MEMORY OF THE PAST.

No day's remembrance shall the good regret,
Nor wish one bitter moment to forget;
They stretch the limits of this narrow span,
And, by enjoying, live past life again.

THERE is certainly no greater happiness than to be able to look back upon a life usefully and virtuously employed; to trace our own progress in existence, by such tokens as excite neither shame nor sorrow. Life in which nothing has been done or suffered, to distinguish one day from another, is to him that has passed it, as if it had never been, except that he is conscious how ill he has husbanded the great deposit of his Cre ator. Life made memorable by crimes, and diversified through its several periods by wickedness, is, indeed easily reviewed, but reviewed only with horror and

remorse.

The great consideration which ought to influence us in the use of the present moment, is to arise from the effect, which, as well or ill applied, it must have upon the time to come- -for though its actual existence be inconceivably short, yet its effects are unlimited-and there is not the smallest point of time but may extend its consequences either to our hurt or to our advantage, through all eternity, and give us reason to remember it for ever, with anguish or exultation.

The time of life in which memory seems particularly to claim predominance over the other faculties of the mind, is our declining age. It has been remarked by former writers, that old men are generally narrative, and fall easily into recitals of past transactions, and accounts of persons known to them in their youth. When we approach the verge of the grave it is more eminently

true:

Life's span forbids thee to extend thy cares
And spread thy hopes beyond thy years.

We have no longer any possibility of great vicissi tudes in our favor. The changes which are to happen in the world will come too late for our accommodation, and those who have no hope before them, and to whom their present state is painful and irksome, must of ne

cessity turn their thoughts back to try what retrospect will afford. It ought, therefore, to be the care of those who wish to pass their last hours with comfort, to lay up such a treasure of pleasing ideas, as shall support the expenses of that time, which is to depend wholly upon the fund already acquired.

Seek here, ye young, the anchor of your mind;
Here, suffering age, a blest provision find.

In youth, however unhappy, we solace ourselves with the hope of better fortune, and however vicious, appease our consciences with intentions of repentance-but the time comes at last, in which happiness can be drawn only from recollection, and virtue will be all that we can recollect with pleasure.

ແ An Idler is a watch that wants both hands;
As useless when it goes, as when it stands."

POETRY.

These persons who are familiar with foreign periodicals, may have noticed the effusions of a lady, by the name of Mary Ann Browne. She is the author of Mont Blanc, Ada, Repentance, and other poems. She is quite young, and is as fair as young. A vein of religious feeling pervades her compositions. We select as a speci men, the following lines, from a piece entitled

MOSS

How I love to look on the fresh green moss

In the pleasant time of Spring,

When the young, light leaves, in the quick breeze toss,
Like faries on the wing.

When it springeth up in woodland walks,

And a natural carpet weaves,

To cover the mass of withered stalks,
And autumn's fallen leaves.

And I love, I love to see it much,
When on the ruin gray,

Which crumbles, to time's heavy touch
It spreads its mantle gay,

While the cold ivy only gives

As it shivereth, thoughts of fear,
The closely clinging moss still lives.
Like a friend, for ever near,

But oh, I love the bright moss most,

When I see it thickly spread

On the sculptur'd stone, that fain would boast,
Of the forgotten dead.

For I think if that lowly thing can efface

The fame that earth has given,

Who is there that would ever chase

Aught that is not of heaven.

THE SEASONS.-BY BISHOP HEBER.

When Spring unlocks the flowers, to paint the laughing soil,
When Summer's balmy showers refresh the mower's toil;
When winter binds in frosty chains the fallow and the flood,
In God the earth rejoiceth still, and owns its Maker good.

The birds that wake the morning, and those that love the shade,
The winds that sweep the mountain, or lull the drowsy glade;
The sun that from his amber bower rejoiceth on his way,
The moon and stars, their Master's name, in silent pomp display

Shall man, the lord of nature, expectant of the sky,
Shall man, alone unthankful, his little praise deny ?
No! let the year forsake his course, the Seasons cease to be,
Thee, Master, must we always love: and, Saviour, honor Thee:

The flowers of Spring may wither-the hope of Summer fade-
The Autumn droop in Winter-the birds forsake the shade-
The winds, be lull'd-the sun and moon forget their old decree;
But we, in Nature's latest hour, O Lord! will cling to thee.

"SEARCH THE SCRIPTURES."

BY A YOUNG LADY OF S. C.

Yea, search them, for in them thou'lt surely find,
Knowledge, most precious, words of life and light;
Wisdom, surpassing all of human kind,

And virtue, yielding the most pure delight.

Faith that will stand thee in the hour of death,
Hope that will gild thy pathway to the tomb,

And charity, that to thy latest breath,

Will cheer thy heart-and all thy soul illume.

Pure precepts, bright examples, there thou'lt find,
Purest and brightest-for the Lord on high

To frail mortality was even joined,

To teach us how to live, and how to die.

Oh! may we prize such knowledge-may we live
To ponder o'er the precepts of our Lord,

And fix them in our hearts, and glory give
To Him who gave us His most precious word.

M. M.

STANZAS.

HAST thou not marked, when Winter's reign to Spring begins to yield,'
How dreary, and how comfortless the prospect round revealed?
The miry earth, the cloudy sky, the cold and driving rain,
Seem worse than Winter's sparkling frosts, or fleecy-mantled plain.

No sudden, instantaneous change brings Summer's perfect day,
But winds of March, and April showers, prepare the path of May;
And Summer's leafy months must pass, in due succession by,
Before the husbandman may hope the joy of harvest nigh.

Meek pilgrim to a better world! may not thine eye discern

Some truths of grace, in Nature's schoo!, thine heart may wisely learn?
Is there no lesson taught to thee by seasons as they roll,
Which ought to animate the hopes of thy immortal soul?

If on thy dark and wintry heart a beam of light divine,

From the bleɛt Sun of Righteousness, hath e'er been known to shine;
Oh! view it as the glorious dawn of that more cloudless light,
Which, watched and waited for, shall chase each lingering shade of
night.

Be not dismayed by chilling blasts of self-reproof within,
Or tears at night and morning, wept for folly or for sin;
Rather lift up thy head in hope, and be his mercy blest,
Whose ray of light and love divine hath broke thy wintry rest.

In quiet hope, and patient faith, Spring's needful conflicts bear, Then green shall be thy Summer leaf, in skies more bright and fair; And fruitage of immortal worth in Autumn's later days,

Shall on thy bending boughs be hung, to speak thy Master's praise.

KINDRED SPIRITS.

BY MARY ANN BROWNE.

DROPS from the ocean of eternity,

Rays from the centre of unfailing light;
Things that the human eye can never see,
Are spirits-yet they dwell near human sight;
But as the shattered magnet's fragments still,
Though far apart, will to each other turn,

So, in the breast imprisoned, spirits will

To meet their fellow spirits vainly burn;
And yet not vainly. If the drop shall pass
Through streams of human sorrow, undefiled,
If the eternal ray that heavenly was,

To no false earthly fire be reconciled;
The drop shall mingle with its native main,
The ray shall meet its kindred rays again!!

How beautiful is Spring, the maiden Spring!

Whose hand all warm and bright draws forth the flowersWho dyes with rainbow tints the young bird's wing

Who fills with forest scents the April hours;

How beautiful she is, the year's first child,

(Its sweetest,) with her violet tresses crown'd; Her gesture, like the antelope's, shy and wild;

Her voice a song, her eyes in pleasure drown'd!
And yet her fairest treasure ne'er is shown

In scents, rich blooms, bright skies, or running river,
(For streams may fail, and fair buds die ere blown,)
But that then HOPE, whose eyes are like the morn,
Sweet sister of the Spring, is newly born,
Who forward looks for age and murmureth never