THE FOUR-LEAVED CLOVER.

"There's wisdom in the grass-its teachings would we heed."

THERE knelt beneath the tulip tree
A maiden fair and young;

The flowers o'erhead bloomed gorgeously,
As though by rainbows flung,
And all around were daisies bright,
And pansies with their eyes of light;
Like gold the sun-kissed crocus shone,
With Beauty's smiles the earth seemed strown,
And Love's warm incense filled the air,
While the fair girl was kneeling there.

In vain the flowers may woo around-
Their charms she does not see,
For she a dearer prize has found

Beneath the tulip tree:

A little four-leaved clover, green
As robes that grace the fairy queen,
And fresh as hopes of early youth,
When life is love, and love is truth-
A talisman of constant love
This humble clover sure will prove!

And on her heart that gentle maid

The severed leaves has pressed,
Which through the coming night's dark shade
Beneath her cheek will rest:

Then precious dreams of one will rise,
Like Love's own star in morning skies,
So sweetly bright, we would the day
His glowing chariot might delay.
What tones of pure and tender thought
Those simple leaves to her have taught!
Of old the sacred misletoe

The Druid's altar bound;
The Roman hero's haughty brow

The fadeless laurel crowned.
Dark superstition's sway is past,
And war's red star is waning fast,
Nor misletoe nor laurel hold

The mystic language breathed of old;
For nature's life no power can give,
To bid the false and selfish live.

But still the olive-leaf imparts,

As when, dove-borne, at first,

It taught heaven's lore to human hearts-
Its hope, and joy, and trust;
Nor deem the faith from folly springs,
Which innocent enjoyment brings;
Better from earth root every flower,
Than crush imagination's power,
In true and loving minds, to raise
An Eden for their coming days.

As on each rock, where plants can cling,
The sunshine will be shed-

As from the tiniest star-lit spring
The ocean's depth's are fed—
Thus hopes will rise, if love's clear ray
Keep warm and bright life's rock-strewn way;
And from small, daily joys, distilled,
The heart's deep fount of peace is filled :
Oh, blest when Fancy's ray is given,
Like the ethereal spark, from Heaven!

DESCRIPTION OF ALICE RAY.

THE birds their love-notes warble
Among the blossomed trees;

The flowers are sighing forth their sweets
To wooing honeybees;

The glad brook o'er a pebbly floor
Goes dancing on its way-

But not a thing is so like spring
As happy Alice Ray.

An only child was Alice,

And, like the blest above,

The gentle maid had ever breathed
An atmosphere of love;

Her father's smile like sunshine came,
Like dew her mother's kiss;

Their love and goodness made her home,
Like heaven, the place of bliss.
Beneath such tender training

The joyous child had sprung,

Like one bright flower, in wild-wood bower, And gladness round her flung;

And all who met her blessed her,

And turned again to pray,

That grief and care might ever spare

The happy Alice Rray.

The gift that made her charming

Was not from Venus caught; Nor was it, Pallas-like, derived From majesty of thought:

Her healthful cheek was tinged with brown,
Her hair without a curl-

But then her eyes were love-lit stars,
Her teeth as pure as pearl.
And when in merry laughter

Her sweet, clear voice was heard,
It welled from out her happy heart
Like carol of a bird;

And all who heard were moved to smiles,

As at some mirthful lay,

And, to the stranger's look, replied,

66

"Tis that dear Alice Ray."

And so she came, like sunbeams

That bring the April green

As type of nature's royalty,

They called her "Woodburn's queen!"
A sweet, heart-lifting cheerfulness,
Like springtime of the year,

Seemed ever on her steps to wait-
No wonder she was dear.

Her world was ever joyous-
She thought of grief and pain
As giants of the olden time,

That ne'er would come again;
The seasons all had charms for her,
She welcomed each with joy-
The charm that in her spirit lived
No changes could destroy.
Her love made all things lovely,

For in the heart must live
The feeling that imparts the charm-
We gain by what we give.

IRON. "Truth shall spring out of the earth.”—Psalm lxxxv. 11.

As, in lonely thought, I pondered

On the marv'lous things of earth, And, in fancy's dreaming, wondered

At their beauty, power, and worth, Came, like words of prayer, the feelingOh! that God would make me know, Through the spirit's clear revealing,

What, of all his works below,
Is to man a boon the greatest,
Brightening on from age to age,
Serving truest, earliest, latest,

Through the world's long pilgrimage.
Soon vast mountains tose before me,
Shaggy, desolate, and lone,

Their scarred heads were threat'ning o'er me,
Their dark shadows round me thrown;
Then a voice, from out the mountains,
As an earthquake shook the ground,
And like frightened fawns the fountains,
Leaping, fled before the sound;
And the Anak oaks bowed lowly,

Quivering, aspen-like, with fear-
While the deep response came slowly,
Or it must have crushed mine ear!
"Iron! iron! iron!"-crashing,

Like the battle-axe and shield!
Or the sword on helmet clashing,
Through a bloody battle-field:
"Iron! iron! iron!"-rolling,

Like the far-off cannon's boom;
Or the death-knell, slowly tolling,
Through a dungeon's charnel gloom!
"Iron! iron! iron!"-swinging,

Like the summer winds at play;
Or as bells of Time were ringing
In the blest millennial day!
Then the clouds of ancient fable

Cleared away before mine eyes;
Truth could tread a footing stable
O'er the gulf of mysteries!
Words, the prophet-bards had uttered,
Signs, the oracle foretold,
Spells, the weird-like sybil muttered,
Through the twilight days of old,
Rightly read, beneath the splendor,
Shining now on history's page,
All their faithful witness render-
All portend a better age.
Sisyphus, for ever toiling,

Was the type of toiling men,
While the stone of power, recoiling,
Crushed them back to earth again!
Stern Prometheus, bound and bleeding,
Imaged man in mental chain,
While the vultures, on him feeding,
Were the passions' vengeful reign;
Still a ray of mercy tarried

On the cloud, a white-winged dove,
For this mystic faith had married
Vulcan to the queen of love!

Rugged strength and radiant beauty—
These were one in nature's plan;
Humble toil and heavenward duty-
These will form the perfect man!
Darkly was this doctrine taught us
By the gods of heathendom;
But the living light was brought us,

When the gospel morn had come!
How the glorious change, expected,

Could be wrought, was then made free; Of the earthly, when perfected,

Rugged iron forms the key!

"Truth from out the earth shall flourish," This the Word of God makes knownThence are harvests men to nourish

There let iron's power be shown.
Of the swords, from slaughter gory,
Ploughshares forge to break the soil;
Then will Mind attain its glory,

Then will Labor reap the spoil-—
Error cease the soul to 'wilder,
Crime be checked by simple good,
As the little coral-builder

Forces back the furious flood.

While our faith in good grows stronger,
Means of greater good increase;

Iron, slave of war no longer,

Leads the onward march of peace; Still new modes of service finding, Ocean, earth, and air, it moves, And the distant nations binding, Like the kindred tie it proves; With its Atlas-shoulder sharing Loads of human toil and care; On its wing of lightning bearing Thought's swift mission through the air! As the rivers, farthest flowing,

In the highest hills have birth;
As the banyan, broadest growing,

Oftenest bows its head to earth-
So the noblest minds press onward,
Channels far of good to trace;
So the largest hearts bend downward,
Circling all the human race;
Thus, by iron's aid, pursuing

Through the earth their plans of love,
Men our Father's will are doing,
Here, as angels do above!

THE WATCHER.

THE night was dark and fearful,
The blast swept wailing by ;-
A watcher, pale and tearful,
Looked forth with anxious eye:
How wistfully she gazes-
No gleam of morn is there!
And then her heart upraises
Its agony of prayer!

Within that dwelling lonely,

Where want and darkness reign, Her precious child, her only, Lay moaning in his pain;

And death alone can free him

She feels that this must be: "But oh! for morn to see him Smile once again on me!"

A hundred lights are glancing
In yonder mansion fair,
And merry feet are dancing-

They heed not morning there: Oh! young and lovely creatures,

One lamp, from out your store, Would give that poor boy's features To her fond gaze once more!

The morning sun is shining-
She heedeth not its ray;
Beside her dead, reclining,

That pale, dead mother lay!
A smile her lip was wreathing,
A smile of hope and love,

As though she still were breathing"There's light for us above!"

I SING TO HIM.

I SING to him! I dream he hears
The song he used to love,
And oft that blessed fancy cheers
And bears my thoughts above.
Ye say 'tis idle thus to dream—
But why believe it so?
It is the spirit's meteor gleam
To soothe the pang of wo.
Love gives to nature's voice a tone
That true hearts understand-
The sky, the earth, the forest lone,
Are peopled by his wand;
Sweet fancies all our pulses thrill
While gazing on a flower,
And from the gently whisp'ring rill
Is heard the words of power.

I breathe the dear and cherished name,
And long-lost scenes arise;

Life's glowing landscape spreads the same;
The same hope's kindling skies;
The violet-bank, the moss-fringed seat
Beneath the drooping tree,

The clock that chimed the hour to meet,
My buried love, with thee-

O, these are all before me, when
In fancy's realms I rove;
Why urge me to the world again?
Why say the ties of love,

That death's cold, cruel grasp has riven,
Unite no more below?

I'll sing to him-for though in heaven,
He surely heeds my wo!

THE LIGHT OF HOME.

Mr son, thou wilt dream the world is fair,
And thy spirit will sigh to roam,

And thou must go;-but never, when there,
Forget the light of home!

Though pleasure may smile with a ray more bright,
It dazzles to lead astray;

Like the meteor's flash, 't will deepen the night
When treading thy lonely way:

But the hearth of home has a constant flame,
And pure as vestal fire;

"Twill burn, 't will burn for ever the same,
For nature feeds the pyre.

The sea of ambition is tempest-tossed,

And thy hopes may vanish like foam: When sails are shivered and compass lost,

Then look to the light of home!

And there, like a star through the midnight cloud, Thou shalt see the beacon bright,

For never, till shining on thy shroud,

Can be quenched its holy light.

The sun of fame may gild the name,
But the heart ne'er felt its ray;
And fashion's smiles that rich ones claim,
Are beams of a wintry day:

How cold and dim those beams would be,
Should life's poor wanderer come!—
My son, when the world is dark to thee,
Then turn to the light of home.

THE TWO MAIDENS.

ONE came with light and laughing air,
And cheek like opening blossom-
Bright gems were twined amid her hair,

And glittered on her bosom,
And pearls and costly diamonds deck
Her round, white arms and lovely neck.
Like summer's sky, with stars bedight,
The jewelled robe around her,
And dazzling as the noontide light

The radiant zone that bound her-
And pride and joy were in her eye,
And mortals bowed as she passed by.
Another came: o'er her sweet face

A pensive shade was stealing;
Yet there no grief of earth we trace-
But the heaven-hallowed feeling
Which mourns the heart should ever stray
From the pure fount of truth away.

Around her brow, as snowdrop fair,
The glossy tresses cluster,

Nor pearl nor ornament was there,

Save the meek spirit's lustre;
And faith and hope beamed in her eye,
And angels bowed as she passed by.

MRS. WELLS, formerly Miss FOSTER, was born in Gloucester, Massachusetts. Her father died while she was an infant, and her mother, in a few years, married Mr. Locke, of Boston, the father of Mrs. Osgood. She began to write verses when very young, but published little until her marriage, in 1829, with Mr. Thomas Wells, of the United States revenue service, who was also an author of considerable merit, as is evident from some pieces by him quoted in Mr. Kettell's Specimens of American Poetry.

In 1830 Mrs. Wells published a small vol

ume entitled Poems and Juvenile Sketches, and she has since been an occasional contributor to several periodicals that have been edited by her personal friends. The poems of Mrs. Wells are characterized by womanly feeling and a tasteful simplicity of diction. Her range is limited, and she has the good sense to enter only the fields to which she is invited by her affections and the natural fancies which are their children. While therefore her successes have not been brilliant they have been honorable, and she-has to regret no failures.

ASCUTNEY.

In a low, white-washed cottage, overrun With mantling vines, and sheltered from the sun By rows of maple trees, that gently moved Their graceful limbs to the mild breeze they loved, Oft have I lingered-idle it might seem, But that the heart was busy; and I deem Those minutes not misspent, when silently The soul communes with nature, and is free.

O'erlooking this low cottage, stately stood
The huge Ascutney: there, in thoughtful mood,
I loved to hold with her gigantic form
Deep converse-not articulate, but warm
With feeling's noiseless eloquence, and fit
The soul of nature with man's soul to knit.
In various aspect, frowning on the day,
Or touched with morning twilight's silvery gray,
Or darkly mantled in the dusky night,

Or by the moonbeams bathed in showers of light—
In each, in all, a glory still was there,
A spirit of sublimity; but ne'er

Had such a might of loveliness and power
The mountain wrapt, as when, at midnight hour,
I saw the tempest gather round her head:
It was an hour of joy, yet tinged with dread.
As the deep thunder rolled from cloud to cloud,
From all her hidden caves she cried aloud:
Wood, cliff, and valley, with the echo rung;
From rock and crag darting, with forked tongue
The lightning glanced, a moment laying bare
Her naked brow, then silence-darkness there!
And straight again the tumult, as if rocks
Had split, and headlong rolled. But nature mocks
All language: these are scenes I ne'er again
May look upon-but precious thoughts remain
On memory's page; and ever in my heart,
Amid all other claims, that mountain hath a part.

THE TAMED EAGLE.

He sat upon his humble perch, nor flew
At my approach;

But as I nearer drew,

Looked on me, as I fancied, with reproach,
And sadness too:

And something still his native pride proclaimed,
Despite his wo;

Which, when I marked-ashamed

To see a noble creature brought so low-
My heart exclaimed:

"Where is the fire that lit thy fearless eye,
Child of the storm,

When from thy home on high, Yon craggy-breasted rock, I saw thy form Cleaving the sky?

"It grieveth me to see thy spirit tamed— Gone out the light

That in thine eyeball flamed, When to the midday sun thy steady flight Was proudly aimed!

"Like a young dove forsaken, is the look Of thy sad eye,

Who, in some lonely nook, Mourns on the willow bough her destiny, Beside the brook.

THE OLD ELM TREE.

EACH morning, when my waking eyes first see,
Through the wreathed lattice, golden day appear,
There sits a robin on the old elm tree,
And with such stirring music fills my ear,
I might forget that life had pain or fear,
And feel again as I was wont to do,
When hope was young, and joy and life itself were
No miser, o'er his heaps of hoarded gold,
Nor monarch, in the plenitude of power,
Nor lover, free the chaste maid to enfold

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Who ne'er hath owned her love till that blest hour,
Nor poet, couched in rocky nook or bower,
Knoweth more heartfelt happiness than he,
That never tiring warbler of the old elm tree.
From even the poorest of Heaven's creatures, such
As know no rule but impulse, we may draw
Lessons of sweet humility, and much
Of apt instruction in the homely law

Of nature and the time hath been, I saw
Naught, beautiful or mean, but had for me [tree.
Some charm, even like the warbler of the old elm

And listening to his joy inspiring lay,
Some sweet reflections are engendered thence:
As half in tears, unto myself I say,
God, who hath given this creature sources whence
He such delight may gather and dispense,
Hath in my heart joy's living fountain placed,
More free to flow, the oftener of its waves I taste.

ANNA.

WITH the first ray of morning light

Her face is close to mine-her face all smiles: She hovers round my pillow like a sprite Mingling with tenderness her playful wiles. All the long day

She's at some busy play;
Or 'twixt her tiny fingers
The scissors or the needle speeds;
Or some sweet story-book she reads,
And o'er it serious lingers.

She steps like some glad creature of the air,
As if she read her fate, and knew it fair-
In truth, for fate at all she hath no care.
Yet hath she tears as well as gladness:
A butterfly in pain

Will make her weep for sadness,

But straight she'll smile again.

And lately she hath pressed the couch of pain:

Sickness hath dimmed her eye,

And on her tender spirit lain,
And brought her near to die.

But like the flower

That droops at evening hour,
And opens gayly in the morning,
Again her quick eye glows,
And health's fresh rose
Her soft cheek is adorning.

Hushed was her childish lay:

Like some sweet bird did sickness hold her in a net;

And when she broke away,

And shook her wings in the bright day, Her recent capture she did quite forget. What joy again to hear her blessed voice! My heart, lie still, but in thy quietness rejoice! Again, along the floor and on the stair,

Coming and going, I hear her rapid feet; Again her little, simple, earnest prayer,

Hear her, at bedtime, in low voice repeat. Again, at table, and the fire beside,

Her dear head rises, smiling with the rest; Again her heart and mind are open wide

To yield and to receive-bless and be blestPliant and teachable, and oft revealing Thoughts that must ripen into higher feeling. Oh, sweet maturity!-the gentle mood Raised to the intellectual and the good; The bright, affectionate, and happy childThe woman, pure, intelligent, and mild! It must be so they can not waste on air A mother's labor and a mother's prayer.

THE FUTURE.

THE flowers, the many flowers,
That all along the smiling valley grew,
While the sun lay for hours,
Kissing from off their drooping lids the dew;
They, to the summer air

No longer prodigal, their sweet breath yield:
Vainly, to bind her hair,

The village maiden seeks them in the field.

The breeze, the gentle breeze,
That wandered like a frolic child at play,
Loitering mid blossomed trees,
Trailing their stolen sweets along its way,
No more adventuresome,

Its whispered love is to the violet given;
The boisterous North has come,
And scared the sportive trifler back to heaven.

The brook, the limpid brook,

That prattled of its coolness, as it went
Forth from its rocky nook,

Leaping with joy to be no longer pent

Its pleasant song is hushed:

The sun no more looks down upon its play-
Freely, where once it gushed,

The mountain torrent drives its noisy way.

The hours, the youthful hours,

When in the cool shade we were wont to lie,
Idling with fresh culled flowers,

In dreams that ne'er could know reality:

Fond hours, but half enjoyed,

Like the sweet summer breeze they passed away, And dear hopes were destroyed,

Like buds that die before the noon of day.

Young life, young turbulent life,

If, like the stream, it take a wayward course, "Tis lost mid folly's strife

O'erwhelmed at length by passion's curbless force:
Nor deem youth's buoyant hours

For idle hopes or useless musings given-
Who dreams away his powers,

The reckless slumberer shall not wake to heaven.