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BY J. R. BARRICK.

In a low and ceaseless murmur,

Gently flows the forest streamDay and night to nature chanting

Music sweet as song and dreamIn the mirrored sky revealing

All the beauty of its gleam.

Hushed is the song
Of birds; the gentle murm'rings of the rill,
And lulling sound of fountains, too, are still,

The woods among.

Withered, dead, Are buds of spring, and summer's gayer flowers; They perished with the bright and sunny hours

So soon that fled!

Hopes high and glad Have faded, too, with all that's fair and bright; And hearts that summer hours found gay and light

Are drear and sad.

Spring will restore
Beauty and verdure to the earth again;
Each wildwood warbler will pour forth a strain

of joy once more.

With a song of joy and gladness,

Merrily the minstrel sings, And each passing breeze and zephyr

Wafts its carol on its wings, Till the air around, above it,

Swells with magic murmurings.

Bubbling upward like a fountain,

Born of melody and song; Like a transient gleam of beauty,

Flows the silver stream along, Hymning anthems unto nature,

She to whom its hymns belong.

But to the beart That's blighted in its youth, oh! what can bring Its freshness back! This desolated thing

Can never part

With all its woe;
The perfume of a flower—the zephyr's sigh-
A plaintive tone of music breathing nigh-

The sunset's glow

Ilastening onward, onward ever,

Like the life that flows in meAs a wave upon the river

Hastening to the distant seaAs a hope the hidden future

Searching for the things to be.

The starry skies The gleam of waters in the silver light That Luna sheds upon the brow of night

When daylight dios

Summer storms may o'er it gather;

Winds of autumn round it wail; Winter, too, its bosom ruffle

With his icy sleet and hail; But with summer, autumn, winter,

Doth its steady flow prevail.

Each glorious thing That once was loved in days forever past, Will cause but vain regrets-fresh anguish cast

New sorrows bring

No radiant beam Of gummer sun can e'er recall the glow Which the geared heart hath lost; dark is the flow

Of its cbilled stream.

Thug life's fountain to the river

In a winding current flowsAnd the river to the ocean

In a channel deeper grows, Till the fountain, river, ocean,

In eternity repose.

THE FLOWERS OF SPRING.

I THINK ON THE E.

BY IORACE W. SMITH.

I THINK on thee when early morn is breaking,

For thou art as the day-star to mine eye; Thou art my first sweet thought upon awaking

From dreams wherein thine image passeth by.

I think on thee whene'er the bright sun bringeth

Day's busy hours and toil's unceasing strife; Then, like a bird, to thee my spirit wingeth

For thou art as the sunshine to my life.

I think on thee when twilight dews are stealing,

When the dim stars scarce light the softened air; Then, then my shadowy thoughts thy form revealing

Like those dim stars, thou hadst been hidden there.

We have seen them by the forest shade,

And by the sunlit streams; In childhood's walks, in manhood's years,

They are mingled in our dreams:
And oft they win our memory back

To some forgotten thing,
To seek the joy our childhood found

Among the flowers of spring.
But ah! they win us back in vain;

No after spring renews
That gift of vanquished sunshine which

Our souls so early lose:
The sunlit stream may murmur on,

The birds may gayly sing,
But friends we loved have passed away

Among the flowers of spring.
Yet fair and fragrant to the day

Each brighteyed flow'ret opes;
They are not withered like our hearts,

Nor blighted like our hopes;
And then each golden dream of youth

Its long-lost light will bring-
And all is bright, and all is hope,

Among the flowers of spring. Huntingdon, March, 1852.

I think on thee when silent midnight seemeth

As if it moved not on time's noiseless way; Till, worn with thought, my busy fancy dreameth

That thou art smiling at my uncouth lay.

I think on thee, for ever, ever praying

That but one glance of thine may beam on me; My truant thoughts are ever to thee straying

Dost thou not feel that I but live in thee?

THE OLD CHURCIYARD,

BY BEATA.

TIINK OF ME.

BY “JAMIE.”
When pleasure's cup is sparkling high,

When friends around thee throng; When hearts are light with playful mirth,

And lighter wakes the song;
When, counting o'er thy many joys,

Recalled by memory,
If 'twill not dim thy pleasure then,

Oh! give one thought to me.
At dawn, when first Aurora's light

Reflects o'er hill and dale,
And gilds the dew-washed lily's head

That slept within the vale;
When first the lark shall plume his wing,

And soar from bondage free,
To warble forth his merry notes

Then give one thought to me.
And when the shades of evening are

Fast fading into night,
An hour that well seems made for thought,

And quiet is delight;
At midnight's deep and solemn hour,

When on thy bended knee,
Thy hands upraised to Heaven in prayer,
Oh then, then think of me!

I've won thee, won thee, gentle bride;

I've loved thee long, hope of my life And now I place thee at my side,

My dearer self, my darling wife. Most beautiful to me thou art,

And to all others passing fair; Then press thee closely to my heart,

Dearest of all things treasured there. Remember, love, where first we met;

The churchyard with bright flowers o'erspread; The church itself in emerald set,

A watcher o'er its buried dead. The firs around, the grass beneath,

Shed faint perfume, a heavenly balm; I almost feared to draw my breath

Lest I should break the soul-felt calm.

And thou! oh thou, so lovely beamed,

A very pearl in purity,
The spirit of the place I deemed

And could almost have worshipped thee! That gray old church of bygone times

We gazed upon together then
In silence gazed; no holy chimes

Called us to meet our fellow-men.

We entered-and thy sweet young face

All glorious looked in chastened joy; We knelt in thine accustomed place

Thou didst alone my thoughts employ. Thou wert beside me, and I heard

Thy soft voice murmuring clear and low, Responsive to the Holy Word,

Or in the chant melodious flow.

If I could claim the richest gem

That now lies in the sea I'd rather far, than have that pearl,

Have one kind thought from thee: If all the joys of this bright world

Were now spread out to me, And I were told to make a choice

T'd ask ope thought from thee.

And ever from that tranquil hour

When life's blest fulness first was mine, Thine image, love, alone had power

To charm me in my manhood's prime.

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FANCIES DURING ILLNESS.

We parted then a fresh bud thou

Expanding in thine early spring; And I a youth, with purposed vow,

Time to my home should Eva bring. I won thee there—and when at last

We reach our lives' appointed bourn, And have Death's silent confines past,

Our dust shall there to dust return. And should I first the dark vale tread,

Thy faithful love shall me enfold; Or I will pillow thy dear head

Where first we met—that churchyard old. Eva, beloved! why weepest thou!

Yes, precious one, 'twere hard to part; Rest on my bosom thy fair brow,

And press thee closely to my heart.

BI FIDELA н. соод BEAUTIFUL visions, that before me swim,

In softest light, whene'er mine eyes I close, Ye are too fair to be the phantoms dim

That haunt the couch of opium-bought repose! The angel Morphia hath a shadowy train, But no such forms as yours adorn her pale domain.

Are ye some mirage from th’ Eternal shore ?

A soft reflection on the dreamlike mist That o'er the sea of Death floats evermore?

A she whose willowy marge my foot hath kissed : As in the Moslem's faith the houri waits, And beckons, with white hands, to the Celestial gates ?

THE BATTLE OF LIFE.

BY SAMUEL D. PATTERSON. L'AE battle is waging! Why, warrior, away! Dost thou listlessly stand from the din of the fray, With thy head drooping low, and thy hand on thy brow, As though Life and its conflict were naught to thee now?

Ah no! your beauty is of earth; it takes

Such forms as float before the artist's eye,
When, 'neath his touch, the glowing canvas wakes

To that strange life that ne'er again shall die;
Or as the chiselled marble bears, when wrought
To image to mankind the sculptor's lofty thought.
Oh, how much fairer than the shapes we see,

Are those with which a glowing fancy teems!
Too perfect to be true! And such were ye;

For ye were beautiful, and ye are dreams! And thus our nature still transcends our fate, Like high-born foundlings left at some poor peasant's gate.

Why motionless thou, whilst the gathering throng,
In double-mailed armor, are rushing along,
And the clangor of battle around thee is heard,
And the trumpet's loud tone every spirit has stirred ?

But lately, thy heart was absorbed in the fight,
But lately, its trophies were viewed with delight,'
And the might of thy arm, and thy courage, could vie
With the strongest and bravest who now pass thee by.

And ye have passed away, and left no trace,

As roses leave the velvet cheeks of youth; And yet I fancy that each form of grace

But shadows forth some unrecorded worth; And on the heart's red leaves, in traces dim, Shall Poesy for you inscribe one grateful hymn.

ELLA LEE.

BY JOIN W. BEAZEL.

Their serried ranks move; but the noise of their tread Meets thy ear as it falls on the ear of the dead :

Tis strange that a summons, once needless, should now Wake no fire in thy eye, and no light on thy brow! Can it be that, before half life's battle is done, Ere the contest is past and the victory won, Thy spirit has shrunk from the strife raging there, And been blighted, consumed by the touch of Despair ? Can it be that the ardor which once led thee on, In the van of great hosts, towards the prize to be won, Has chilled and grown weak at the threats of the foe? Has thy arm become nerveless ere striking a blow? Awake from thy stupor! Arouse thee again! Take thy part in the strife-be a man amongst men! Let thy soul shame the impulse that prompted thy fear, In the hour of trial, when danger was near.

THERE'S music in the sunbeam,

There's music in the shower, There's music in each rippling stream,

Each leaf, and tree, and flower.

There's music in the moonlit sea,

Where the proud bark cleaves the billow: And o'er thy grave, sweet Ella Lee,

'Tis sighing through the willow.

There's music in the mountain height,

And 'neath the dark pine shade, Where silver streams are flashing bright,

And wild flowers paint the glade.

Wouldst thou list to the foeman exultingly cry,
That his threats blanched thy cheek, his words forced thee

to fly? Wouldst thou see thy friends mourning, in sorrow and

sbame, O'er the wreck of thy glory, the brand on thy name? Thou canst not-thou dar'st not! Then up to the field! Keep thy post in the ranks till the foeman shall yield ! Let no timid doubts shake thee, no terrors dismayStand firm for the truth, and thy valor display!

There's music in the joyous spring,

Where young flow'rs gem the sod; And through each bright and lovely thing

It whispers, “There is a God !”
There was music once whose gentlest thrill

Was dearer far to me
Than leaf, or flower, or flashing rill,

Or starlight on the sea.

Be strong in the right! 'Tis a panoply sure,
An ægis to guard thee and keep thee secure:
Wear it ever; and then, 'mid the thickest of strife,
Do thy part, as thou shouldst, in the Battle of Life!

Its lute-like tones how oft they come

With gentle thoughts of thee! But ah! they 're hushed within the tomb,

Where sleeps my Ella Lee. Uniontown, Pa.

AN EMBROIDERED VEST

AND CAPS.

EMBROIDERED VEST.

The materials are blue satin and embroidery silk. The pattern should be drawn with a white crayon. Then proceed to do the outline of the design, the stems and the tendrils in chain stitch. The leaves and the flowers in the usual embroidery stitch. It is made up in the ordinary way, the front fastened by a row of gold buttons set with turquoise. The same pattern may be worked either on lace or muslin. If lace, work in tambour and chain stitch; give the collar and front a narrow thread edge, and line it with silk of some delicate hue. Studs may be substituted for buttons. Vests of cambric muslin, to be worn with lawns or light summer silks, will be very much the style the present and ensuing month. For description of embroidered muslin man. illa, soe “ Chitchat."

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CAPS.

We give two styles of breakfast caps: No. 1 being composed of dotted India muslin, with three corresponding frills. It will be noticed that the muslin of the crown is shirred between corresponding bands of insertion. To be finished with bow and strings of muslin, or ribbon, to the taste of the wearer.

No. 2 is of net, lined with a delicate shado of Florence silk. The trimming is a row of silk and net, with three of fringe, formed by loops of extremely narrow ribbon. Broad ribbon strings of corresponding shade.

90

PATTERNS FOR SILK EMBROIDERY.

91

PATTERNS FOR SILK EM KNITTED BERRIES AND FRUIT. BROIDERY.

APPLE AND ORANGE. Cast on thirty-four stitches with white knitting cotton, No. 10.

Knit one plain row.

Second row.—Purled, till within two from the end, turn back.

Third row.-Knit plain till within two from the end, turn back.

Fourth row.—Purled, till within four from the end, turn back.

Fifth rou.—Knit plain till within four from the end, turn back,

Sicth rou.-Purled, till within six from the end, turn back.

Seventh row.-Knit plain till within six from the end, turn back.

Eighth row.—Purled, till within eight from the end, turn back.

Ninth row.-Knit plain till within eight from the end, turn back.

Tenth row.—Purled to the end.

Eleventh row.-Knit plain to the end, and begin again as at second row; but the tenth row is to be purled till within ten from the end; eleventh row knitted till within ten from the end; twelfth row purled to the end; thirteenth row knitted plain to the end. Then begin again as at second row. After fourteen stripes, ending alternately one at the elev. onth, the other at the thirteenth row. Cast off all the stitches; sew the two edges together; gather the stitches of the smaller aperture, fasten them tight round the stalk of a common clove, and fill up with bran, as full as possible, this white shape of an apple; when it is nearly full, fold a bit of wire in ten or twelve; cover it with brownish floss or half twist silk to make the stalk of the apple; gather the stitches of the second aperture, fill up with bran, as much as you can, and fasten off tight to the stalk. Then knit another apple in wool or silk of the color of the apple which you have chosen for model, and exactly in the same manner as the white one, but beginning with thirty-eight or forty stitches, and making one stripe more, or two plain rows between each stripe. Cover neatly with this the white shape, allowing the clove to show its head only. Make a little depression round the stalk of the apple by passing through the fruit three or four times, with a long darningneedle, the silk with which you have fastened the last aperture, and draw it tight. A leaf may be added, but is not necessary.

The orange is worked in the same manner, except This pattern forms an elegant border for a merino that there are no purled rows, no clove put in, and or cloth cloak, by working the curved line with cord } no stalk. and the rose-buds with silk.

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