INTIMATE RELATIONSHIP.

HAPPY are those, who, in the beings to whom they are bound by the ties of nature, find models, and who can thus join the sentiment of veneration to the instincts of tenderness! What love is this, mingling with admiration and blending with the very culture of virtue! Happier still are those, who by offering examples of a good life to the beings whom nature has placed under their protection, can thus confer upon them the greatest of all benefits, by giving to their hearts the most useful instructions, and offering to their affections the most lawful titles. How constantly should attention to this be observed in the ties, which are of our own choosing! Over these intimate relations should preside a wise reserve and an enlightened discernment. We complain incessantly of having been deceived in our sentiments. Ought we not rather to accuse ourselves of having been imprudent and blind in the relations we have contracted? This is not all: it is not given to us to find around us perfect beings; habitual intercourse makes us gradually perceive the imperfections even of the best. Lest these discoveries should surprise and chill us, lest the freshness of sentiment should thus decay, there is a sort of delicate care to be taken in observing the objects of our affections, in order that they may not be deprived of their coloring, by the impressions which familiarity tends to produce; we should veil from our own eyes what is least distinguished in them: we should preserve unsullied the sentiment which honors them; for we truly love only what we can recognize as honorable.

TO THE MOON.

WHEN the gross cares of daylight end,
And selfish passions cease to be,
How will the exulting thought ascend
Bright mystery, to thee!

Distant and calm, the spirit land,

To which is breathed hope's fondest prayer,
Where seraph's wings their hues expand,
And harpings charm the air.

O, glorious is the rising sun,

Pavilioned in his blushing glow,
When fairy winds have just begun
To wake the flowers below.

Or shrined amid the western gold,
While evening's balmy odors rise,
And fancy can almost behold

The elysium of the skies.

Yet far surpassing the bright dawn
Of purple sunset is thy power;
For death's dim veil is half withdrawn
At thy presiding hour.

Affection seeks, in thy calm sphere,
The soul beyond life's stormy sea;
And minds too pure to sorrow here,
Fair planet, dwell with thee.

The bright stars shine around thy throne,
The lonely ocean greets thy ray;
Air, sea, and earth,—all seem to own
Thy spiritual sway.

THE SILK-WORM.

THERE is no form upon our earth,
That bears the mighty Maker's seal,
But has some charm: to draw this forth,
We need but hearts to feel.

I saw a fair young girl-her face

Was sweet as dream of cherished friendJust at the age when childhood's grace And maiden softness blend.

A silk-worm in her hand she laid;

Nor fear, nor yet disgust, was stirred;
But gayly with her charge she played,
As 'twere a nestling bird.

She raised it to her dimpled cheek,
And let it rest and revel there:
O, why for outward beauty seek!
Love makes its favorites fair.

That worm-I should have shrunk, in truth,
To feel the reptile o'er me move,-
But, loved by innocence and youth,
I deemed it worthy love.

Would we, I thought, the soul imbue,
In early life, with sympathies
For every harmless thing, and view
Such creatures formed to please,-

And, when with usefulness combined,
Gives them our love and gentle care,―
O, we might have a world as kind
As God has made it fair!

There is no form upon our earth,
That bears the mighty Maker's seal,
But has some charm: to call this forth,
We need but hearts to feel.

GRATITUDE AND SENSIBILITY.

JUST pride fears to incur debts of gratitude too lightly. Just delicacy shrinks from incurring them from those it cannot esteem, or with whom it can preserve only fugitive relations. Self-love also frequently repulses an obligation which humbles it; and singleness of heart refuses to promise what it has not the means of performing. But there are benefits, which it is not in our power to reject, and which have even anticipated us before any reflection on our part. There is sometimes an exquisite delicacy, which requires us to accept; and sensibility takes pleasure in receiving, in the most intimate intercourse of affection; thereby offering a more perfect pledge of love. He who accepts, loves. Gratitude, born under such auspices, becomes the instructer and protector of sensibility. It gives to the affections the character of a sacred debt. It elevates in our eyes those whom it makes us love; it disposes us to respect others; it feeds on memory; it is the fidelity of the heart; it takes selfishness captive, as it were, to love, and obliges it to render homage. Gratitude also has a sort of generosity, which is peculiar to it; this is the very sacrifice it imposes upon self-love. Let us rejoice, then, that our destiny in life called us to receive, in infancy and youth, so long a train of benefits. It is be

cause gratitude was given us to preside over the education of our sensibility. Let us rejoice, in old age, to find ourselves dependent upon the services of others. Gratitude will thus again warm the heart to sensibility in the evening of life. We have need of others from the cradle to the grave, because love should occupy the avenues and the issues of life. What is it to live, if it is not to love?

ADVANTAGES MAY BE DRAWN FROM OUR OWN FAULTS.

EVERY thing may contribute to our improvement, even the faults which seem to keep us back; and of all our means of progress, these may become the most useful, since the occasions are so constant and general.

Sometimes the extraordinary flight, which some one of the faculties of the heart or mind takes, breaks the equilibrium which ought to reign among them; sometimes the consciousness they have of their intentions, or the feeling they have of their strength, inspires in them a too blind confidence; sometimes they go beyond the end, in abandoning themselves, without reserve and without measure, to a movement honorable in its principle; sometimes their attention, absorbed by the efforts which difficult enterprizes require, neglects to keep watch on other circumstances; sometimes they think they may allow themselves some negligences, as a sort of indemnity for their sacrifices; and they believe themselves authorized to be less severe upon themselves, on account of the merits they have acquired.

All of us experience, more or less, and suffer from these vicissitudes. Sometimes we ourselves change, without being able to account for it; sometimes we can go forward naturally and without effort; sometimes we are drawn away to what is evil, in spite of ourselves. Holy inspirations come and go with the rapidity of light: the soul is elevated, and falls down; wakes up and sleeps again; is kindled by the brightness of excellence, is exhausted by too prolonged contemplation. We are subject, as it were, to various internal maladies, during which we can hardly recognize ourselves; then our views are agitated, and our sensibility appears extinguished. The more we have tasted of elevated things, the more we are discouraged by these failures. To form resolutions; to break or forget them; to conceive noble hopes;

to be beaten down in courage; to experience generous sentiments; to yield to childish weakness; to project, to essay, to fail, to be discouraged, to experience regret;-is not this an abridged history of our life?

Unfortunately the feeling of these faults, when we do recognize them, produces upon us generally an effect very different from that which ought to attend them. We do not de evil for evil's sake; but when we do evil, we exclude the image of good, lest it should importune us: we are agitated; disorder enters into the mind and heart; having given up to weakness, we become more feeble for falling; being carried away, we are intoxicated, and lose the sense of proportion. If we cannot acknowledge ourselves guilty, we falsify conscience; if we do recognize ourselves culpable, we become accustomed to the idea of our faults, and consent to be culpable, and are in danger of degrading ourselves.

But let us stop before we fall into this abyss. Let us take care, above all things, not to let a first fault act upon us like an engagement; let us take care not to live associated with our fault without disavowing it-nor to accept stains upon our character, nor inward shame, the most ignominious of all shame. A fault is a little thing, if the character still preserves vitality. It is indeed unfortunate, that a severe world often overwhelms without pity, by an irrevocable decree, those who have failed. It puts on them the seal of hopeless reprobation. In taking away the hope of reinstatement, it condemns the guilty to persevere in dishonoring themselves forever; it excites them to render themselves despicable; it seems to say to them, 'Vice is your lot and heritage.' Yet the world which pronounces such a proscription, is the same world which holds in its bosom so much unheard of crime, and which sometimes can excuse so easily, can praise extravagantly, can flatter, and which even prescribes great violations of duty, if they be surrounded with brilliancy, followed by success, or conformed to prejudice. Perhaps the wretch, who is proscribed, is, notwithstanding his fault, less corrupted than his judges. Happy are those compassionate beings who bring aid to the most real of misfortunes; who stretch out their hands to the falling; who, by testifying their solicitude, give a pledge to them of the return of esteem! True physicians of the soul! who do not wound again the wounded, but cure them; who give to them hope, as a means of remedy; who, strong in their own virtue, do not fear to