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Winter invades the Spring, and often pours
A chilling flood on Summer's drooping flowers;
Unweloome vapors quench autumnal beams,
Ingenial blasts attending curl the streams :
The peasants urge their harveste, ply the fork
With double toil, and shiver at their work:
Thus, with a vigor for his good designed,
She rears her favorite man of all mankind."

Though this is poetry, yet poetry utters a great many truths; and it is a very curious and suggestive fact that English climate and character so entirely coincide. John Bull is a blustering fellow, just like his winds, and, if his climate is fickle and sudden in its changes, so is he moody and his tempers uncertain. Are his winters frosty, and his summers genial ? So are his likes and his dislikes, his loves and his hates; he has much winter and not a little sunshine mingled in his character.

Now, if we turn to France, we shall find a people of very different character, and an equally diverse climate. The atmosphere is soft and transparent, and the temperature uniform and genial. Every breeze is freighted with the odor of flowers, and every grove is vocal with the song of birds. Now, though we would not ascribe everything to climate, yet how strikingly do French manners coincide with the aspects of nature around them!

“ The Frenchman, easy, debonair, and brisk,
Give him his lass, his fiddle, and his frisk,
Is always happy, reign whoever may,
And laughs the sense of misery away."

min It may be said that the vices of these people have blunted their sensibilities, and rendered them brutal and dull. If we but turn our eyes to the islands of the Southern Pacific, we shall see a people more degraded, equally destitute of education, and, so far as we know, equally low in patural endowments. But do we find the same dullness, grossness, stupidity, and gloominess that characterize the Esqui. maux? Here, the sun shines in all his glory, gilding the mountains and trees and waters with his radiance, and making the earth beautiful to look upon; here, flowers bloom, birds sing, and warm and soft breezes blow. Can man be gloomy here? Can be resist the spirit of gladness that breathes around? These islanders are expert and elegant dancers. Unlike their northern brethren, they rejoice in a rude music, and take pleasure in social assemblages and personal display. Dancing is generally regarded as an indication of hilarity, and of some degree of exhilaration of animal spirits, though, in promiscuous assemblies, certainly attended with a deterioration of manners; yet, so far as it is the expression of gayety in these islanders, it shows a correspondence between their climate and character. No such amusement obtains in rude climes and on inhospitable shores.

These observations might be extended to all the countries of the earth. Wherever extremes in climate and striking characteristics of natural scenery obtain, we are certain to find corresponding developments of character in the people. Certainly, the instances are not all equally striking or manifest, yet are we never without some signal proof of the facts in question. As before observed, we do not refer all the peculiarities of character that distinguish one nation from another to the influences of external nature ; on the contrary, we believe that Nature lays the foundation of many of them, and bume may be traced to the influences of other nations, to traditional and religious observances, and other causes.

If our facts and observations have established the proposition that the aspect of external nature exerts a very important influence in moulding the character of man, we think the fact itself cannot be devoid of interest as a matter of curious information, or barren of instruction in matters of higher moment. If it is the law of man's nature that he becomes assimilated to the things around him, it becomes important for him to bestow some attention upon the architecture of his dwellings and places of constant resort, and upon the aspect of their position and adornments. We know that this law of our nature has been taken advantage of in bygone ages to nurse the worst superstitions, and even now resort is had to the same measures for impressions to bolster up decaying systems of error.

The law of assimilation is peculiarly active in associations between moral and intelligent beings. We are told, in the Scriptures, that “ we all with

In Italy, the same correspondences exist between the face of the country and the character of the people ; for, though it be true that idleness and sensuality have debased the Italian character, and brought down its high aspirings, yet such is the magic of their sunny clime that, despite the most adverse moral influences, it still, chameleon-like, reflects the hues of the scenes amid which it is nursed,

We shall find a further confirmation of our idea by a reference to barbarous nations. The life of the poor Esquimaux is peculiarly dreary, rendered 80 as much by their modes of life as by their climate. Captain Parry says they are dull and gloomy, living together like swine in snow-houses and dark caves, and that they are scarcely ever seen to laugh or heard to joke. All the circumstances of their lives conduce to these results. A poet has embodied these ideas in the following beautiful lines :

“Half enlivened by the distant sun, That rears and ripens man, as well as plants, Here, human nature wears its rudest form. Deep from the piercing season sunk in caves, Here, by dull fires, and with unjoyous cheer, They waste the tedious gloom. Immersed in furs, Doze the gross race.

Nor sprightly jest nor song, Nor tenderness they know; por aught of life Beyond the kindred bears that stalk without."

open face beholding, as in a glass, the glory of the Lord, are changed into the same image from glory to glory, even as by the Spirit of the Lord.” What a glorious assimilation is this! With what gratitude should we reflect on the fact that God has given us natures susceptible of such glorious trans

formations, and capable of such high attainments in the scale of being !

Scripture exhortations to cheerfulness have a reference to the same law. “A sad countenance" seems to be the peculiar characteristic of the hypocrite, and is always a premonition of moral blight.




Mount Tom, with joy, the merry poal receives
Amid its cavern'd rocks, and, dwelling there,
The fairy, echo, flings it gayly back
O'er distant hills.

The farmer's wife looks glad
When faintly falls upon her listening car
The far-off worship-call.

Each humble cot,
And prouder mansion, send the op'ning buds
of youth, the ripen'd fruit of manhood's prime,
And wither'd leaves of cane-supporting age,
To form an off'ring meet for God's own house
of praise. In by-paths through the solemn woods-
Through meadows, dressed in autumn's later green-
Beside the brooks where truant school-boys rove-
And down the dusty road, they flocking come.
Around the church-door gathered, friendship grasps
Th' extended hand, and greets, in tones and smiles
Subdued, the motley throng around. This past,
With humble mien they walk the sacred aisles.
Bend low your heads and hearts, ye pious souls,
For God's own presence fills this sacred place,
And opes the narrow gate that leads to heaven.

SERENELY wakes the morn;
Her cloud-fringed eyelids glow with silver light,
From that bright orb they guard.

The azure depth
Of heaven's calm bosom holds one little cloud,
Star-lit, which feels the first warm kiss of Day,
And blusher. Then over the emerald hills,
With glory, flushes the ruddy light
From her soft-beaming eyes, and autumn woods,
Clothed in bright rainbow-dyes, in one sweet concord
out a hymn to God.

Like maiden coy,
Wooing the glance of him she loves, the Quechee,
When she sees the Day King out his glowing
Bath of beauty step, dripping with glory
O'er the pavement of the skies, doth gently
Cast aside her veil of mist, and murmurs
Back a soft “Amen.”

Mountain, plain, and glen,
Through night's cold tears of glistening dew, oft shed
For absent daylight, smile.

In grateful praise,
All Nature worships God.

This lofty mount,
Whose rugged bosom feels the power that
Thunders in the storm, and rocks the eagle
In her dizzy nest, and yonder fruitful
Hills, whose lowing herus enjoy the genial
Sun, the universal concert join.

Wood-embosomed lake, whose calm blue eye, in
Its clear depth, reflects the fairy shores around,
Sends up its note of joy, and heavenly look
of love.

Sweet-smelling herbs, and fragrant buds,
Pure incense offer, too. My rose, within
The casement, feels the inspiration of
The hour, and heavenward breathes its rich perfume.
Hushed is the sound of daily toil. Man goes
Not forth today, to sweat for cursed gain,
But to praise and pray.

Behold the Sabbath!
O sacred morn, that saw the rock-closed tomb
Where Jesus lay, by shining angels oped!
O blessed Christ! roll thou away the stone
From this cold heart, where lie entombed good
Resolves. Breathe strength once more their stiffened joints
Within, and bid them rise, come forth, and live.
The church-bells chime; to weary souls how sweet
The sounds harmonious. Through the bracing air
Their pleasant voices ring; invading, with
Their call to prayer, each quiet nook and dell.

VOL. XLV.-33

With careful steps, across the village green,
See yonder couple take their customed way.
Each Sabbath morn, an aged mother, blind
With age, doth lean upon a gray-haired son's
Most willing arm. With love and duty strong
Imbued, he leads where she may praise in God's
Own temple. After “service," ere the hours
Of twilight pass, once more with cheerful steps
He goes, and reads to that old mother, blind
And poor, sweet words of truth and grace, from that
Illumined page where Mercy pardon breathes
Through Jesus Christ our Lord.

O fragrant flowers
Of human hearts! there do ye meekly dwell,
And bless, with summer's bloom, the wintry soul
Of dying age.


O MIGHTY city of the dead! what numerous hosts are here; And yet all motionless they lie, unmov'd by sorrow's terr, Or by the mourner's wailing grief, who weeping stands

above This temple fill'd with pulseless hearts of lost and buried


Though gladsome rays of morning come to gild the hal

lowed spot, Unnoticed all their glories shine; the sleepers heed them When, with the sunset's tearful gleam,


A chill wind wasteth the green bowers, And Mind perforce with Nature mourns,

Each for its summer flowers

Though radiant beams of noontide fall with clear,pffulgent

light, Yet to that silent multitude 'tis one long dreamless night. The evening sunshine kindly stays to throw its influence

there, And twilight's pitying dews descend to weep the gentle tear; That hour so full of holy thought, to sweet communion

given, When the spirits of the loved below commune with those

in Heaven.

But beauty all of earth and air, of sky and boundless seaThe glorious face that nature wears, all glad and bright

and free Charm not the sleepers resting here, nor cause one throb

of joy: O Death, insatiate conquerorl thou 'rt mighty to destroy. The husband here in calmness lies, and resting at his side Is she, his heart's young chosen one, his fond and trusting

bride: He cares not that she there reclines in quiet by him now, For Death's unfeeling touch has chilled that fair and pol

ished brow. The tender buds of hope and love, that came with morn

ing's bloom, The frosts of death have blighted now, and laid them in

the tomb: The lovely form of youth is here, the beautiful and puroAlas, thou mighty conqueror! thine aim is ever sure. Here, all unmoved, the mother's heart lies pulseless, cold,

and still; That heart so constant, warm, and true-80 firm through

good and ill: The dirging grief of stricken ones cannot avail them now, Nor cause one ray of tenderness to light that pallid brow. But oh! a new unclouded dawn, a glorious morn shall rise, A morning of celestial birth-a herald from the skiesWhen pealing through the trembling air the trumpet's

sound shall come, To wake the silent multitude that slumber in the tomb. The wicked, ah! their fearful doom-no mighty One to

save; Far better to have slumbered on within the gloomy grave: Not so the faithful and the good-with joy they'll quit the

tomb, And rise to life and light again, and youth's redoubled


When all the birds of varied note,

And scented vine and slender tree, Are flown or fading, and the woods

Have voices like the sea I met a maiden in my walk,

A blossom that was scarcely blown,
With summer folded in her heart,

And fragrant in her tone.
And soon came to her shaded eyes

A joy which none before had taught herA light soft as the mirrored star,

When dusk is on the water.
It was a look that met not mine,

But from it ever sought to rove;
And yet in this anxietude,

Was eloquent of love.
A stolen look, which, when I saw,

A sudden, tremulous tinge of rose
Sussused her virgin cheek, and seemed

To break her heart's repose.
What could I do? the spring was gone ;

The summer, too, was ebbing low;
And mounted autumn rides so fast

Toward the hills of snow!
I whispered! while her cheeks o'erflowed,

Deeper than rose or twilight stream;
And since, our mutual life has been

A revery-a dream!
The loaf may fall, the blossom blow-

I have no season but her eyes;
And they are of the changeless hue

of the blue summer skies.


Then heart shall meet with kindrod heart, and anthems

loud shall rise, And rapturous notes of harmony shall echo through the

skies: "All hail, thou great Deliverer!" the ransomed ones shall

sing, "O Grave, where is thy victory! O Death, where is thy

sting!” Asheville, N. C.

I LAID her in her beauty down

In the lone forest dell,
When the deep shades of eventide

Around my pathway fell.
And not a single sunbeam pressed

The heavy clouds apart;
A shade was resting on the earth,

A deeper on my heart!
I watched long with a growing pride

Her beauty's radiant glow, For death had set his awful seal

In beauty on her brow. Her eyes were glorious with the light

Of brighter worlds than ours; She faded slowly from the earth,

From young life's fairest flowers. And now I sit alone, beneath

The weight of changeless sorrow: This is no pagsing cloud of grief,

"Tis night without a morrow.



'Twas in that season of the year

When, here and there, a crimson leaf Amid the pleasant foliage seems

A harbinger of grief

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Sad feels his heart as mem'ry opes ·

To view bright dreams of days gone by; Sad 'tis to think his golden hopes

In youth were doomed to fade and die! Each promised joy has come to naught,

And sickness now his strength is stealing; Ilis brain is steeped in anxious thought

His form in pains of keenest feeling. His cheok has lost its radiant hue

His eye and brow are growing dim; And dearest friends, once fond and true,

Have lost the love they felt for him. He misses many a smiling lip

A loving eye, a voice of truthAnd all the sweet companionship

With genial souls of kindred youth. And now his heart has such a thirst

For early friendship’s smile and tone, It seems as though with grief 'twould burst,

When brooding o'er those treasures flown. With bitterest pangs his soul it stirred,

To learn, in dark misfortune's hour, But few could love a drooping bird

A withered leaf-a fuded flower. Long has he drank of sorrow's cup;

Deep is the gloom his features wear: There's naught can cheer his spirits up,

So filled his breast with dark despair. And oft he feels, when none are nigh,

A smothered woe so full and deep; 'Tis sweet relief to breathe the sigh,

And melancholy bliss to weep.
Ah! life to him has lost its charms:

Sweet health is gone-youth's joys are fled; No earthly hope his bosom warms

He longs to slumber with the desd! And feebly now his breast's core beats

The vital thread Fate soon will sever; Ere many morns his spirit greets,

His eyes may close, and close forever! And when his form shall pulseless lie,

Outstretched beneath the coffin-lid; Ah! who think you from Sorrow's eye

Will o'er his urn one teardrop shoc! Who'll seek his grave at twilight hours,

When earth is robed in vernal bloom, And o'er it strew those fragrant flowers

'That speak of hope beyond the tomb.

THE sweetest bird that ever raised

Its morning song of praise to heaven, Though soaring often to the skies,

Hath still most vainly striven To live without the aid of earth,

Her berries ripe, her waters clear; Though loud its song, and bold its flight,

Its nestling-place is here.
The fairest flower that ever shed

Its blessed fragrance on the air,
Though still by showers and sunbeams fed,

Had perished in their care,
Had not its roots still fondly clung

About the spot which gave them birth; Though lovingly it looks above,

Its resting-place is earth.
If things as purely beautiful

As singing-birds, and perfumed flowers, Cling still to earth, though softly woood

By genial suns and showers,
Then I, more earthly far than they,

May for my frailty be forgiven,
Though for a human love I raise

My fervent prayers to heaven.



On aching hearts, by care oppressed, Oh weeping ones, that know no rest; Oh mourners, that have suffered long; Oh ye, the faint of heart, be strong!

Ye drooping ones, your sorrows bear; Steel your weak breasts, repel despair; For they who buffet with their fate, And brave its anguish, shall be great!

Sorrow is power, and when ye bow,
And wild thoughts thrill the rending brow,
Look to the living skies, and see-
Fit emblem of your destiny-

Some struggling star, that, froed at length,
Bursts to brilliancy and strength,
And leaves the clouds, that clogged it so,
Alone to grovel on below.


THE SOLDIER'S DREAM OF HOME. Written on sering the Soldier's Dream of Home, * in the

March number of " Godky's Lady's Book."]

[From a Picture.]



The soldier now is resting on

The bank, at eventide;
His gun is leaning at his head,

His cap is by his side.
The lurid watchfires burn around

With an unsteady glare;
His soldier-comrades, bending low,

The evening meal prepare.
Slow rising up, the silver moon

Is dimmed by ssure clouds ;
A single star is shining bright

Amid the misty shrouds.
His gaze is upward, and his head

Is pillowed on his arm;
But Mem'ry, busy with the past,

Has sought another charm.
He sleeps! and dreams of home and love

Come flitting softly there,
Of her he made his youthful bride

His baby-boy so fair.

TEARS! tears! they gather as I gaza

The soldier dreams of home
The moon shines on his upturnod face,

While blessed visions come:
But oh! the heart's light beams o'er all-
He hears his wife and children call.
He sees anear the humble cot-

The harvest sheaves around-
The pet goats browsing on the hill

With purple heather crowned;
The shouts of welcome reach the plain-
The soldier is at home again.
They fly to meet him—to his breast

He folds again his own;
His Jeannie's soft and loving arms

Around his neck are thrown:
Her bright lips to her own are pressed;

In dreams, the weary soldier 's blest.
The pretty bird, his little “Jean,"

Born since he left the nest, Stands, tiptoe, dimpling by his side,

And waits to be carest:
With outstretched arms, wee Donald fies;
“Thank God for this !” the soldier cries.
Faded !--and was it but a dream?

Did not his spirit meet
The darlings by his mountain bome,

And list their welcome sweet?
Oh! when the last long sleep came o'er,
Did not he clasp them as of yore?

Once more within his Highland home

He treads his native heath; And every breeze that passes by

Is laden with its breath.

As dear, familiar objects meet

His anxious, tearful eye, With beating heart, he seeks the home

Where all his treasures lie.


The goats upon the mountains browse;

The shepherd's song is heard :
At last he stands within his home,

Nor breathes a single word.
An ear has caught his weary tread-

An eye, his well-known face;
One moment more, his Jeannie's clasped.

Within his warm embrace.


As, leaning o'er her sinking form,

“My father!" greets his ear, A little Jean is bounding forth

To meet her father dear.
His eye sweeps in, with rapid glance,

Each object of his joy;
His Donald flies with outstretched armg-

No more his baby-boy.
His neighbors, joyous, hasten down

To meet their coming friend;
And in his welcome back to home

Their happy voices blend.
He starts! a shot is fired near-

Another follows now:
Too late! the fatal messenger

Has smote upon his brow.

Pause not! thou 'It reach the goal at last;
Thy scenes of toil and sorrow past

Will seem like dreams to thee:
And when thou 'st gained the darling prize
When vision's hope shall reach the skies-

Thrice happy then thou 'lt be.
Pause not! whatc'er the case may be,
“ Faint heart ne'er yet won fair ladye,"

For despair sheds a chill
That leaves a dark’ning course behind,
And conquers all the powers of mind,

How strong soe'er thy will.
Pause not! the feeble arm is strong
When first is felt the hand of wrong;

Only vengeance can repay
The debt-but pass these by-
For fairer clouds will fill the sky,

And cause a brighter day.
Pause not! but battle earnestly;
Thy watchword e'er be “Liberty,"

And God will aid the Right;
For joyful hours will still be thine,
When hope and happiness combine,

And day succeeds the night.

And as the life-blood gushes forth

Upon the thirsty loam, The soldier's dream is past for aye

“The soldier's dream of home!”

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