صور الصفحة
النشر الإلكتروني


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NO. 1.




And startling the rude echoes with his name.
Night closes round and to the anxious flock
No tidings of the tugitive appear.
The morning dawns and with its rising light
A fresh recruit seek to renew the search:
They call aloud-the echoes answer back!
They fire a gun-Oh! most transporting sound,
The woods send back a voice—the wanderer hears,
The dead returns to Hfe-the lost is found !

Such is the legend of thee-such the tale
Enshrined within my memory, which now,
E'en as I gaze upon thee, thrills my soul,
Surveying thy blue outline yet once more.
Again I scan thine azure peak afar,
Just pillowing the clouds as in the time
When Life was all one careless holiday.
Still rise forever, Gilboa of the Past !

Mountain of Lamentations still lament!
Kensington, Conn., 1847.

There is enough to do. The world is full of wrong that requires bold, brave, wakeful men to crush ; . it is full of suffering that calls for kind, ten. der, affectionate women to alleviate. Will you do nothing but dream? Will you be the drones of the great hive of humanity, feeding upon others' labor, and adding nothing yourselves to the stock of honey? You have a place and a station in the world for other and better purposes, for higher and holier objects. “Dream not then, but work !"

The exigencies of the world require your assist. ance. There never was a time when energy and systematic labor for the good of community was 80 much needed.

Arise ! for the day is passing,

While you lie dreaming on;
Your brothers are cased in armor,

And forth to the fight have gono;
Your place in the ranks awaits you;

Each man has a part to play;
The past and the future are nothing

In the face of the stern to-day. Action is what is needed. The day of idle con templation has passed-poetic reveries are but dreams. The times demand sober realities, powerful exertions, benevolent sacrifices.

“Dream pot, then, but work."


Blue mountain of my childhood I that afar
Dost rear thy summit sunward to the sky,
How often have I gazed upon thy torm
Radiant with glittering beauty-to my eye
The boundary of my mimic Paradise,
While all beyond was heaven! A single star
Just rose above thy forehead hanging still
In motionless enjoyment glancing down
With its mild looks as loving tby grey mlen.
Nor mournfully I gazed, for then as yet
I had not beard of the strange legend told
Connected with thy memory-a sad tale,
Which still in future days would make me weep.

'Tis strange-the objects of material sense
Incorporate with our memories. Once more
I gain my native hill-top, and I breathe
A purer air as from yon rocky ledge
My childhood's home, I view the landscape near.
Heavens! what a prospect bursts upon the eye,
An ample park-Nature's magnificence
Spread lavishly around, not the wild forms
of rougher scenery-mass piled on mass,
With avalanche terrific (though more near
Such imitation of ber guise bebeld,)
But now, her softer aspect wooing fond
With her mild gentleness th' observer's gaze,
A panoramic view of hill and dale,
And distant village with its rising ground
And humble vale between, through which afar-
A thread of silver dimpling in the sun
Upon its winding course the river steals,
Fit ornament for such a back-ground rare-
The mountain still its faithful sentinel,
Embosoming a landscape yet more dear.

I have a love of mountains and my soul
le of them as their lineaments of me!
I breathe the freer on their lofty tops,
As nearer to the Infinite o'er all!
The mountains are God's building, and their forms
The scaffolding by which we climb to heaven.
Thus do I call to mind that sacred peak
On which tbe ark first rested in the waste
Of that wide deluge which o'erwhelmed the world;
'Mid thunderings and lightnings on that mount,
Dread Sinai pamed, Jehovah gave his laws;
Moses expired on Pisgah, and the height
Or Gilbos murmurs back most plaintive strains
For that vile king 'anointed' still 'with oill':
Forms of departed worthles hallow yet
The Mount of the Transfiguration, while
On Calvary was hung the Incarnate God i

Mountain of Lamentations on thy top E'en now a memory lingers, and thy face Doth gather a dark shadow as it lies škirted with banks of clouds. My muse recalls That legend of old time when in these woods Wandered erewblle a Patriot of the Past, Roaming among these scenes, nor able yet To venture farther or retrace his steps, Plunged in the trackless gloom. Perplexed be stando Is the uncertain path, the distant forms Di wife and child appearing in his sight, tad now, alas ! lost in the forest depths. At band do belp succeeds. In vain his friends way to find the Wanderer pressing on, he tradition is, that in the early settlement of the y on the Connecticut River, Mr. Chester, of Weth. 1-an ancestor of the families of that name in that

town, was lost on a mountain some twelve miles

touthwest from his home, whence the name me. ration. The accounts differ as to his fate. The credible story le, that be was at length rescued by

Dream not, but Work ! There is great danger in some youthful minds, of spending life in a dreamy state of inactivity, with. out feeling the obligation resting upon every man to work. This is particularly true of those for whom fortune has already so scattered her profuse gifts as not to goad them on by necessity in the path of labor. To such, our motto speaks a word in season that should be heeded—"Dream not, but work!” There is a world of sin, of misery, before you that requires your efforts. There is work enough for every band and for every head among God's subjects. This work is a duty-is a requisition of your Maker. You cannot escape the responsibility of labor in this world. You cannot escape the penalty of its neglect in another. You are needed to teach the world its duties

to instruct the ig. norant, to lift up the bowed down, to strengthen the weak, to encourage the timid, to succor the needy. "Dream not, then, but Work."

"Dream not, but work! Be bold I be brave!
Let not a coward spirit crave

Escape from tasks allotted !
Thankful for toil and danger be ;
Duty's high call will make thee flee

The vicious—the besotted." How many young men there are that need this exhortation, who are passing listlessly through life, dreaming as they move, with an intuitive shrinking from all labor-floating down the stream of time, engaged only in the sleepy observation of the bub. bles on the current! How many young women spend their hours in the same dreamy state of mere amusement, doing no good in the world in which God has placed them! How many there are among us, whose whole life is spent

"In dropping buckets into empty wells,

And growing old in drawing nothing up." “What shall I do ?" Ah! that querulous tope does not indicate that the dream is yet shaken off! Do? Young man! •

Wage ceaseless war 'gainst lawless might,
Speak out the truth act out the right-

Shield the defenceless.
Be firm-be strong-improve the time-
Pity the singer-but for crime,

Crush it relentless !
Young woman!

Forget thy self, but bear in mind
The claims of suffering human kind;

So shall the welcome night
Unseen o'ertake thee, and thy soul,
Sinking in slumber at the goal,

Wake in eternal light!

FOR THE COURANT. Scenes Here and There. The scenes and parties of the chapters of experience hereafter sketched, are familiar to many of your readers. The light-house keeper, spoken of in the last, has been mentioned in your columns before, and is well known to our sea-shore visitors. It was from his own lips that the story was derived.

In a bumble house an old man was lying. His withered frame had long withstood the assaults of disease, and his eye still glistened brightly, as in the dew of youth or the heyday of manhood, Scarcely a relative was left bim. No wife or child bent o'er him to relieve suffering nature. The faithful nurse and the attendant physician were at bis side. The power of sickness was now struggling with his enduring body, and the angel of death was waiting to shout victory over another of its myriads slain. He had long loved and worshipped money. While others, perhaps no less greedy of the precious dust, had carefully invested their gains in stocks and bonds, he had deposited his earnings in a strong chest, which now lay closely locked beneath his bed. Never had he said his head upon a pillow that did not cover that key. And now, as he felt a deuper sleep settling upon him than he had known before, his treasure seemed doubly precious. Alike unconscious of his physician's words and attentions, bis mind still trembles for the safety of his chest. But death's couvulsions are mastering him. In nervous paroxysm he thrusts out his arm wildly from the bed. His heart ceases to beat, and his lips have stopped quivering, but his long bony fingers still clasp the key, and the last sign of life passes away, as that hand relaxes silently, and the heavy key drops. The temptations of life and the calls of humanity had never been able to unloose that hold, and it was only the stern mastery of death which had conquered, but not persuaded.

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It was a rough March day. The ice-fields once broken, were sealed again, as if winter, once de. parted, bud returned 10 bid farewell to ibe earth


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