number of that early host he sought to lead, Moses like, through the wilderness of ignorance and misrule, into the fair land of wisdom and order; and silenced be every literary gainsayer who would affect contempt, or even lightness, in reference to my cogitations on the old School

room.

VENT TO THE HEART.

ON THE DEATH OF AN ONLY DAUGHTER.

BY L. C. BROWNE.

YE that have hearts to feel, and who have felt
Bereaved affection's deep and poignant sting,
Who o'er a dying child have fondly knelt,
Indulge a parent's weakness, while I sing
Of a loved cherub, taken from my side

When scarce four summers o'er her brow had passed; A mother's idol and a father's pride,

Who grew,

each season, lovelier than the last.

When roses bloomed, and darkly waved the corn,
And recent showers the air had rendered cool,
With brother, elder, on bright, balmy morn,

She gayly glided, hand in hand, to school.
But ere night's shadows gathered o'er the sky,
That tender floweret withered and grew pale,
The joyous lustre faded from her eye,

And in that room was heard a mother's wail.

But still calm intervals at times there came,
When in clear accents she would fondly call
For father-mother-brother-each by name,
And then the babe, and smiled in love on all.

And as the Sabbath gently closed around,
And songs of evening worship filled the ear,
She tuned her little voice in honied sound,

Such as in dreams of heaven we sometimes hear.

It filled the room, that sweet, angelic lay,

A tune familiar, but in spirit-tone;

And ere the middle of the coming day,

She sung that song with angels round the throne ! That tender melody! it lingers still,

A balmy solace to the mother's heart, And those dear, dying notes will often trill On mem'ry's ear, till memory depart.

Light of my dwelling! dimmed thy sunny ray,
And hushed thy music, charmer of my home!
With stealthy step, light mirth, and fairy play,
To cheer my study, thou no more wilt come.
Ah! fatal scarlatina, sent to fell

Earth's tend'rest blossoms with a heated blade,
With burning hands performing but too well,
For a kind Master, an unlovely trade!

And still, as some loved relic oft is seen,

What sad remembrances doth it awaken? The patch-work, mingled with her fav'rite green, Those silken ringlets, from her fair brow taken; The tiny spoon, which bears that cherished name — Its silver not more spotless than her soul— And that dear bust, in all but life the same, Call up emotions we cannot control.

The mellow moonlight of a soft blue eye,

That winning smile, and temper bland and even, A sparkling mind, with thoughts of sinless dye, A heart that needed little change for heaven, A fragile form, with forehead calm and high, Seemed, with sweet magic, stranger hearts to win; And other eyes than kindred's were not dry, Beside the grave, to see that form laid in.

That tender form shall I no more enfold
In rapt affection? ne'er again caress?
Those speaking features never more behold,
Nor the warm kiss upon that cheek impress?
Ye that have mourned, O, minister relief!

Come mingle tears with us and let them flow;
'Tis sweet to join in partnership of grief,
E'en though we thus augment the fund of wo.

O, the deep gushing anguish of the soul !

How wildly heaves that dark and hidden ocean! When will these tossing billows cease to roll,

These bitter waters hush their troubled motion? The storm will spend, in time, the waves subside, The bow of peace will span the sky above, The still small voice can calm the inward tide, Though bearing still the wrecks of hope and love.

There is a delicacy in that love

A father towards a gentle daughter bears, Unlike all other; and such grief, above

The griefs arising from life's grosser cares,

Melts the stern heart of manhood, till it flows
In copious torrents, like the autumn rain,
As zephyrs soften indurated snows,

Where hoarser winds have spent their force in vain.

How freely would I delve the rugged soil,

How gladly welcome fortune's lowliest lot,
If, but at eve, returning from my toil,

That voice could hail me from my humble cot.
But He who loved such prattlers here below,
Whose treasure of such jewels is made up,
Called thee to him and thou didst rise and go;
A Father gave, and we must drink the cup.

When from short absence oft returning home,
I place my hand upon the latticed gate,
I miss that gladsome shout, "Papa has come !"
And feel my heart all sere and desolate.
From gently pillowed slumber and soft dreams,
When opening morning calls the couch to leave,
She, first to wake and hail its joyous beams,
Now slumbers on at morning, noon, and eve.

In yon sepulchral grove, at day's decline,

Beneath the oak we laid her in the ground; There blooms the wild rose, dew-drops sweetly shine, And bright the verdure o'er that little mound. A sweet bird carols in the branch above,

A gentle warbler with a glossy wing;

Each dewy morn he sings a song of love—

Such bird she loved, such song she used to sing.