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And pleasure's siren' hymn
Grows fainter on the tunelèss ear,
Like echoes from another sphere,
Or dream of seraphim,-
It were not sad to cast away
This dull and cumbrous load of clay.

2. It were not sad to feel the heart
Grow passionlèss and cold;
To feel those longings to depart

That cheered the good of old;
To clasp the faith which looks on high,
Which fires the Christian's dying eye,

And makes the curtain-fold,
That falls upon his wasting breast,
The door that leads to endless rest.

3. It were not lonely thus to lie
On that triumphant bed,

Till the pure spirit mounts on high,
By white-winged seraphs led:
Where glories earth may never know
O'er "many mansions" lingering glow,
In peerless luster shed;

It were not lonely thus to soar,
Where sin and grief can sting no more.

4. And, though the way to such a goal
Lies through the clouded tomb,
If on the free, unfettered soul

There rest no stains of gloom,
How should its aspirations rise
Far through the blue, unpillared skies,
Up to its final home!

Beyond the journeyings of the sun,
Where streams of living waters run.

W. G. CLARK. WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK, a journalist, poet, and miscellaneous writer, was born

1 Si' ren, one of three damsels, or, according to some writers, of two, -said to dwell near the Island of Caprea, in the Mediterranean, and to sing with such sweetness that they

who sailed by forgot their country, and died in an ecstacy of delight; hence, an enticing, alluring, or dangerous woman; one rendered dan gerous by her enticements.

at Otisco, an agricultural town in Central New York, in the year 1810. Stimulated by the splendid scenery outspread on every side around him, he began to feel the poetic impulse at an early age; and, in numbers most musical, painted the beauties of nature with singular fidelity. As he grew older, a solemnity and gentle sadness of thought pervaded his verse, and evinced his desire to gather from the scenes and images its reflected lessons of morality. When about twenty years of age, he repaired to Philadelphia, where he commenced a weekly miscellany, which was soon abandoned. He then assumed, with the Reverend Doctor Brantley, the charge of the "Columbian Star," a religious and literary periodical, of high character, in which he printed many brief poems of considerable merit. Some years later, he took charge of the "Philadelphia Gazette," one of the oldest and most respectable journals in Pennsylvania, of which he ultimately became proprietor, and from that time until his death continued to conduct it. In 1836 he married Anne Poyntell Caldcleugh, the daughter of one of the wealthiest citizens of Philadelphia, and a woman of great personal beauty, rare accomplishments, and affectionate disposition, who soon after died of consumption, leaving her husband a prey to the deepest melancholy. From this time his health gradually declined, though he continued to write for his paper until the last day of his life, the twelfth of June, 1841. His metrical writings, which are pervaded by a gentle religious melancholy, are all distinguished for a graceful and elegant diction, thoughts morally and poetically beautiful, and chaste and appropriate imagery. His prose writings, on the other hand, were usually marked by passages of irresistible humor and wit. His perception of the ludicrous was acute, and his jests and "cranks and wanton wiles" evinced the fullness of his powers and the benevolence of his feelings.





AN is the creature of interest and ambition. His nature leads him forth into the struggle and bustle of the world. Love is but the embellishment of his early life, or a song piped in the intervals of the acts. He seeks for fame, for fortune, for space in the world's thought, and dominion over his fellow-men. But a woman's whole life is a history of the affections. The heart is her world: it is there her ambition strives for empire; it is there her avarice seeks for hidden treasures. She sends forth her sympathies on adventure: she embarks her whole soul in the traffic of affection; and if shipwrecked, her case is hopeless-for it is a bankruptcy of the heart.

2. To a man, the disappointment of love may occasion some bitter pangs: it wounds some feelings of tenderness-it blasts some prospects of felicity; but he is an active being-he may dissipate his thoughts in the whirl of varied occupation, or may plunge into the tide of pleasure: or, if the scene of disappoint

ment be too full of painful associations, he can shift his ǎbōde at will, and taking as it were the wings of the morning, can "fly to the uttermost part of the earth, and be at rest.”

3. But woman's is comparatively a fixed, a secluded, and a meditative life. She is more the companion of her own thoughts and feelings; and if they are turned to ministers of sorrow, where shall she look for consolation? Her lot is to be wooed and won; and if unhappy in her love, her heart is like some fortress that has been captured, and sacked, and abandoned, and left desolate.

4. How many bright eyes grow dim-how many soft cheeks grow pale-how many lovely forms fade away into the tomb, and none can tell the cause that blighted their loveliness! As the dove will clasp its wings to its side, and cover and conceal the arrow that is preying on its vitals, so it is the nature of woman to hide from the world the pangs of wounded affection.

5. The love of a delicate female is always shy and silent. Even when fortunate, she scarcely breathes it to herself; but when otherwise, she buries it in the recesses of her bosom, and there lets it cower and brood among the ruins of her peace. With her the desire of the heart has failed. The great charm of existence is at an end. She neglects all the cheerful exercises which gladden the spirits, quicken the pulses, and send the tide of life in healthful currents through the veins. Her rest is broken—the sweet refreshment of sleep is poisoned by melancholy dreams-" dry sorrow drinks her blood," until her enfeebled frame sinks under the slightest external injury.

6. Look for her, after a little while, and you will find friendship weeping over her untimely grave, and wondering that one who but lately glowed with all the radiance of health and beauty, should so speedily be brought down to "darkness and the worm." You will be told of some wintry chill, some casual indisposition that laid her low; but no one knows of the mental malady that previously sapped her strength, and made her so easy a prey to the spoiler.

7. She is like some tender tree, the pride and beauty of the grove; graceful in its form, bright in its foliage, but with the worm preying at its heart. We find it suddenly withering when it should be most fresh and luxuriant. We see it drooping its branches to the earth and shedding leaf by leaf; until, wasted

and perished away, it falls even in the stillness of the forest; and as we muse over the beautiful ruin, we strive in vain to recollect the blast or thunderbolt that could have smitten it with decay.

8. I have seen many instances of women running to waste and self-neglect, and disappearing gradually from the earth, almost as if they had been exhaled to heaven; and have repeatedly fancied that I could trace their death through the various declensions of consumption, cold, debility, languor, melancholy, until I reached the first symptom of disappointed love. But an instance of the kind was lately told to me; the circumstances are well known in the country where they happened, and I shall but give them in the manner they were related.





VERY one must recollect the tragical story of young Emmett,' the Irish patriot: it was too touching to be soon forgotten. During the troubles in Ireland he was tried, condemned, and executed, on a charge of treason. His fate made a deep impression on public sympathy. He was so young-so intelligent—so generous-so brave—so ĕverything that we are apt to like in a young man. His conduct under trial, too, was so lofty and intrepid! The noble indignation with which he repelled the charge of treason against his country-the eloquent vindication of his name-and his pathetic appeal to posterity, in the hopeless hour of condemnation-all these entered deeply into every generous bosom, and even his enemies lamented the stern policy that dictated his execution.

2. But there was one heart, whose anguish it would be impossible to describe. In happier days and fairer fortunes, he had won the affections of a beautiful and in'teresting girl, the daugh

1 Robert Emmett, the Irish patriot, was born in 1780. He was executed on the 20th of September, 1803.

'Treason, (trẻ' zn), the offense of attempting to overthrow the government of the state to which the of fender owes allegiance, or of betray

ing the state into the hands of a
foreign power.

3 In trěp' id, undaunted; brave.
'Vin` di ca' tion, a justification
against censure, objections, or accu-
sations; defense by proof, force, or

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ter of a late celebrated Irish barrister.' She loved him with the disin'terested fervor of a woman's first and early love. When every worldly maxim arrayed itself against him; when blasted in fortune, and disgrace and danger darkened around his name, she loved him the more ardently for his very sufferings. If, then, his fate could awaken the sympathy even of his foes, what must have been the agony of her, whose whōle soul was occupied by his image? Let those tell who have had the portals of the tomb suddenly closed between them and the being they most loved on earth-who have sat at its threshold, as one shut out in a cold and lonely world, from whence all that was most lovely and loving had departed.

3. But then the horrors of such a grave! so frightful, so dishonored! There was nothing for memory to dwell on that could soothe the pang of separation-none of those tender though melancholy circumstances that endear the parting scene-nothing to melt sorrow into those blessed tears, sent, like the dews of heaven, to revive the heart in the parting hour of anguish.

4. To render her widowed situation more desolate, she had incurred her father's displeasure by her unfortunate attachment, and was an exile from the paternal roof. But could the sympathy and kind offices of friends have reached a spirit so shocked and driven in by horror, she would have experienced no want of consolation, for the Irish are a people of quick and generous sensibilities. The most delicate and cherishing attentions were paid her by families of wealth and distinction. She was led into society, and they tried by all kinds of occupation and amusement to dissipate her grief, and wean her from the tragical story of her love.

5. But it was all in vain. There are some strokes of calamity that scath and scorch the soul—that penetrate to the vital seat of happiness, and blast it, never again to put forth bud or blossom. She never objected to frequent the haunts of pleasure, but she was as much alone there as in the depths of solitude. She walked about in a sad reverie, apparently unconscious of the world around her. She carried with her an inward woe that mocked at all the blandishments of friendship, and "heeded not the song of the charmer, charm he never so wisely."

John Philpot Curran, celebrated for his eloquence, wit, and sarcasm, born near Cork, 1750, and died 1817.

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