Oh, mercy! what can ail me ?

I'm growing pale and very lean;
My spirits often fail me!

What can it mean—what can it mean?

I'M NOT IN LOVE!-oh smother

Such a thought at seventeen:
I'll go and ask my mother

What it can mean—what it can mean.

G. WALLINGFORD CLARKE

Is, we believe, a native of Kentucky. He has lately published a volume with the title of The Dreams of Pindus.

THE BURIED MAID.

And they have laid thee in thy narrow cell,

Maid of the matchless brow !—for the cold clay
To be thy bridegroom, till the eternal day,
When the loud trump its judgment peal shall swell.

So be it,—what the Almighty dooms is well,—

But who that saw thine eyes' bright glances play,

Thy cheek's fine fush, that mock'd the blooms of May, So late—could dream of death’s dissolving spell ?

To rapture love had sung" the bright eyed hour
Soon will I lead along, with Hymen's train,
To bless the blushing virgin, and the swain ;-

And hope believed, and lighted up her bower;

Sudden the scene was changed-a radiant flower Sunk its sweet head—and love's glad song was vain !

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INSCRIPTION.

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WHOE'ER thou art, to whom this secret shade
Inviting seems, where many a wild flower flings
Its odor round, and many a murmur soothes
Of distant falling waters the pleased ear ;-
If solitude may claim thy thoughts awhile,
Here rest and meditate-her cell is here.
And say, does love tny willing bosom bind,
Thy heart all anxiousness,—thy soul all sigh?
Haply the virgin, in whose clasping arms
A promised paradise thy fancy paints,
Whose swelling bosom heaves upon the sight
More beautiful than ocean's foam-tipt wave-
Whose kindling eyes, with lavish lustre, thrill
Thy trembling frame,ha meek simplicity,
And innocence assuming,-specious show!)
Exults, in wanton triumph, at thy sighs,
And mocks their incense.-Rouse thee from thy trance ;
And let the light of reason guide thee safe
To love's pure altar. Does ambition urge
Thy steps to tempt her dangerous paths ?-Beware!
Think how the storm can rage :—yet the rough blast
That lays the mighty oak a ruin round,
With all its hundred arms that waved to heaven,
Passes as harmless o'er the lowly blossom,
As does the zephyr's sigh. And rivers strong,
Rushing their rugged channels through, each rock,
Opposing, chafes to angry foam and roar.
While the hush'd stream, fed from its placid fount,
Winds through the flow'ry vale its silver way:
And, as a quiet pilgrim seeks his shrine,
Flows on, to wed with ocean's distant tide.
Mortal !-whoe'er thou art, should thy pursuit
Be happiness—thou need'st not wander far,
If in thy breast no baneful passions wage
Unholy warfare; and religion mild
Has led thy steps to her own hallow'd mount,
Where hope, with upward eye, and seraph wand
Points to the sky :—but if thy blacken'd heart
Nourish revenge, or hatred, or the asp
Of envy pale—or discontentment's gall
O'erflows within-or filthy avarice
Disturbs thy dreams,—thou, curst of heaven, shalt find
Peace but a sound—and happiness a shade!

THE NUN.

HER eye is raised to heaven:--no ray is there

Of earthly pride, or passion. O’er her brow

Angelic, as she breathes the solemn vow,
A bright expression spreads. Her rich, soft hair,

In radiant ringlets, down her bosom fair

Falls—like the beams of morning on the prow
Of the light heaving bark. ”T is past, and now
A pale and pensive hue her features wear.

So young-so beautiful, to turn aside

From life's fresh opening scenes, and sunny hours,

Seems like religion's triumph—but the heart
Strives from itself in vain the truth to hide:

The sigh will rise, the tender tear will start:
Ah! love yet lingers o'er his faded flowers !

WILLIAM CROSWELL.

The Reverend William Croswell was graduated at Yale College in 1824. He was for two years joint editor with the Rev. G. W. Doane, of The Episcopal Watchman, a religious paper in Hartford. In this paper most of his poetry has been published; it evinces talent and good taste.

CONFIRMATION.

The white-stoled Bishop stood amid a crowd

Noviciates all-who, tutor'd to revere

The mitre's holy offices, drew near,
And, after sins renounced, and pledges vow'd,

Pale with emotion and religious fear,
In meek subjection, round the chancel, bow'd,

To hallow'd hands, that o'er them, one by one,
Fell, with a Prelate's thrilling benison.

Thou who canst make the loadstone's touch impart

An active virtue to the temper'd steel,

Oh let thy hand rest on them till they feel
A new-born impulse stirring in the heart,
And, swinging from surrounding objects, free,
Point, with a tremulous confidence to Thee!

DRINK AND AWAY.

There is a beautiful rill in Barbary received into a large basin, which bears a name signifying “Drink and Away,” from the great danger of meeting with rogues and assassins.-Dr Shaw.

Up! pilgrim and rover,

Redouble thy haste!
Nor rest thee till over

Life's wearisome waste.
Ere the wild forest ranger

Thy footsteps betray
To trouble and danger,-

Oh drink and away!

Here lurks the dark savage,

By night and by day,
To rob and to ravage,

Nor scruples to slay.
He waits for the slaughter :

The blood of his prey
Shall stain the still water,

Then drink and away!

With toil though thou languish,

The mandate obey,
Spur on, though in anguish,

There's death in delay!
No bloodshound, want-wasted,

Is fiercer than they :-
Pass by it untasted-

Or drink and away!

Though sore be the trial,

Thy God is thy stay,
Though deep the denial,

Yield not in dismay,

But wrapt in high vision,

Look on to the day
When the fountains elysian

Thy thirst shall allay.
There shalt thou for ever

Enjoy thy repose
Where life's gentle river

Eternally flows,
Yea, there shalt thou rest thee

For ever and aye,
With none to molest thee

Then, drink and away.

HOME.

I KNEW my father's chimney top,

Though nearer to my heart than eye, And watch'd the blue smoke reeking up

Between me and the winter sky.

Wayworn I traced the homeward track,

My wayward youth had left with joy ; Unchanged in soul I wander'd back,

A man, in years—in heart, a boy.

I thought upon its cheerful hearth,

And cheerful hearts' untainted glee, And felt of all I'd seen on earth,

This was the dearest spot to me.

SONNET VINDICATORY.

Nuns fret not at their Convent's narrow room ;

And Hermits are contented with their cells;

And Students with their pensive citadels; Maids at the wheel, the Weaver at his loom, Sit blithe and happy ; Bees that soar for_bloom,

High as the highest peak of Furness Fells,

Will murmur by the hour in fox-glove bells. In truth the prison unto which we doom

Ourselves, no prison is; and hence to me,