THE MIRROR OF LIFE. years till they are counted by centuries, long after she thou hast so shamefully deserted sleeps the quiet, blessed sleep of death; thou shalt live to mourn and to lament over a fate thou canst not change. Thy doom is more dreadful than thou canst yet conceive of! Come, wait not even for her last embrace, come-come-come!" 97 win woman's love, and then fling it away as ye would cast aside the flower of lost fragrance, but be ye warned in time, for spirits are, and moon-land yet may find room in its borders for thy feet! And now what more remains for me to tell. You have guessed, I know, how the warm-hearted spirit taught Rose May that Joseph Rancy possessed all the good and attractive qualities of the lost lover, with none of his sins and follies! You have guessed that one gay morning the old church doors were opened for another bridal party-that young Rose stood again in marriage garments before the altar, and Joseph by Swiftly away they passed, the spirit and the wifeless bridegroom, without one parting look, or kiss, or word with the trembling girl forever separated from the forever exiled youth. In an instant the little church was vacant, and without its walls might be seen gathered a group of terrified people, and fore-her side. You have guessed how the Spirit once most among them the widowed Rose, gazing on the far upper flight of poor Rob Horn. The new moon that night came up in all her glorious beauty, and sailed on calmly as she was wont to do over the broad blue upper sea; and night after night she glided over the vast expanse, unfurling gradually wider and wider her sails, till in full and perfect splendor she at last appeared. And then, yes then Rose May beheld her lover once more; but oh that shadowy glimpse she caught of him was worse to her than had she looked on utter vacancy. She knew that he was gazing on her home, that he looked in despair on her, but, alas! she saw no more the tender light that filled once his beautiful, dark eyes; she heard no words from his silenced lips, and it was like a torturing dream to her to look upon him thus, and fancy all the horrors of his banishment. And what of Rob? He dwells in moon-land yet! among the elevated "mountains of the moon," instead of those dear, wild heights his dwelling place on earth. Who ever could have dreamed that the wretched Wandering Jew had an unknown companion in yon bright sphere, whose lot was yet more miserable than his own? Who ever thought a "breach of promise" might be visited on unfaithful man, in quite another and more effectual way, than by laying strong hold on his most precious pursestrings?" more glided through the "place of prayer," to add her blessing to that which the priest pronounced over the bridegroom and the bride. Why speak of the happy home where Joseph Rancy dwelt with his beautiful lady-love? Why tell of all that wedded bliss which people for the most part in our world have heard of already, or else desire in an especial manner to hear of, and to know. And why say that all the teachings and advice which the Spirit deigned to administer to these two blest mortals, was ever received and heeded by them with the utmost care and gratitude? Do you believe in dreams? No! Why not? Have you, indeed, yet to learn, that through them the good spirits whisper to us advice, and peace, and warning, and consolation! Are you so cold and dull as to believe there are no ministering spirits, no guiding guardian angels? Do you, can you scornfully repel the idea that the forests and mountains, the oceans and the plains, have their myriad viewless intellectual inhabitants? Ah, foolishly unwise, may these powerful agents have mercy on you, and charitably bear with your shameful, willful blindness! What then-must I set you down as more ignorant and unlearned than even simple Joseph Rancy? Fling all your book-learning aside and be a very child in all knowledge, I beseech you, if that will give you faith in these surrounding millions, to believe in them, and a keen mental eyesight to behold them. And do not, above all things, dare to brave the possible malignance of Rob Horn, that is, if you regard the preservation of your worldly wealth. Gather not in your harvests, and your winter stores, while he is gazing full upon you, rather follow honest Jo Oh, ye soft-hearted maidens, I pray you henceforth bear in mind who is the captive knight to whom so oft your fond eyes are directed, "oft in the stilly night," when he doth stand on the brink of the "moon mountains" and gazeth down so sadly on the world, remember ye this story I have told, and turn away and leave him quite alone. Sing not in pen-seph's example, shear all shearable sheep, reap in the sive strains the praise he loves to hear, laud not the beauty of the exile's home, for oh his strained ear is strong to catch your words, his eye is quick to note your admiration. Let him not gladden in one word from thee. And ye, gay-hearted knights, so strong to promise, and so slow to do; ye who do count it pastime to wealth of your apple-trees, and massacre your swine while Rob is sleeping in the shade of the mountains, just before he awakens from his slumber to gaze openly upon your doings. And if you manifest your faith in my story in no other way than in doing this, I shall be satisfied, and feel, whether you admit it or not, that I have for once "well done." THE MIRROR OF LIFE. SWEET child, whose gentle eyes upon The mirror's polished surface rest, Thy heart no grief has ever known, No anxious care disturbs thy breast. O, may the coming time, to thee Calm as the present ever prove; And she who guards thy infancy Live years of rapture in thy love. ANNA. TO THE THAMES, AT NORWICH, CONN. BY MRS. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. HAIL, Father Thames! 'Tis joy to me Spare not to give me smile of cheer, For some, who erst my hand would take, Methinks thou speak'st of change. 'Tis true; The cheek that ne'er had paled with care, For, in thy presence be it told, Thy shrouded dells, where lovers stole, But, say'st thou, that with spirit true Be thou our guide. Thy steadfast eye Where chance and change are known no more. THE SONG OF THE AXE. BY C. L. WHELER. LET the poet-lord bepraise the sword And maketh the earth give joyous birth, And the palace dome, or peasant's home, For no towering oak its lusty stroke Could ever yet withstand. Ho! the axe is king of the wildwood ring, For before his blow they bow them low And his trophies bright are truth and light, For no drop of teen e'er dims the sheen Then praise to the king of the wildwood ring, For a gentler fame awaits its name Than the sword or Conquest's tracks. |