Turn-turn from the blossoms of earth away-
Blest Eden hath flowers far brighter than they.

Down where the cedar its shadow flings
O'er a ringing brook's meanderings,

That come, like a song, from the woodlands high,
Kissing the flowers they wander by:

'Tis there that the weary fawns lie down,
When daylight sinks from the mountain's crown;
And one would think that the water lies

In watch for the gleam of their soft dark eyes,
And passes by, with a lulling song,

Blessing their slumbers the whole night long.
"Tis there that the Indian nightingale
Pipes to the zephyr his evening tale,
As if he grieved that its playful mood
Should burst on his sleeping solitude.
There is the sailor's grave-aye there,
In the loneliness of his wild wood lair,
Blotted from life's shining page,
He makes his final anchorage.

"Singeth the sage-Oh singeth he,"
Who loves to roam with Memory,
And list the "still small voice" that sings
For ever of heart stirring things-

Of childhood's reckless hours," when all
Went merry as a marriage bell,"

When hope's strains had no " dying fall,"

And morn, no weeping tale to tell?
Alas-for all on earth-thou minstrel sage,
Whose eyes lower coldly upon Memory's page.

P.

RECOLLECTIONS.

ELEANOR WAKEField.

The smartest girl on the Oak-hill road was Eleanor Wakefield. Ask any of the good people on that road, they will tell you, one and all, that the best-learned, nicest-looking, and prettiest behaved girl in all Oak-hill was Eleanor Wakefield, Mrs. Eleanor Graves, that now is.' There were, to be sure, no very beautiful maidens in that village, but there were many fine, blooming girls, and Eleanor was the likeliest of them all.

It was charming to hide up among the heavy branches of the great tree, which stands on the knoll, where all the girls of our town used to meet at the earliest dawn of May day, and watch them as they came up in little companies from Oak-hill Long-meadow, South Village, and Shanoba, as the various corners of the town were denominated. There would not be one homely or ill-natured face, or one awkward figure, or slatternly dress, among them. How neat and light-hearted they would seem, in their little straw, Dunstable, or lace-work cottages, wreathed with cowslips, and here and there a stray violet, or in default of either, when the season was tardy, with garlands of evergreen. What a thrill of glad melody went up through the branches of that old tree, when they all joined hands and danced around it to the tune and the words of "The lovely Spring returns again," which same delightful song was composed and set to music by our old singing-master, before his death, as I have been told, or else have dreamed, or else have imagined. I mean to tell the truth, but this is a tale of Auld Lang Syne,' and my memory was once better than it now is.

On these joyous May-days, Eleanor Wakefield was in all her glory,' for her step was light as a wood-nymph's, and her voice was very sweet and low '-not indeed so deep, full and melodious as Louisa Falconer's. There was not one in that happy circle, whose music thrilled the heart as did Louisa Falconer's glad tones. Her face, too, was so bright and pure, so full of soul, you could not look carelessly upon it. She did not live in Oak-hill, otherwise she, and not Eleanor had been the subject of my story, for she was, as our town's people used to say, a very angel of a girl,' and she had not an enemy, nor a cold friend in the world.

There were many singular events connected with Eleanor's history, all of which I could not now stay to relate. We never wondered at them, because we knew they were true. Had we met them in a novel, we should have pronounced them forced, romantic, and unnatural, but "truth is strange, stranger than fiction.”

Ellen's parents were sober and industrious people. They had patiently borne many troubles, and much sickness. Of their happy little group of rosy children, one only remain

ed to them. Their small possession had been gradually wasted by successive misfortunes. They calmly endured still, knowing there is a better inheritance, even a heavenly. This one sweet child, they gratefully and conscientiously nurtured in the good and honest way, 'till now, in Ellen's eyes, their ninth blue summer shone.'

The sun went brightly down behind the mountain, and the evening sky was lit up with gold and crimson, when poor Ensign Wakefield left his home for the purpose of carrying the produce of his little hired farm to the seaport town.' Little Eleanor ran out after him, crying 'goodbye, daddy, mind you get a grand parcel of money for my knitting, and I'll have a whole pair of stockings done by the time you come back.'

That night, as the poor man went on his lonely way, by some unexplained mischance, he fell, and the wheel of the loaded waggon passed over his breast, and the next day, when the tidings of his death were suddenly brought to the widow, she was overpowered by the awful stroke, and in a fit of distraction, she put an end to her own life.

The poor child would have been sent to the alms-house, had not old Deacon Wilson, whose house had been somewhat lonely since his last daughter was married and gone, kindly offered her a home there, saying 'his wife would bring her up handsomely as if she was her own, and there was no need of telling how well that was.' The good lady had, it must be allowed, acquitted herself very honourably in the management of her eight daughters, as also in their disposal. Much of Eleanor's great learning was derived from the Deacon himself, who was wonderfully erudite. He had read, or got the drift of all the books in the town library, and also acquainted himself with the contents of the chest of books his father left him. Besides, whenever he went a delegate,' he omitted no opportunity of gaining information; and so, although he lived in the country and did not take the papers,' Deacon Wilson was a very knowing man, and in any company, whatever was the subject of conversation, he always found something to say upon it if the company were awed into silence by his superior information, he could carry on the discourse alone, with marvel

ous originality and variety, having, as he said, 'an insight into most every thing.'—

"His talk was like a stream which runs
With rapid change from rocks to roses :
It slipped from politics to puns,

It passed from Mahomet to Moses."

And if ever there was any little matter in history or politics, of which we had not all desirable information, it was always referred to him, without any gainsaying. And when at school, we were studying stoutly for dear honours, the summit of our ambition was, to be wise as Tobida,' and 'Deacon Wilson.' But Eleanor's learning was not all derived from her kind patron's edifying discourses. She regularly attended the summer and winter town schools,' besides which, Mrs. Wilson instructed her in the various branches of domestic handicraft, so that there was not a girl for five miles round who could turn a handsomer cheese, spin an evener yarn, or knit a smoother glove, than Eleanor Wakefield.-Alas, that such accomplishments should ever be lightly esteemed! And the orphan of Oak-hill was also kind-hearted, obliging, and conscientious. Who was it that would steal into old Nabby Tompkins' lonesome hut in the cold winter morning, by sunrise, when her own work was all done, to build for the widow a good fire, and wash up her hearth, and make her some gruel? Who used to sit the long, dark autumn nights, by the glare of a pitch knot, to watch Tim Jeremy's poor sick child, that almost wore its mother out before it died? Who, neatly attired, and soberly demeaned, regularly took her place in the chorister's seat, every Sunday, whether it were stormy or pleasant, to lead the piercing counter? And who, after she had married the likeliest and most respectable young man in the place, always kept her house and her person so nice and genteel and brought her children up to be so pretty spoken, and mannerly? It was Eleanor Wakefield, Mrs. Eleanor Graves, that now is.

EVERALLIN.

AN APPEAL TO THE LADIES OF THE U. STATES. 515

CHEERFULNESS.

Laura, to you, on a string of rhymes,
A tottering bridge in modern times,
I dance along well pleased, you may see,
For cheerful your friend is wont to be.
And Laura is cheerful, too, I trust,
And buries repining low in the dust;
For there should sorrow and care be laid
Where the hermit house for the dead is made.

Oh, sure the bosoms that warmly beat,
Where virtuous love and friendship meet,
Are not the home for the damps and gloom
That dwell, and should dwell, alone in the tomb.
And still in our hearts let sunshine beam,
And grief be counted a shadow or dream-
A vapour that flits across the sky,

But leaves no stain as it passes by.

Have you not seen, as you've roamed the wild,
A modest floweret, nature's child,

"Lonely and sweet, nor loved the less
For flowering in a wilderness ?"

And did you not think as you turned to depart,
How like that flower is the innocent heart?
Though all, around it, is frowning awhile
Its own bright looks are a constant smile.

A.

AN APPEAL

TO THE LADIES OF THE UNITED STATES.

We give place by request, to a part of an article, which appeared in the Genius of Universal Emancipation, as the production of a southern lady. In addressing her own sex, particularly on so momentous and really appalling subject as that of slavery, we presume the writer had no idea of