during which all the winds of Heaven had blown with- | procrastination, wrung my heart. The knell of deout wafting to me even a sigh from my friend. How parted hope boomed on my ears, as if the gentle mur

mur of the river had swollen to the roar of a cataract. I fell back and lay in a stupor of astonishment at my late blindness of heart, and at the unrolled scroll of my hapless destiny. I was for some time prostrated, soul and body, at the astounding revelation. When I recovered strength to rise, the sun was shooting his rays horizontally from mountain top to mountain top! The turtle dove, from her withered tree in the field, was cooing forth her evening lamentation. Shades almost as gloomy as my soul were thickening around me. Frantic with grief, I called to the dark-frowning rocks and to the waters that were rolling by, to pity me. I made the echoes respond to the name of my loved and lost Judith. One while my perturbed imagination pictured her looking down on me from the cedars of the cliff, and illuminating my dark retreat with the loveinspiring radiance of her countenance; then her fairy image seemed to be floating off in the air, and to beckon its sorrowful adieu, as it faded away, and was

may soothe my anguish, and mitigate my passion to the soft feeling of a mourner's love: but death only can dim the bright image of feminine loveliness, which my soul has caught from thee. Henceforth thou art my heart's model of what is sweet and pure in woman. Others I may see fair and affectionate, virtuous and holy; but none can take thy place. I am wedded to remembered beauty. Alas! all but the memory of thy charms is lost to me: once more and forever, farewell, farewell, sweet Judith Bensaddi !

then could the faintest illusion of hope remain, or ever dawn upon the darkness of my soul? "No, (thought I,) that dearly remembered night of our parting made me feel the last throbs that I shall ever feel, of a heart that will be dear to me, until this poor heart of mine shall throb no more." When this second summer came, and my last day of hope was gone, I fled again to the woods and the lakes, and there, after many a prayer and many a struggle, subdued my heart to a merely kind and grateful remembrance of you. So at least I thought but what mean these frequent returns of my pen to the passionate expressions of tenderness, which flow spontaneously from my heart, and which after repeated trials I find will flow and mingle with the simple narrative that I meant to give? And what mean the tears and sobs which almost disable me from writing? May the gracious Redeemer, who knows what human frailties are, enable me to be faithful!-My friend! oh my friend! I must not, I dare not, love you now, as I formerly loved you. When my heart aban-lost in the gloom of descending night. doned itself to widowhood, and I sought consolation And now, farewell, sweet Judith Bensaddi! Time from the Most High, among shades and rocks and waters, where, as well as in His word, the Divine Spirit dwells, I happened to meet a stranger on a visit to the same retreats, one who, in mind and person, in tastes and principles, resembles you, my dear friend; and who for that reason interested me in my desolate state. His company and conversation, last year, soothed and instructed me; but then my heart was beyond the reach of his love. A friendly acquaintance was all that occurred between us until this summer, when I returned in my despair to the woods and lakes, where I unexpectedly met with him again. He sought my company; I was pleased with his; he saw that I was a mourner, and he comforted me; he had learned that I was a Jewess, and he labored faithfully and eloquently for my conversion to christianity. By the blessing of God, he succeeded in removing all my remaining doubts and difficulties respecting the christian faith. I was almost persuaded when I parted with you; but I would not suggest hopes on that subject, until I should be fully persua. ded. Now my faith in Jesus of Nazareth is my chief consolation; and the eloquent and pious friend who won me finally to Christ, has also gained so much of my esteem and affection, that I have after much hesitation accepted his offer, and we are betrothed. Now, my dear preserver, hear the last request of one whom you once tenderly loved, and whom no changes can release from her obligations to you. Should you ever find that I or my friends can do you any sort of service, I intreat you, by the remembrance of our voyage together, and by all the love that you may still bear me, to let us know it. Call on me, or if death should have taken me away-on my father or my sister for all the assistance that you may need. The half of my fortune I can easily spare, and would rejoice to impart to a friend whose disinterested kindness and essential service to me, I can never repay; but I shall thank Heaven, if an opportunity be given me to prove that I am, and will ever be your grateful and devoted friend, JUDITH BENSaddi.

JANNEY'S POEMS.*

We have had this neat little volume on our table for some time, and should have noticed it earlier, if our manifold engagements had permitted. Mr. Janney is, we believe, a member of the Society of Friends, and resides, we infer from the preface, at the village of Occoquan, one of the most romantic spots in Virginia. We wondered, indeed, while looking over the pages of his book, that the beautiful cascades and shady banks of the Occoquan river, had not claimed a special tribute from his muse. It is true that he has not forgotten the broad and majestic Potomac, to which the first mentioned stream is an humble tributary-for who of poetic temperament ever wandered on the "pebbly shore" of that magnificent river, or listened to the lulling sound of its moonlit waves,-and did not pour forth in mellow song the raptures of inspiration? The two principal poems in the collection, are "The last of the Lenafé," and "Tewinissa"-both founded on real occurrences, and illustrative of Indian traits of character. The minor pieces are classified into descriptive, elegiac, scientific, devotional, and miscellaneous, and occupy the greater part of the volume. To the whole, is prefixed an Essay on Poetry, which is very well written, and contains some excellent reflections upon the true uses of the poeBefore I had finished reading, my eyes grew dim. The last of the Lenafé, and other poems, by Samuel M. Self-reproach for my unjust suspicions and my fatal Janney--Philadelphia--1839.

tic art and the mischievous effects which flow from its | his clasped hands, his face turned towards yonder bright perversion. Nothing is more true than the remark of and busy city, whose hum the distance now hushes to Mr. Janney, that there is a class of writers, who "de- my ear,- his eye taking in all this glorious panorama vote the energies of the loftiest genius, to docorate the of near woodland and meadow, the placid Hudson's bocouch of voluptuousness, to conceal the deformity of som, and all that it is reflecting. Just such a day as this vice, and to strew with the flowers of poesy the path it was: just so brightly glowed the sun upon the landthat leads to destruction." It is a melancholy fact, that scape, crowned with verdure deep, and foliage thick the splendid immoralities of Byron and Bulwer are and spreading, as that which now waves merrily around sought with avidity, when the purer pages of Words- me as I lie. The river's flow, the music of the birds worth and Coleridge are suffered to keep company with and bees, the shifting of the clouds, the dance of the dust and cobwebs. Mr. Janney belongs to a totally leaves, the laugh of the waves, and the sunny smile, different school from that which would please a majori- | are all the same, to-day, as they were when, lying here, ty of modern readers. He aims not to rouse and stimu- this sweet poet demanded of all things around him, late the fiercer passions of our nature, but rather to hold converse with the mild affections,-to enlighten the reason, and commune with the devotional spirit of man. Like the poets of his own religious sect, Barton and Whittier, he disdains to purchase praise at the expense of truth, or to soil his pages with the fashionable licentiousness of the age. We regret that time and space will not permit us to dwell upon his poems in detail, or to point out some of their beauties. We shall content ourselves by extracting a few lines written in an Album. So many common-place things have been written in those pretty repositories of boarding-school misses and amiable young ladies, that our readers will be pleased with the following effort, which is at once characterised by simplicity and originality.

LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.

Methinks an emblem of the cultur'd mind,
The rich and varied Album was design'd;
Friendship and love, like amaranthine flowers,
Bloom here, selected from unnumber'd bowers;
And taste and genius each succeeding year,
Shall bring fresh flowers to shed their flagrance here.
Fain would I plant in this delightful spot,
That little modest flower,--Forget-me-not:
And oh how happy, could I dare presume,
'Twere worth transplanting, in thy heart to bloom.

"Is this a time to look cloudy and sad?

When our mother Nature laughs around,-
When even the deep blue heavens look glad,

And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground? Why should a lyre that can breathe such strains as these be so long unstrung, or hang so long idly upon the willows? And hark! another memory-awakened echo! And from a harp as mute! PERCIVAL'S!

"The waving verdure rolls along the plain,
And the wide forest weaves

(To welcome back its playful mates again,)
A canopy of leaves:

And, from its darkening shadow, floats
A gush of trembling notes!

"Fairer and brighter spreads the reign of May!

The tresses of the woods

With the wild dalliance of the west wind play,

And the full-brimming floods,

As gladly to their goal they run,

Hail the returning sun!”

And here is more to the same sweet tune, swelling up from memory's lowest deep, and singing itself to my ear, again, though long years have lapsed since first I drank in its delicious music. And whence is this power? Do we ever forget what once we know? I think not,-provided that we have learned and known aright. And it is this magic power of Association that has unlocked the deep cell in which this beautiful strain.

CURRENTE CALAMOSITIES; of Percival has been lying mute so long, and now lets

TO THE EDITOR OF THE MESSENGER.

it forth, beneath the very sky, and amidst all the natural objects of seer and audible beauty, that originally

BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE TREE ARTICLES." inspired it!

NO. VII.

A JUNE DAY IN THE WOODLANDS.

"The clouds are at play, in the azure space,

And their shadows at play, in the bright green vale, And here, they stretch to the frolic chase,

And there, they roll on the easy gale!"

When WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT, the author of "Thanatopsis," the editor of the New York "Evening Post," and one of the "Printers to the Corporation," wrote those four lines, and about a score more like them, he was the poet Bryant,-the man Bryant,-he was not the political wrangler about petty men and pettier measures, about elections, and printers' jobs, and the like, he was the great Poet of Nature,-the forceful creator of immortal hymns to that divinity, whose altars he has forsaken, if not forever, yet for far too long a time. I think I see him as he lay, supine upon this very bank where I now lie,-his head supported by

See how the clouds, as they fleetly pass,

Throw their shadowy veil on the darkening grass!
And the pattering showers, and stealing dews
With their starry gems, and skiey hues,
From the oozy meadow that drinks the tide,
To the sheltered vale on the mountain-side,
Wake to a new and fresher birth
The tenderest tribes of teeming earth,
And scatter with light and dallying play
Their earliest flowers on the Zephyr's way.
"He comes from the mountain's piny steep,
For the long boughs bend with the silent sweep,
And his rapid steps have hurried o'er
The grassy hills to the pebbly shore;
And now, on the breast of the lonely lake,

Ah! I see! You mean by a "Hymn,” a divine song— and this is an allegory. Christianity is impersonated herein, under the name of Marien, "fearless in its innocence, like a little child, wandering over the world." "It brings liberty to the captive, joy to the mourner, repentance and forgiveness to the sinner, hope to the by all blessed; faint hearted, and assurance to the dying." "It is alike the beautiful companion of childhood, and the comfortable companion of age. It ennobles the noble; gives wisdom to the wise; and new grace to the lovely; the patriot, the priest, the poet, the eloquent man,—all derive their sublimest power from its influence!" Beautiful! Beautiful idea! I see the maiden starting on her pilgrimage,--a holy halo round her placid brow,--her hands clasped upon her bosom,

And still her errand was the same, wherever her wanderings tended:

"And ever of the Saviour taught:

How he came down to win,
With love, and suffering manifold,
The sinner from his sin."

This was her lesson to the wise as well as to the weak,
and ever as she went on her way her course was glori-
fied. For the times are not now,--as to the reception

came not," he said, "with excellency of speech or of wisdom," among them: he came to tell them that through him his Master would "confound their wisdom!"

"I'll tell you, if ye'll hearken now,

A thing that chanced to me,

It must be fifty years agone,--
Upon the southern sea!"

And after that, we will have the fairy story of the olden time, about "Mabel, on Midsummer day,"-how, when she went first to the fairy-dell,

But where is THE HYMN? Oh! there it is,-down of such truths as this fine Impersonation teaches,-as on the roots of yonder tree, where we left it, when we they were when holy Paul called Christianity a stum-began this stroll and I began my sermon. Thank you, bling-block to Jews, and to Greeks foolishness,--and William! Please ask Mary to tell us the tale, on Marien's lesson is the same as that of the Apostle. page one hundred and twenty-nine, of "The Boy of Man's wisdom is foolishness in the eye of the Only the Southern Isle:" it is told by "an old seaman,"Wise. Hard! hard lesson for proud Corinth to digest! and begins thus: Her lofty synagogues were swept by the broad phylacteries of the Pharisees, and her columned porticos were the pulpits of her subtle Philosophy. Both the Religion of the Pharisee and the Philosophy of the Academy embraced much that was high and refined, drawn, long before, from those sages of Greece who once illumined the now dark land of Egypt with fine learning, and its benign attendants, Refinement and Taste. This creed inculcated the search for hidden senses in the plain records of that Law of which these Pharisees of Corinth called themselves the most holy upholders. They sent And how she did as she had been bidden, and forth their fancies into an unknown region, and crowding it with the ghosts of the dead, and the genii of the living, became proud in the elevation of thus believing in the sublime visions of a spiritual world, and delighted in speculations concerning the residents, the enjoyments, dream-people,-for and the pains of that ideal world in which they darkly wandered; exulting all the while in finding therein what, after all, were but the idlest whims and the vaguest dreams of their own wild imaginations! So they were wont, when they "sought after wisdom" to And how she got the fairy penny,-and what she did sit at the feet of sophists and philosophers in the mar-with it, and the blessings the little people gave her, and ble Portico, or amidst the shades of the Academe, and the lesson she learned and teaches,-that

revelled upon mystic learning, and polished elegance and eloquence of phrase, which entertained their taste, and convinced them into how many intricate labyrinths the wonderful power of human Gerrius may wander, and never be the nearer to the truth.

To such people as these came Paul to preach. They called his religion folly! He proved theirs to be no less! They knew that he had been "brought up at the feet of Gamaliel,"-ONE OF THEM; a Rabbin who had the genius, and vigorous fancy, and bold independence of the literal meaning of the Mosaic law, that fitted him to follow Plato, in all that philosopher's discursive flights into the Incomprehensible and the Profound. Whatever they came to think of his teachings, they knew the teacher was no fool! And how dissonant was the discovery to their feelings and their expectations, that this Oracle of Tarsus, the pride of their sect, was holding out the doctrine,-to the conviction of daily myriads of people, that the age of Corinthian philosophy,-of that Human Reason which knew not GOD,-was past! That that which they called foolishness in his doctrines, was but the simplicity, which ensured their ultimate universal reception by all mankind! That while the high speculations which they had loved taught them to be proud of the Nature of Man, his instructions would place "a stumbling-block" in the path of that Pride!

"Nothing at all saw she,

Except a bird-a sky blue bird-
That sate upon a tree!"

"--did not wander up and down,
Nor did a live branch pull,"

and so had no reason to fear the vengeance of the

"When the wild-wood brownies

Came sliding to her mind,

She drove them thence as she was told,
With home thoughts, sweet and kind!"

"Tis good to make all duty sweet,

To be alert and kind;
'Tis good, like little Mabel,
To have a willing mind!"

Then let us all three join and sing this carol of the "Cornfields;" the tune will come of itself: the key is-stay! take it from that Robin's pitch pipe, in the oak over-head! Now!

"In the young merry time of spring,
When clover 'gins to burst,
When blue bells nod within the wood,
And sweet May whitens first,-
When merle and mavis sing their fill,
Green is the young corn on the hill.

*

"What joy in dreamy ease to lie
Amid a field new-shorn,
And see all round on sun-lit slopes,
The piled-up shocks of corn;
And send the fancy wandering o'er
All pleasant harvest-fields of yore !"

But, Mary, what do you mean by "corn?" Not what we call by that name, here? I thought not: you call all bread-grain in your country "corn"-and here you mean wheat, doubtless. But another stanza! A little higher, William, if you please: ha! that oriole yonder, pluming his golden wings for a fresh flight, will "sound the pitch" before he goes! "That's my A!" says he !

the skill of a master; but his music, is no mere empty sound-it forms an eloquent medium for the strong and burning energies of passion, or the melody only smooths and makes sweet profound maxims of philosophy. We would rather see a novel from his pen, as far as those characteristics of which we have spoken are concerned, having for its hero Richelieu or Cromwell, than that of any author living. But it was only our present purpose, to place before the readers of the Messenger, some extracts from this new play.

The first which we give is from the scene between Baradas, one of the conspirators, and the Chevalier de Mauprat.