Ballads; Stories and Poems for Children; and Verses of a Lifetime. She edited for several years, in Charleston, a literary gazette called The Southern Rose; published a collection of the Letters of Eliza Wilkinson, a heroine of the Revolution; and illustrated the extent of her reading in poetical literature, by two ingenious volumes, entitled Oracles from the Poets, and The Sybil.

The poems of Mrs. Gilman are nearly all contained in Verses of a Lifetime, just issued (at the close of the year 1848) by James Munroe & Company, of Boston. They abound in expressions of wise, womanly feeling, and are frequently marked by a graceful elegance of manner.

And the heartless laugh and the worldly tread
Is heard from the passers by-

When the sickly lip for a pleasant draught
To us in vain upturns,

And the aching head on a pillow hard
In restless fever burns-

When night rolls on, and we gaze in wo
On the candle's lessening ray,
And grope about in the midnight gloom,
And long for the breaking day-

Or bless the moon as her silver torch
Sheds light on our doubtful hand,
When pouring the drug which a moment wrests
The soul from the spirit-land-

When we know that sickness of soul and heart
Which sensitive bosoms feel,

When helpless, hopeless, we needs must gaze On woes we can not heal:

This, this is the crown of bitterness!

And we pray, as the loved one dies,

That our breath may pass with their waning pulse, And with theirs close our aching eyes.

My story tells of sweet Rosalie,

Once a maiden of joy and delight, A ray of love, from her girlish days, To her parents' devoted sight.

The girl was free as the river wave

That dances to ocean's rest,
And life looked down like a summer's sun
On her pure and gentle breast.
She saw young Arthur-their happy hearts
Like two young streamlets shone,
That leap along on their mountain path,
Then mingle their waters as one.
They parted: he roved to western wilds
To seek for his bird a nest,
And Rosalie dwelt in her father's halls,
And folded her wings to rest.

But her father died, and a fearful blight
O'er his child and his widow fell-
They sunk from that day in the gloomy abyss
Where sorrow and poverty dwell.
Consumption came, and he whispered low
To the widow of early death;
He hastened the beat of her constant pulse,
And baffled the coming breath.

He preyed on the bloom of her still soft cheek,
And shrivelled her hand of snow;

He checked her step in its easy glide,

And her eye beamed a restless glow.

He choked her voice in its morning song,
And stifled its evening lay,

And husky and coarse rose her midnight hymn
As she lay on her pillow to pray.

Poor Rosalie rose by the dawning light,
And sat by the midnight oil;
But the pittance was fearfully small that came
By her morning and evening toil.
"Twas then in her lodging the night-wind came
Through crevice and broken pane;
"Twas there that the early sunbeam burst
With its glaring and burning train.
When Rosalie sat by her mother's side,

She smothered her heart's affright,
And essayed to smile, though the monster Want
Stood haggard and wan in her sight.
She pressed her feet on the cold damp floor,
And crushed her hands on her heart,
Or stood like a statue so still and pale,
Lest a tear or a cry should start.
Her household goods went one by one
To purchase their scanty fare;
And even the little mirror was sold
Where she parted her glossy hair.

Then hunger glared in her full blue eye,

And was heard in her tremulous tone;

And she longed for the crust that the beggar eats,
As he sits by the wayside stone.

The neighbors gave of their scanty store,
But their jealous children scowled ;
And the eager dog, that guarded the street,
Looked on the morsel and howled.

Then her mother died-'t was a blessed thing!
For the last faint embers had gone
On the chilly hearth, and the candle was out
As Rosalie watched for the dawn.

"Twas a blessed exchange from this dark,cold earth
To those bright and blossoming bowers,
Where the spirit roves in its robes of light,
And gathers immortal flowers!

Poor Rosalie lay on her mother's breast,
Though its fluttering breath was o'er,
And eagerly pressed her passive hand,
Which returned the pressure no more.
In darkness she closed the fixing eyes,
And saw not the deathly glare-
Then straightened the warm and flaccid limbs
With a wild and fearful care.

And ere the dawn of the morrow broke
On the night that her mother died,
Poor Rosalie sank from her long, long watch,
In sleep by her mother's side.
"Twas a sorrowful sight for the neighbors to see,
(When they woke from their kindlier rest,)
The beautiful girl, with her innocent face,
Asleep on the corpse's breast.

Her hair flowed about by her mother's side,
And her hand on the dead hand fell;
Yet her breathing was light as the lily's roll,
When waved by the ripple's swell.

There was surely a vision of heaven's delight
Haunting her exquisite rest,

For she smiled in her sleep such a heavenly smile As could only beam out from the blest. "Twas fearful as beautiful: and as they gazed,

The neighbors stood whispering low, [dead, Nor dared they remove her white arm from the Where it seemed in its fondness to grow.

Life is not always a darkling dream:

God loves our sad waking to bless-
More brightly, perchance, for the dreary shade
That heralds our happiness.

A stranger stands by that humble door,
A youth in the flush of life,
And sudden hope in his thoughtful glance
Seems with sorrow and care at strife.

Manly beauty and soul-formed grace

Stand forth in each movement fair,
And speak in the turn of his well-timed step,
And shine in his wavy hair.

With travel and watchfulness worn was he,
Yet there beamed on his open brow
Traces of faith and integrity,

Where conscience had stamped her vow.

"T was Arthur: he gazed on those two pale forms,
Soon one was clasped to his heart;
In piercing accents he called her name-
That voice made the life-blood start!
Not on the dead doth she ope her eyes-
Life, love, spread their living wings;
And she rests on her lover's breast as a child
To its nursing mother clings.

A pure white tomb in the near graveyard
Betokens the widow's rest,

But Arthur has gone to his forest-home,
And shelters his dove in his nest.

THE PLANTATION.

FAREWELL, awhile, the city's hum,
Where busy footsteps fall,
And welcome to my weary eye
The planter's friendly hall.
Here let me rise at early dawn,

And list the mockbird's lay,
That, warbling near our lowland home,
Sits on the waving spray.
Then tread the shading avenue

Beneath the cedar's gloom,

Or gum tree, with its flickered shade,
Or chinquapen's perfume.

The myrtle tree, the orange wild,
The cypress' flexile bough,
The holly with its polished leaves,
Are all before me now.

There, towering with imperial pride,
The rich magnolia stands,
And here, in softer loveliness,

The white-bloomed bay expands.
The long gray moss hangs gracefully,
Idly I twine its wreaths,
Or stop to catch the fragrant air

The frequent blossom breathes.
Life wakes around-the red bird darts
Like flame from tree to tree;
The whip-poor-will complains alone,
The robin whistles free.

The frightened hare scuds by my path,
And seeks the thicket nigh;
The squirrel climbs the hickory bough,
Thence peeps with careful eye.
The hummingbird, with busy wing,
In rainbow beauty moves,
Above the trumpet-blossom floats,
And sips the tube he loves.
Triumphant to yon withered pine
The soaring eagle flies,

There builds her eyry mid the clouds,
And man and heaven defies.

The hunter's bugle echoes near,

And see his weary train,
With mingled howlings, scent the woods
Or scour the open plain.

Yon skiff is darting from the cove,
And list the negro's song-
The theme, his owner and his boat-
While glide the crew along.
And when the leading voice is lost,
Receding from the shore,
His brother boatmen swell the strain,
In chorus with the oar.

There stands the dairy on the stream,
Within the broad oak's shade;
The white pails glitter in the sun,
In rustic pomp arrayed.

And she stands smiling at the door,
Who "minds" that milky way-

She smooths her apron as I pass,
And loves the praise I pay.
Welcome to me her sable hands,
When in the noontide heat,
Within the polished calibash,
She pours the pearly treat.

The poulterer's feathered, tender charge,
Feed on the grassy plain;

Her Afric brow lights up with smiles,
Proud of her noisy train.

Nor does the herdman view his flock
With unadmiring gaze,
Significant are all their names,

Won by their varying ways.

Forth from the negroes' humble huts
The laborers now have gone;
But some remain, diseased and old-
Do they repine alone?

Ah, no: the nurse, with practised skill,
That sometimes shames the wise,
Prepares the herb of potent power,

And healing aid applies.

On sunny banks the children play,
Or wind the fisher's line,

Or, with the dexterous fancy braid,
The willow baskets twine.

Long ere the sloping sun departs
The laborers quit the field,
And, housed within their sheltering huts,
To careless quiet yield.

But see yon wild and lurid clouds,

That rush in contact strong,
And hear the thunder, peal on peal,
Reverberate along.

The cattle stand and mutely gaze,

The birds instinctive fly,
While forked flashes rend the air,
And light the troubled sky.

Behold yon sturdy forest pine,

Whose green top points to heavenA flash! its firm, encasing bark By that red shock is riven.

But we, the children of the South,

Shrink not with trembling fears;
The storm, familiar to our youth,
Will spare our ripened years.
We know its fresh, reviving charm,
And, like the flower and bird,
Our looks and voices, in each pause,

With grateful joy are stirred.

And now the tender rice upshoots,
Fresh in its hue of green,
Spreading its emerald carpet far,
Beneath the sunny sheen;
Though when the softer, ripened hue
Of autumn's changes rise,
The rustling spires instinctive lift
Their gold seeds to the skies.
There the young cotton-plant unfolds
Its leaves of sickly hue,