persons, and we can believe that each one would like to possess it. The motives that prompt the wish may all be different, yet still they are such as can be explained to our understanding. But send those same persons to view the Falls of Niagara, or the scene from the summit of Mount Etna, could they, by language, communicate to each other the diversity which would be in their emotions? They could not. "Tis with the Author of nature only that the heart can hold full converse touching the things which pertain to the dominion of nature; and therefore, we are never satisfied with descriptions of rural scenery because they never embody those peculiar thoughts the scene itself would have awakened. The silence in which such ideas must dwell, doubtless has a tendency to keep them elevated and pure. Who can grovel in spirit when communing with nature? Go then, my fair readers, all who can, and take a peep at the fresh green fields. It will make you happier and wiser. If you cannot take a trip to the country, at least take a walk around the Common. What a tyrant is fashion! Fashion has proscribed the Common,-and our young and lovely ladies endure a stroll through the heated, dusty atmosphere of Washington Street, threading their way among the crowds collected around stage houses, and beneath shop awnings, rather than dare to enjoy a promenade in one of the most beautiful places to be found in our country; perhaps in the world. Will Boston folks always keep their Mall and Common for strangers to admire, without enjoying either themselves? There is, to be sure, one improvement necessary to make the Common a place of comfortable as well as pleasant resort. There should be seats beneath the majestic trees. One does grow weary with walking continually, though it be in the most charming place on earth. were seats provided there, the Common and the Gallery of Pictures would furnish attractions for all who have hearts to love the beauties of nature, or taste to admire the touches of art.

THE ROSE.

The bending grain scarce waved its golden hair
To the soft stirring of the summer air,
An early Rose in faded beauty hung,

And as her dying breath was faintly flung,
Thus poured her melancholy song, while round
Her sister flowerets bent to catch the sound.

Many a summer day

Here have I pined away

Amid my shadowing branches, like the hope that lies In a young joyous heart,

Till pierced by sorrow's dart,

Even in its freshness it begins to droop, and dies.

The frolic winds of June.

Have rifled me full soon

Of all my little hoard of sweetness, that I kept
To tempt the butterfly

Its hidden charm to try,

As the cloyed epicure mid dainty flowerets crept.

My leaves in the warm sun

Are dropping one by one;

But close beside me, on her slender stem, there
My bud, my promised flower,

Now scarce one little hour

Unto the fair day opened, and not yet a rose.

Upon her native tree,

With purest breath, and free,

grows

Long may she sit, unmatched in beauty, like a Queen: And, as her leaves unfold,

May no intruder bold,

Insects, unwholesome fogs, or winds e'er glide between,

To shorten her young day,
And, treacherous steal away

The taintless purity of her unripened charms;
But may the freshest dew

That lives the morning through,

Sit on her lip, and bid her breath distil its balms.

Green be the leaves that shade

Her modest form, and made

To guard her from the night-winds when their touch is cold:
And of the richest dye

Around her calix lie

The various shaded moss, of brown, and green, and gold.

She ceased-the Rose had spent her latest breath,
Emblem of love maternal—ev'n in death

Nature still prompts that one, that fervent prayer.—
Her child, the mother's first, last, dearest earthly care.

A. M. WELLS.

REMONSTRANCE OF AN ALBUM.

"Good people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song;

And if you find it wondrous short,
It cannot hold you long."

GOLDSMITH.

I was alone-engaged in reading the Ladies' Magazine, for December, 1828. I was perusing the criticism upon the "Legendary ;" and one particular assertion in the article excited my attention so much, that I re-read it, in an audible voice. It was this-"neither wish nor wisdom can be infused into an Album." Immediately, I heard a mighty rustling of leaves; and my Album, which lay unregarded on the table beside me, became suddenly endowed with the power of speech, and began vehemently to exercise its newly-acquired prerogative. I listened with the greatest attention, took notes of the speech, and here record it, for the benefit of all Albums and their owners.- "Time was," said the mortified Album, with a long-drawn sigh, "time was, when the race to which I belong was regarded with the greatest respect and attention-sought for by the most beautiful and intelligent of the earth. Courted, caressed, flattered by the world-the fickle, capricious world—Oh ! “ it was happiness too exquisite to last!" We were the depositories of many fine thoughts and lofty images; of many

affectionate farewells and tender recollections; of much excellent advice and profound wisdom. The moralist and the poet contributed to enrich our pages: the one, by his virtuous exhortations; the other, by his sublime imagery, and glorious inspiration. No tongue then defamed us-no author condemned us. We were at peace with all-we had no enemies. Our minds are still the same-Is not the memory of youthful friends pleasant? Are not associations, connected with "the absent and the loved," sacred? And what place more proper than the page of an Album, to record the friendship of youth? Here may they look, in after days; and, as they gaze on the well-remembered penmanship of early friends, "by-past times" are brought to view, and a thousand recollections of "other days" come rushing back to the mind. Surely, Albums are not useless : surely, they ought not to be neglected or contemned. True, we do sometimes afford shelter to folly, and admit nonsense to our pages-but, this is a world of nonsense. You will find it "set as a seal," not only upon the leaves of an Album, but upon almost every thing else, on earth. Man is fickle the creature of caprice-yes, he is "unstable as water," and popular favourites must not expect to be long caressed. Álbums have had their day of popularity; and now, O miserable, unfortunate race! the tide of persecution is turned full upon us, and we shall soon be overwhelmed. The race is falling off-we shall go

" unwept, unhonoured and unsung down to the grave,

Long ere this we should have fallen, but for those friends who are found in colleges and boarding schools. They have been, and are still, our warmest supporters, and deserve our grateful acknowledgments. But, our ruin is inevitable-we are attacked, not only by those "Lords of the creation," from whom we could expect nothing but reproach-we are attacked by that sex who have hitherto loved and defended us-on the pages of a "Ladies' Magazine," our sentence is written; and, by female voices, our condemnation pronounced. "Our glory "-alas! alas! "it has departed!" And I-how shall I survive my disgrace? for, thou too art my enemy!"-The disconsolate Album ceased, and I answered thus Say not thy services are unrewarded, or "lightly esteemed," I will cherish thee-for thou dost contain many memorials of "buried loves "--of early friends,

now sleeping in the dust-many traces of the absent and the departed. I will cherish thee through life, and preserve thee sacred. I will be the champion of Albums, and defend their cause. "" Thus ended our confab. I have recorded the above facts, and here give them to the public, with the hope that they may prevent the enemies of Albums from wounding the feelings of this neglected race, in future; for, unless their persecution ceases, it is to be feared they will meet with the fate, which a poet prophecies will befall the Indians that they will

"Disperse like the returnless wind,
And none of them be left, to find
One they could call a brother."

Reader," my task is done-my song hath ceased," and we must part. I trust you are, like myself, the friend of Albums, and will advocate their cause.

Peace dwelt in Gerar's vale-God's chosen one,
There fed his flocks, amid the vine-clad hills,
Th' olive there with verdant, shadowy boughs
Flourished, commingling with the myrtle groves.
And there the Patriarch had his altar raised,
Where oft the holy man called on his God,
The everlasting One in whom he hoped ;
And often to this sacred spot, he led
The pious Isaac, darling of his heart,
The child of his old age, God's promised gift,
And destin'd father of a num'rous race.

The aged mother looked upon her boy
With all the tender love that mothers feel,
And the deep, holy thought that this her child
Was the Almighty's gift and special charge.
None but a mother's heart can know her joy
To guard his infant steps, to spread his couch,