'Tis the last eve my weary eye
Shall greet the ocean or the sky.

I go—but Lesbos yet shall keep*
The mem'ry of my brilliant name;
For mine is no forgotten sleep,

Nor mine a poor decaying fame:
For in it shall my nation trust,
Nor dream their goddess is but dust.

Yes! Lasia's sunshine yet shall glow
On pillared temples built for me;
And blood before my altars flow,
And Sappho live a deity.

For crowns may fade, and thrones decay,
But genius cannot pass away.

Go, heartless Phaon! I have felt

Too long-too sadly deep for thee:
Thy frozen bosom would not melt;
Now mine, at last, shall be as free.

1 seek in yonder angry brine,

A kinder sympathy than thine.

*

She cast a wild look o'er the tremulous deep,
Then flung her light form from the high, rocky steep,
Far down through the depths of the dark ocean-wave,
Fair daughter of sadness-she sleeps in her grave.

THE MOTHER'S LECTURE.

"I do not seek to quench your love's hot fire;
But qualify the fire's extreme rage,

Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason."

"AND do you love him, Evelyn?"

Two Gentlemen of Verona.

"Oh mother, ask me not. I see but too plainly, that you do not like him, and yet I feel that I must sacrifice my happiness or my duty to you."

"Neither, sweet one! all I ask of you, my child, is that you take time. It is now scarcely six weeks since this same James Atwill came to this place. Do you feel that you know him-his

* The Lesbians were so sensible of the merits of Sappho, that after her death they paid her divine honors.

character his disposition-his habits? And does he know you? True, you have been much together, but you are both under a kind of enchantment, and do not see each other's faults. You are young, Evelyn,-hardly sixteen; and though you are my child, very beautiful. You have ever lived here amid the seclusion of a country village, and with an education superior to those around you, have been in no danger from the attentions of the youths of the place; you felt that they did not understand you. This is the first highly educated young man you have ever seen, and you give him the warm affections of your heart; and he-he may be all he appears, and he may be a villain."

"Mother"

"Forgive me, Evelyn,-if I loved you less, I should not thus speak to you. You remember Aunt Sarah, who spent a month here last fall, and whom you called 'The Cross Old Maid ?' "' "Yes, mother."

"She was once as you are now-young and very beautiful. A young man came to her native place, and won her unsuspecting heart; the day was appointed for the wedding; but three days before the time, he left the village, and the last she heard of him was, that he was married to a southern heiress, to whom he had been engaged for years. You saw the effect of disappointment on one who entered life with prospects fair as your own. This same sad tale was told me by my mother, when about your age; and she left it to me, as I now do to you, to read the moral".

"And yet, mother, I have heard that yours was a run-away match."

"Yes, dearest,-'twas the only way. My mother refused her consent."

"And, mother, have you ever regretted it ?"

"Never!"

"Then you will forgive us, mother," said she, as she hid her beautiful face in the bosom of a young man, who had entered softly at the window, and now knelt by her side, with his arm flung lightly around her slender waist,

"For we were married last week," said the youth, finishing the sentence she had begun, "and here is our certificate of marriage.'

"Evelyn, you have deceived me," said the mother," and you, rash boy, have torn my only treasure from me. But I forgive you both, as I hope to be forgiven for breaking my mother's heart. Ah, how bitterly have I learned that Example is better than precept.'"

F****.

SONG.

"I remember, I remember, the house where I was born," &c.

I REMEMBER, I remember, the time when first we met,

The mem'ry of that meeting hangs all sweetly on me yet;

And though the first, and though the last, and many a year hath stole, All deeper by the flight of time, 'tis graven on my soul.

I remember, I remember, she then was but a child,

And I a fond and foolish boy, who thought she sweetly smil'd,
And loved to gaze upon her face, and listen to her voice,

And linger where her presence bade, my youthful heart rejoice.

I remember, I remember, sure, love it could not be,
But that now it differs much, I really cannot see,

For I do hear this gentle child, who caught my boyish eye,
Is tall and fair enough to make full many a lover sigh.

I remember, I remember, 'tis said that angel hands

To music of the spheres weave love's indissoluble bands;

Has not the chain, has not the chain, to bind our hearts been wove, Whose first and sweetest link was joined ere childhood dreamt of love.

I remember, I remember, the time when first we met,

But, ah! what's more important still, does she remember yet?

Why could I not remind her, oh, Cupid! may I find

Her bosom sweetly thrilling with memory like mine.

THE JOYS OF YOUTH.

OH, there is joy in youth for a free heart!
The joy of life's fair dewy dawn. The joy
Of love, whose brightness makes the bosom start,
As would a fawn, feeding in grove all coy,
At sudden sunbeam flashing through the leaves :
Of the unfettered spirit of a boy,

That binds of hope a thousand golden sheaves,
And o'er the stage of life a rosy curtain weaves.

The joy of conscious strength, and eagle eye,
And nimble foot, and arm all vigor; and thought
Unting'd with care and impulse free and high
As heaven and air; of tongue as yet untaught

To flatter, wound, blaspheme, or at the throne
Of fashion pay its homage; soul uncaught
In vice's web, whereon she sits alone,

And doth invite the young with voice of syren tone.

And there's the joy of feeling the warm blood
Course free and purely through each throbbing vein,
And send from the strong-beating heart a flood,
That life, and health, and beauty doth contain;
And memory yet can nought but pleasure scan,
For scarce a cloud of care, or scar of pain,
Darkens or wounds us, ere the age of man,
And we forget the ills which with our life began.

There's joy in sympathy with all things-earth,
And streams dancing along their way, and singing
To themselves and to the flowers whose birth
Adorns their banks; with feather'd minstrels, springing
Away upon the wing so gracefully,

And pouring from their little founts of mirth
A stream of wild and self-taught melody,
That falls upon the listening ear deliciously.

Oh, yes, there's joy with earth, and joy with air,
When o'er the cheek it plays at summer eve,
Or lingers in the mazes of the streaming hair,
Or with the leaf soft music seems to weave;
With sea, when o'er the curling wave our light
Bark glances, and behind our flight we leave
A sparkling path, with foaming bubbles white,
Which fadeth soon away, and leaves no trace in sight;

And sky, as 'neath its everlasting dome

We stand, and upward gaze into its height
Immeasurable, and in fancy roam

Amid careering worlds, that smile at night,

And welcome to the earth each newborn thing,

And shine too on the silent grave as bright.

They are beyond, O death, thy bitter sting,

And they alone, O time, heed not thine arrowy wing.

Such are the joys of youth—the joy of life
When new, of love, of strength, and spirit free,
Of thought and memory unting'd with grief,
Of health, of impulse high, and heart of glee,
Of the tongue and soul of truth, of sympathy
With nature, earth and streams, and songsters rife
With mirth, and with the air, and sea, and sky-
These fill the cup of joy as youthful days roll by.

M. S.

OUR MAGAZINE.

BELOVED READER! Hast thou perused the foregoing pages with care and attention, catching with a cultivated eye the many excellencies therein exhibited? If so, we proclaim thee a man, and worthy of the milk and honey that our liberality shall now dispense to thee. We might exact from such as thou art the reputation of wit or eloquence, but reader, we are in a sober mood; pray you sit down, therefore, and let us moralize. In thy young days of ignorance, before entering upon the rigid duties of college-life, didst thou ever fall in love with some innocent damsel, throwing around her all the charms that imagination could furnish, and giving her a thousand beauties that she never had? hast thou done all this, we ask—and then, after many a long month of study and mental culture, hast thou returned and found that the simple angel has neglected her mind, and can no longer sympathize with thy wisdom? No! you answer; neither have we, is our equally negative reply; and yet we are told that such things have been. Gather this moral; man is a being susceptible of endless improvement,—and more than all, hoard up this golden lesson, which, though a woman wrote, man may well remember, "a changeful thing is the human heart." Take another example "to our purpose quite." Hast thou ever heard some prudent mother rebuke the vanity of her son, when surveying in a mirror the symptoms of his approaching manhood, with this sage maxim, " beauty, my boy, is a worthless trifle," and hast thou seen her turn at the same moment to her pouting daughter, with the anxious exclamation, nay, my dear! you will spoil your pretty face!" Thou answerest yes!" to this interrogation; even thus shall our true experience echo "yes." But pardon the good lady, she meant well. Now glean from this our exalted page yet another moral, akin to our former: "vanity of vanities saith the preacher, all is vanity;"-oh human inconsistency! "where, where is the end of all thy wanderings?" Even we, reader, ethereal as we are, have not as yet reached the goal of perfection; our spiritual nature hath not as yet wrestled down all our natural longings; thoughts of what we shall eat and drink will sometimes invade the highest flights of our intellects, "making the cold reality too real;" such is human inconsistency; even ours is manifest in one failing; look sharply, and thou shalt find it. Who has not seen the good moon when her "clouded majesty" is just gleaming through the trees and throwing her "silver mantle o'er the dark?" We have done it with a thousand warm yearnings, for it brought to our epicurean thoughts in vivid painting the memory of that vegetable orb, whose luscious yellow the good matrons of New England annually stew, for our autumnal pies :

"Forgive us, Luna's universal shade,

Aye! do forgive us that our fancy strayed"

for thou shouldst bear in mind, (if that thou hast a mind,) that "edere est humanum." We are content to follow in the path of our illustrious predecessor Horatius Flaccus, who expressly declares himself "fresh from the sty of Epicurus." But let us change our moral theme.

Behold yon melancholy receptacle of buried hopes and buried authorship. Let us rake up with cold, skeleton hands

"The feeble ashes, and our feeble breath
Blow for a little life and make a flame,

That is a mockery?"—