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My soul pours out itself in numbers fond,

Though artless. What shouldst thou have ever heard Of that blind goddess that deludes the world?

And what of wrinkled Care, or friends turn'd false ?

O no, bright Cherub! If the joys of life

Are link'd with wealth, and Fortune's gifts alone
Can make man happy, then thy cup of bliss
Is full to overflowing; and if Care
Disdain companionship, except with Age
Or dark Remorse, thou yet art free to roam
Among the flowers of life, and lightly tread
Them under foot, or artless shower them on
Thine innocent head. And then can Friendship e'er
Prove recreant to thee?-a basalisk

To kill thee with a look? Oh, God forbid!
Yet art thou not in danger? What if in
The silken folds of fond Indulgence thou
Art lost? I startle at the unbidden thought,
And wish, with seeming cruelty, that fate
On some rude mountain's side thy lot had fix'd;
That thou might'st breathe the buxom air, and knit
Thy sinews in the gale, and know no joys
Save those which health and liberty confer.
But I will not believe it. Friends thou hast
That never will deceive; and thou, if prayer
Is heard in heaven, shalt grow in beauty still,-
By either hand, remote from danger's paths,
Led on by Virtue and by Wisdom,-while
With her own roses, Health shall tinge thy cheek
And wreath thy comely brow. And when the years
Of frolic youth, that flit like light beneath

The vernal clouds, are o'er,—and thou hast run
Thy manly course with honor and renown,-
Thou like the sun on some warm summer's eve,
That slow departing sheds his genial beams,
(Even to the very last, diffusing good)
Shalt gently sink upon thy couch of rest.
Lov'd one! such prayer is mine; 'tis all that I
Can give-'tis all that thou canst want of me.
And now, one passionate embrace, and then
We separate! thou to partake of joys
That never tire nor satiate-I to seek
In solitude that peace which flies the world.
So the fond bird that sees its young well fledg'd,
By instinct prompted, uses every art

To lure them to the fields-there shows them how
To spread their wings, and poise themselves in air;-
This done, offspring and parent soar at once
Toward heaven, then part, nor know each other more!

THE PARSONAGE.

"Alas! they all are in their graves-the gentle race of flowers,
Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours.'

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THE interesting month of October has again arrived, with all its sad and decaying beauty-all its poetical imageryand its moral sentiment. It is with me a favorite season. I welcome its pure air, its clear distant sky, its cold dark clouds, that float so rapidly as if eager to fly to a sunnier clime; its short rich twilight, and the calm bright evenings that succeed it; for these are in themselves sources of enjoyment; they are associated with joys that are past, and they tell too of joys that are yet to come, of mirth and frolic, and of sober intellectual enjoyment around the winter's hearth. But there are feelings of a holier nature, which the season is calculated to awaken, in every susceptible heart. The silent flitting of the seared leaf to the ground, conveys a lesson the most touching, and important, to every mind, that is not dead to moral impressions. It reminds us that we all do fade as a leaf."

To those who feel that the autumn of their lives has commenced, hastened by the withering touch of sorrow, the season has a deep, perhaps too affecting a sympathy. It speaks to them of those attachments and hopes, which like the foliage, and the flowers of summer were once their glory and their joy; but which are now withered and scattered by the blasts of adversity; while they remain, like a tree, stripped of their brightest blessings, and feeling as if all that remained to them of earthly good, was fluttering in the chilling gale, ready to fall, and leave them utterly bereft.

This season has for me a peculiar interest, as it brings to my mind, recollections connected with an interesting and

endeared family, in whose pleasures and sorrows, during one bright autumn, like the present, I intimately shared. There is a feeling nearly allied to happiness in sympathizing in the afflictions of the good. Their sorrows are indeed sacred, and the consolations that attend them are at once soothing and sublime. Though many years have passed away since the event which so deeply afflicted this family, and made an impression on my mind which time can never erase, all the circumstances of it are now vividly before me, and I find a melancholy pleasure in retracing them.

I had often received pressing invitations, in the letters of my friend, Anna W. to come and pass a few weeks with her at her delightful residence in the romantic town of HI became acquainted with her at school; and had not seen her since we then parted,excepting while she made me a short visit, when on a journey with her father, who was a clergyman. I at last accepted her invitation, and during the summer of 18-, I set out, and after a pleasant journey, arrived, and received from Anna, and her parents, a most cordial welcome. Anna's indeed, was expressed in the most enthusiastic terms; and from my knowledge of her ardent character, I should have felt disappointed had it been otherwise.

The evening after my arrival I spent in walking with them in their beautiful garden. It surrounded the house, and the flowers and shrubbery were disposed around it with the most perfect taste. The pretty white parsonage house, embowered, as it was, in tall elms, and woodbine, and honeysuckle, looked, as it was like a bower of peace, in a little world of fragrance and beauty. The scenery around it was no less charming. It combined almost every variety of the beautiful, with much of the sublime. On the north and east the prospect was bounded by an irregular range of lofty mountains, their summits rising against the clear sky, into a thousand fantastic shapes, and their sides clothed with patches of verdure, and here and there shaded by clusters of tall pines. Though the shades of evening were gathering about us, the last rays of the sun were lingering among those cliffs, and edging their summits with gold. Mountain scenery was new to me, and this was more beautiful and impressive than any I had ever imagined. Anna's heart was overflowing with joy and kindness. She pointed out to me objects and views she thought delightful; and expatiated with enthusiasm on the many charming scenes which lay

hid among those mountains, and the extensive and rich prospects they commanded.

"I am glad," said she, "that you have come just now, as Henry is soon to return home; he is familiar with every spot of interest about us, and we shall have many a fine excursion with him."

Henry was her only brother; he was to graduate the next commencement, at the university of, and he was coming to pass the few weeks previous to it at home.

The evening and the scenes around me were enchanting, but the conversation of Mr. and Mrs. W. was what prolonged the charm. They seemed to behold every object, not only with the eye of the poet and the painter, but with the deep fervent gratitude of the christian. Their conversation was taste and feeling, blended with grateful and pious sentiment. They saw every thing as the work of an indulgent father, whose love has made the outgoings of the morning and the evening to rejoice," and all nature to be "beauty to the eye, and music to the ear" of his intelligent children. As Mr. W. observed, it had for them an interest and a language which those can never understand, who regard it merely as the work of chance; or of a being distant and undefined, with whom they have no connexion.

I had heard much of Mr. W.'s excellence. I now found that but a faint shade of it had reached the world beyond him; its full force and beauty was felt and appreciated only in the midst of his beloved parishioners, and in the bosom of his own family.

He was eminent not only for his talents, but he was beloved for his piety and the unbounded benevolence of his heart. To live within the sacred sphere of such a man's influence, (his own family) and to watch the hourly exercise of his goodness, is indeed a privilege. I esteemed it so, and was happy. To the faithful discharge of his ministerial and parochial duties, his heart was wholly devoted. From the pulpit his exhortations to his flock were full of pathos and power; and his voice and manner, which were ever the exact and forcible expression of his feelings, produced even more effect than his words. The deep, tremulous tones of his voice, and the melting expression of his dark, and usually flashing eye, while he exhorted them to repentance, or encouraged them to persevere in the path of holiness, and

VOL. II.-NO. 11.

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the intensity of his supplications in prayer, evinced how ardently he desired their spiritual welfare. His visits among them were frequent, and it was evident by their devoted attentions, and tearful eyes, whenever he appeared, that they loved him with enthusiasm as their best friend, and revered him as a christian-" the highest style of man."

Mrs. W. was elegant in mind and person, and was every way worthy to be, as she was, the bosom friend of her husband. She was devoted to him, and consequently entered with zeal into all his feelings, and pursuits, and duties. But in the exemplary discharge of those duties peculiarly devolving on her in her family, and among her people, she was actuated not only by a sense of duty to her God, and her husband, but by the dictates of her own kind and gentle heart.

She was indeed one with him in every good word and work, a softened and more elegantly pourtrayed reflection of himself, and she reposed beneath his protecting tenderness, and walked in the light of his talents and piety in confiding happiness, and seemed almost unconscious of a separate being.

Their cordial and interesting characters had drawn around them a circle of attached, and admiring friends. In this congenial atmosphere, Mr. W. shone preeminent; all the latent energies of his mind expanded, all the tenderness of his heart burst forth. In conversation he was always animated, and he never failed of exciting the feelings, and awakening the energies of those who conversed with him. His comprehensive mind embraced an almost unbounded range of intelligence; all that is beautiful in nature or sentiment, in art or science, he understood and felt; and his views and feelings as a christian, were so beautifully blended with those of the classic scholar, and the calm philosopher, that there were few so insensible as not to be affected by it. From Anna I learned that he was a poet too, though he seldom "penned his inspiration;" but it spoke in the flashes of his dark penetrating eye, and infused itself into his language, giving it a richness and glow, that charmed while it edified.

One day, as we were sitting at dinner, a boy entered, and handed Mr. W. a letter. It was from Henry, saying that since he last wrote he had been sick of a fever. He was fast recovering, when by too carly an exposure he had a

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