A charm to banish grief away,

To snatch the frown from care,

Turn tears to smiles, make dullness gay, Spread gladness everywhere;

And yet 'tis cheap as summer dew,

That gems the lily's breast;

A talisman for love, as true

As ever man possessed.

As smiles the rainbow through the cloud,

When threat'ning storm begins,

As music 'mid the tempest loud

Its way in sweetness wins,
As springs an arch across the tide

Where waves conflicting foam,
So comes this seraph to our side,

This angel of our home!

What may this wondrous spirit be,

With power unheard before,

This charm, this bright divinity?

GOOD TEMPER;

- nothing more!

GOOD TEMPER! 'tis the choicest gift

That woman homeward brings;

And can the poorest peasant lift

To bliss unknown to kings.

C. SWAIN.

SPRING MEDITATIONS.

How light is the bosom! what projects resolving!
The clouds are dispersed, and the snows are dissolving,
While brightly the season of love is revolving;

And gladly we welcome the sun.

But where the companions who ever were keeping [ing! The May-morning gambols? How long they've been sleepAh! see, o'er their couches the stars have been weeping, And gossamer mantles are spun.

The season approaches when many will sever,
And when it is past, will be gone, and for ever!
The many will meet, but all meet again never,
Till meeting in silence and gloom.

But, which is the form that will then be forsaken?
And where are the eyes that will never awaken ?
Of whom will the final farewell have been taken?
And who will be left in the tomb?

Then, come to my bosom, ye friends it would cherish!
Ye may fade, but your semblance there never shall perish;
Ye may die, but your virtues shall memory cherish,
When long to the world ye've been dead.
Yes, wreaths of affection, of honor and glory,
Unfading, are woven in memory's story;

And laurels of virtue and beauty are rory

With tears that remembrance hath shed.

ANONYMOUS.

NATURE MORE THAN SCIENCE.

I HAVE a thousand, thousand lays,
Compact of myriad, myriad words;

And so can sing a million ways,
Can play at pleasure on the chords

Of tunéd harp or heart;

Yet is there one sweet song

For which in vain I sigh and long:
I cannot reach that song,

With all my minstrel art.

A shepherd sits within a dell,

O'ercanopied from rain and heat;

A shallow, but pellucid well

Doth ever bubble at his feet.

His pipe is but a leaf;

Yet there, above that stream,

He plays and plays, as in a dream,