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means of a wonderful secret emotion, you are warned not to give thoughts a place in your mind, that might disturb your calm serenity. From him comes the remorse that you feel upon your nightly couch, when you have sacrificed a day at the altar of vanity; or, from too great weakness, have, against your better judgment, participated in follies that custom cannot justify. Happy will your lot, if you do not drive

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you such a protector, nor open your vulnerable heart to the malicious demon who hovers ever near you, and seeks opportunities to find an entrance into your soul.

And how easily may this happen, since he possesses, like deceitful wit, the dangerous power of assuming all manner of appearances ? Oftentimes he conceals himself beneath the aspect of a pleasure, which he calls innocent, and like the scorpion, lurks beneath flowers. Do not permit yourself to be deceived by his smooth words. By similar means, one like bim might deceive the purest of women. Recollect that then only are you innocent, when you can address the searcher of hearts with serenity and calmness; when no crowd of idle desires, no inconsiderate wishes, no discontent, no pride on account of accomplishments which would be outweighed by a sunbeam, in the eyes of the wise, darken your spirit. Listen not to the frivolous youth who hails you as rich in intellectual worth, because the brilliant glances of your eyes have won his heart, and believes you to be virtuous, because he has convinced himself that snow-white innocence must necessarily reside in a snow-white bosom. You are fortunate, that you feel within your breast a desire to emulate the most exalted examples of virtue. But you are yet far from having attained the same condition, when you have only learned this or that sentiment from them. A Clarissa, a Byron, or an Amelia, is the most splendid ornament of mankind; they seem half-way between angelic and human natures. You have all their tenderness of heart, Maïa, strive also to possess their greatness of mind. The first is the gift of Nature, the last must be the result of your own exertions. Delicacy without strength or greatness of mind, is weakness; it is a reed that is bent by every zephyr which breathes. But a soul which has accustomed itself to an elevated tone of thought, hears the call of pleasure undisturbed, knowing it to be a voice which invites to its shores, only that it may inflict a luxurious death, and stands like the cedars of God, which have their roots in the depths of the earth, unmoved by the storms that may roar around. And how can a mind which is aware of its own worth, be otherwise than great ; which has compared this earthen clod with heaven, and days which pass away like shadows, with eternity? What has vanity or voluptuousness to offer, to such a mind? What proportion has a grain of dust to creation ? Must not, if you think thus, the exact fulfilment of the most trivial duty give you greater pleasure, than those frivolous souls are capable of experiencing, who are ever wandering in the gardens of folly, and stare at all things with besotted and foolish eyes ? No, Maja, the envious demon shall not triumph, in drawing you into the same labyrinths. Unmoved by his arts, you will lend your ear to the calm voice of Wisdom, and walk in her paths at an ever-increasing pace; paths where flowers will bloom beneath your feet, and a thousand seraphs, allured by your humble virtues, hover around, and encircle your soul, so that no evil thing can reach you.

X. Y. 2.

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FROM 'SOURCES OF INSPIRATION,' A MS. POEM, BY W. #. C. HOSMER, E8Q.

What true descendant of the pilgrim stock,
Who shouted 'Freedom !' on the Plymouth Rock,
Feels not true pride, green jewel of the sea !
To think he drew his parentage from thee?
Well may the children of thy

rock-bound coast
Tell of thy fame to every land, and boast:
*Here CHAUCER wrote, and SPENSER swept the lyre,
With tuneful ear and necromantic fire;
Here nursing Nature, with caresses fond,
To SHAKSPEARE gave her wonder-working wand;
Smiled when her idol, with one mighty stroke,
A boundless sea of thought and feeling woke;
Here the bright muse of Milton, spurning earth,
With angels sang, where light and life have birth ;
Then flying downward, by an awful spell,
Laid bare the dreadful mysteries of hell!'
Though storied Europe of the past may boast,
Her heirs of deathless fame, a countless host,
Tombs of the mighty, and ihe wrecks of art,
That stir with mournful memories the heart;
Our own free land is rich in glorious themes,
And lofty sources of poetic dreams.
Earth that conceals the dust of patriot sires,
No pomjous aid from fading art requires;
Above their bones no pyramid uprears
Its grand proportions, mystical with years.
The mounds that mark the places of their rest,
Poetic rapture kindle in the breast;
Instil a love of country, that will brave
Despotic wrath on land or rolling wave:
Their blood, by which our liberty was bought,
Has sanctified the places where they fought;
And when the muse of history unseals
Her mighty tome, deep, thrilling joy she feels,
When pointing out, amid the names that fill
With light her fadeless pages, 'Bunker Hill!
We, too, have dark memorials of the past,
With cloudy robes of doubt around them cast;
And plodding science, to dispel the shade,
In vain calls wild conjecture to her aid.
Our western caves, within their wombs of stone,
Hide mortal wrecks, to memory unknown;
Bones of the mammoth, that appal the gaze,
Majestic relics of departed days!
And broad, green prairies, in their sweep unfold
Vast mounds, constructed by the tribes of old.
Our mossy groves and mighty inland seas,
That bare their broad blue bosoms to the breeze,
Our lofty hills, that guard the fruitful vale,
Rich in tall forests, bending to the gale;
Our mighty stretch of coast, from sea to sea,
Where man alone to God inclines the knee ;
Where, free from gale, with canvass idly furled,
Might snugly moor the shipping of the world;
Our streams, embracing in their winding arms
All that enchanted vision chains or charms;
Niagara, whose music wildly loud,
Drowns the deep booming of the thunder cloud,
Clad in his bright, magnificent array,
Of rainbow, storm, white foam, and torrent spray,
Woo genius forth to win a crown of light,
And plume his pinion for an epic flight.

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Mark that pale and emaciated man, with his head bowed over a book, taken from one of those stands upon which the richest libraries of Florence expose their works for sale, and beside which he is standing ! He is too poor to purchase the treasure he holds, but he devours it with his eyes, and engraves its contents in ineffaceable characters upon the tablet of his memory. The copyists of Sarbonne have sent the work hither, in hopes of obtaining a higher price than at Paris.

It was a fête day; all Florence was out; and gay and noisy crowds thronged past the reader. The Florentine lords, with their pompous walk, and magnificent cloaks; beautiful and high-born girls ; noble matrons on ambling palfries, with suites of valets and pages supporting their embroidered trains ; processions, followed by long files of the people, filling the air with their songs and acclamations; all alike passed unheeded and unnoticed by the solitary stranger. He remained as fixed and immoveable as a statue.

His dark olive complexion, thick beard, black and curling hair; his high and deeply-furrowed forehead, aquiline nose, and stronglycompressed lips; his noble, grave, and poetic physiognomy - all, in his person, attracted attention, and commanded respect. The crowds involuntarily shrank back as they approached him; and more than one young girl cast her pious looks toward the stone madonna, in a niche at the corner, and crossed herself, as she passed him.

• Do not disturb him, but pass quietly on,' said one of these to her companion.

And why, Camilla ?' • He is one that can descend to the infernal regions, and transport thither the objects of his hatred, at pleasure !'

* Ah! is that he ? replied the other; and they quickened their pace. . He who had excited their terror, only raised his head, sighed, and was again absorbed in the contents of his volume.

At this moment, an ecclesiastic passing, mounted upon a mule richly caparisoned, stopped an instant, and, in an under tone said to the stranger: 'Read, read! for to-morrow thou diest at the stake!'

Perhaps the stranger heard him. He raised not his head, but remained immoveable, and continued his reading. Night came, and closing the book, with a sigh, he returned it to its place, and quitted the spot where he had remained since dawn of day.

The next morning, as he approached the place where the day previous he had perhaps spent a few happy hours, he found the books gone, and the stand removed, and was informed that the faction of · The Blacks,' had, in one of their secret assemblies, held during the night, at the convent of Saint Pierre, proscribed him, and it was dangerous for him to be publicly seen in the streets of Florence. Eh bien !' was his only answer.

A number of friends were soon collected around him.

• You are condemned to die !' said one of them. • Without being heard ?'

'I have proof that they intend this night to set your house on fire, and suffer you to perish in the flames, or assassinate you, if you attempt to escape. Save yourself, then, by a timely flight ?'

I will remain.' * For the sake of your children, save yourself!' • I will leave them my name for an heritage !!

*In the name of one you have made immortal on earth, as she is in heaven,' cried a friend, pressing through the crowd, ‘in the name of BEATRICE, I conjure you to fly!'

The stranger" inclined his head, and accompanied by his friend, turned his steps toward the Roman gate of Florence.

"How will you be avenged on your enemies, for their cruelties and insults ?

The stranger replied not; but drawing from his bosom a roll of parchment, he pointed, with a significant air, to three words inscribed thereon : ‘Divina COMMEDIA INFERNO.' Then casting a last, long, lingering look toward his native Florence, he passed through the gate, on foot and alone.

SOCRATES.

1.

In all your philosophic drove
From stoa, colonnade, or grove,

You had but one alone;
And him, O Athens! Athens prized
At nought — you basely sacrificed,

To flatter a buffoon.

II.

Where was your famed Minerva then ?
Did she direct your wisest men ?

Did she concoct the bowl?
Ah no! with indignation fled
That goddess bright, but in her stead

To rule, she left her owl!

STANZA S.

ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG MOTHER, ON THE DEATH OF BOTH OF HER CHILDREN, WITHIN A SHORT

TIME OF EACH OTHER, AT THE AGES OF ONE AND FOUR YEARS.

A GENTLE seraph, from its happy home
Far wand'ring on its messages of love,
Caine to a couch where lay in sweetest sleep,
Two infant sisters ; each in the other's arms
Entwin'd, their rosy cheeks both touching,
She stayed her golden wing, and hung mid air,
To gaze upon a sight so purely blest;
And, as she look'd, a smile that won them both
To dream of angels bov'ring nigh, forth beam'd
Like holy light from her celestial face.
Th’eldest of the beauteous pair was one
Meet for a mother's pride - a father's love.
With snowy brow, and wavy auburn hair,
Floating like sun-shine all about her head,
And cheeks where white and red were softly blent :
A bright creation was this lovely child !
Upon its full and blue-veined temples sat
Commanding intellect; and in its deep,
Dark eyes, burned genius superhuman;
And ever round its mouth there gently played,
Like moonlight on a lake, a calm still smile!
Its cherry lips were parted, and it seemed
To dream of her its round fond arms entwined;
For oft they moved, and lisped, 'Dear sister, sister!
And in her sleep a kiss e'er followed close
Each word unconscious, as ’ı was sweetly said.
The seraph gazed upon the lovely child,
And thoughi the while that heaven had nought so sair:
But Tinie stood by the pillow, hoar and stern,
At each pulsation of its throbbing heart,
Dropping a grain of sand into its palm.
'T was the

fourth spring he had been doing this !
Nor rests Time ever from his tireless task,
Save Mercy come with Death to interpose,
Till, by the weight of 'cumulating grains,
The victim sinks, decrepid as himself,
Into his grave, and ends his years of toil.
"Oh that I had that cherub child in Heaven!
How would I love its infant steps to guide,
Through all its jasper courts and fields of light,
And mark its wonder! teach its lips to praise !
And watch its fresh mind open, and expand,
And glow, as from one glory to another
I led it on! and then, to see it burn
With love, as I discourse to it of God!'
Death, coursing by, arrested, as she said,
His chariot wheels, and all obedient,
Set strait his bow, and pierced the fair child's heart !
Instant the change! A glorious form,
All radiant with immortality,
In vestments snowy white, and glittering crown,
Shining like Hesperus, spread wings of gold,
Rose from the couch, and the glad seraph hail'd :
The two embraced, speaking with heavenly tongues ;
And, wide unfolding then their dazzling plumes,
Upward they soared together, out of sight.

Not long the time, ere Heaven oped wide its gates
Of sapphire, and forth a glorious troop
Came flying, their swift way bending earth ward.

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