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There are times when the storm-gust may rattle around,

There are spots where the poison-shrub grows,
Yet are there not hours where naught else can be found

But the south wind, the sunshine, and rose ?
Oh, haplessly rare is the portion that's ours,

And strange is the path that we take,
If there spring not beside us a few precious flowers,

To soften the thorn and the brake.
The wail of regret, the rude clashing of strife

The soul's harmony often may mar-
But I think we must own, in the discords of life,

'Tis ourselves that oft waken the jar. Earth is not all fair, yet it is not all gloom;

And the voice of the grateful will tell
That He who allotted Pain, Death, and the Tomb,

Gave Hope, Health, and the Bridal as well.
Should Fate do its worst, and my spirit, oppressid,

O’er its own shatter'd happiness pine-
Let me witness the joy in another's glad breast,

And some pleasure must kindle in inine !
Then say not the world is a desert of thrall,

There is bloom, there is light, on the waste; Though the chalice of Life hath its acid and gall,

There are the honey-drops, too, for the taste.


Where, where is the gate that once served to divide
The elm-shaded lane from the dusty road-side ?
I like not this barrier gayly bedight,
With its glittering latch and its trellis of white.
It is seemly, I own-yet, oh! dearer by far
Was the red-rusted hinge and the weather-warp'd bar.
Here are fashion and form of a modernized date,
But I'd rather have look'd on the old farin-gate.
'Twas here where the urchins would gather to play
In the shadows of twilight or sunny mid-day ;
For the stream running nigh, and the hillocks of sand,
Were' temptations no dirt-loving rogue could withstand.
But to swing on the gate-rails, to clamber and ride,
Was the utmost of pleasure, of glory, and pride:
And the car of the victor or carriage of state
Never carried such hearts as the old farm-gate.
'Twas here where the miller's son paced to and fro,
When the moon was above and the glow-worms below;
Now pensively leaning, now twirling his stick,
While the moments grew long and his heart-throbs grew quick.
Why, why did he linger so restlessly there,
With church-going vestment and sprucely comb'd hair?
He loved, oh! he loved, and had promised to wait
For the one he adored, at the old farm-gate.

'Twas here where the gray-headed gossips would meet;
And the falling of markets, or goodness of wheat-
This field lying fallow—that heifer just bought-
Were favorite themes for discussion and thought.
The merits and faults of a neighbor just dead-
The hopes of a couple about to be wed
The Parliament doings—the bill and debate-
Were all canvass’d and weigh’d at the old farm-gate.
'Twas over that gate I taught Pincher to bound
With the strength of a steed and the grace of a hound.
The beagle might hunt, and the spaniel might swim,
But none could leap over that postern like him.
When Dobbin was saddled for mirth-making trip,
And the quickly-pull’d willow-branch served for a whip,
Spite of lugging and tugging he'd stand for his freight,
While I climb’d on his back from the old farm-gate.
'Tis well to pass portals where pleasure and fame
May come winging our moments and gilding our name;
But give me the joy and the freshness of mind,
When, away on some sport—the old gate slamm'd behind-
I've listen’d to music, but none that could speak
In such tones to my heart as the teeth-setting creak
That broke on my ear when the night had worn late,
And the dear ones came home through the old farm-gate.
Oh! fair is the barrier taking its place,
But it darkens a picture my soul long'd to trace.
I sigh to behold the rough staple and hasp,
And the rails that my growing hand scarcely could clasp.
Oh! how strangely the warm spirit grudges to part
With the commonest relic once link'd to the heart!
And the brightest of fortune-the kindliest fate-
Would not banish my love for the old farm-gate.


Oh! ask not a home in the mansions of pride,

Where marble shines out in the pillars and walls; Though the roof be of gold, it is brilliantly cold,

And joy may not be found in its torch-lighted halls. But seek for a bosom all honest and true,

Where love, once awaken’d, will never depart; Turn, turn to that breast like the dove to its nest,

And you'll find there's no home like a home in the heart. Oh! link but one spirit that's warmly sincere,

That will heighten your pleasure and solace your care ; Find a soul you may trust as the kind and the just,

And be sure the wide world holds no treasure so rare. Then the frowns of misfortune may shadow our lot,

The cheek-searing tear-drops of sorrow may start, But a star never dim sheds a halo for him

Who can turn for repose to a home in the heart.


Whom do we dub as gentleman ?—the knave, the fool, the brute-
If they but own full tithe of gold, and wear a courtly suit !
The parchment scroll of titled line-the ribbon at the knee,
Can still suffice to ratify and grant such high degree:
But Nature, with a matchless hand, sends forth her nobly born,
And laughs the paltry attributes of wealth and rank to scorn;
She moulds with care a spirit rare, half human, half divine,
And cries, exulting, “Who can make a gentleman like mine!"
She may not spend her common skill about the outward part,
But showers beauty, grace, and light, upon the brain and heart;
She may not choose ancestral fame his pathway to illume-
The sun that sheds the brightest day may rise from mist and gloom;
Should fortune pour her welcome store and useful gold abound,
He shares it with a bounteous band, and scatters blessings round;
The treasure sent is rightly spent, and serves the end design'd,
When held by Nature's gentleman-the good, the just, the kind.
He turns not from the cheerless home where sorrow's offspring dwell;
He'll greet the peasant in his hut—the culprit in his cell ;
He stays to hear the widow's plaint of deep and mourning love;
He seeks to aid her lot below, and prompt her faith above:
The orphan child-the friendless one-the luckless, or the poor,
Will never meet his spurning frown, or leave his bolted door;
His kindred circles all mankind-his country all the globe-
An honest name his jewell’d star, and truth his ermine robe.
He wisely yields his passions up to reason's firm control;
His pleasures are of crimeless kind, and never taint the soul;
He may be thrown among the gay and reckless sons of life,
But will not love the revel scene, or heed the brawling strife.
He wounds no breast with jeer or jest, yet bears no honey'd tongue;
He's social with the gray-hair'd one, and merry with the young;
He gravely shares the council speech, or joins the rustic game,
And shines as Nature's gentleman in every place the same.
No haughty gesture marks his gait, no pompous tone his word,
No studied attitude is seen, no palling nonsense heard ;
He'll suit his bearing to the hour-laugh, listen, learn, or teach;
With joyous freedom in his mirth, and candor in his speech:
He worships God with inward zeal, and serves him in each deed;
He would not blame another's faith, nor have one martyr bleed;
Justice and Mercy form his code—he puts his trust in Heaven;
His prayer is, “ If the heart mean well, may all else be forgiven!"
Though few of such may gem the earth, yet such rare gems there are,
Each shining in his hallow'd sphere, as virtue's polar star;
Though human hearts too oft are found all gross, corrupt, and dark,
Yet, yet some bosoms breathe and burn, lit by Promethean spark;
There are some spirits nobly just, unwarp'd by pelf or pride,
Great in the calm, but greater still when dash'd by adverse tide:
They hold the rank no king can give-no station can disgrace;
Nature puts forth her gentlemen, and monarchs must give place.


We gather'd round the festive board,

The crackling fagot blazed,
But few would taste the wine that pour'd,

Or join the song we raised.
For there was now a glass unfill'd

A favor'd place to spare ;
All eyes were dull, all hearts were chill'd-

The loved one was not there.

No happy laugh was heard to ring,

No form would lead the dance ;
A smother'd sorrow seem'd to fling

A gloom in every glance.
The grave had closed upon a brow,

The honest, bright, and fair;
We miss'd our mate, we mourn'd the blow-

The loved one was not there.


Few, if any, writers of fiction of the present century, hold a more powerful pen than Samuel Warren. In vivid painting of the passions, and in faithfully depicting scenes of modern life, his tales have enjoyed a very great and deserved popularity. Of his most celebrated work, “ The Diary of a late Physician," an able critici romarks :-“Wo know of no book in the English language so calculated to rivet the attention and awaken the purest and deepest sympathies of the heart as this book. The man who has not read these tales has yet to learn a lesson in the mysteries of human nature; and, though “Ten Thousand a Year' may, as a literary composition, claim precedence, we think it lacks something— very little-of that truthful simplicity, that trusting and religious fervor that refines every sentiment and hallows every aspiration inspired by the elder work."

His last work is “Now and Then,”_"a vindication, in beautiful prose, of the ways of God to man. A grander moral is not to be found than that which dwells on the reader's mind when the book is closed; conveyed, too, as it is, in language as masculine and eloquent as any the English tongue can furnish."?



“ Charlotte, why will you

be so obstinate ? You know how poorly you have been all the week, and Dr.

says late hours are the worst things in the world for you.”

“Pshaw, mother! nonsense ! nonsense !"

“ Be persuaded for once, now, I beg! O dear, dear, what a night it is, too: it pours with rain, and blows a perfect hurricane ! You'll be wet and catch cold, rely on it. Come, now, won't you stop and keep me company to night? That's a good girl!”

« Some other night will do as well for that, you know; for now I'll go to Mrs. P 's, if it rains cats and dogs. So up-up-up I

Such were very nearly the words, and such the manner in which Miss J- expressed her determination to act in defiance of her mother's wishes and entreaties. She was the only child of her widowed mother, and had but a few weeks before completed her twenty-sixth year, with yet no other prospect before her than bleak single-blessedness. A weaker, more frivolous and conceited creature never breathed—the torment of her amiable parent—the nuisance of her acquaintance. Though her mother's circumstances were very straitened—sufficing barely to enable them to maintain a footing in what is called the middling genteel class of society, this young woman contrived, by some means or other, to gratify her penchant for dress, and gadded about here, there, and everywhere, the most showily dressed person in the neighborhood. Though far from being even pretty-faced, or having any pretensions to a good figure—for she both stooped and was skinny—she yet believed herself handsome; and by a vulgar, flippant forwardness of demeanor, especially when in mixed company, extorted such attentions as persuaded her that others thought so.

For one or two years she had been an occasional patient of mine. The settled pallor, the sallowness of her complexion, conjointly with other symptoms, evidenced the existence of a liver-complaint; and the last visits I had paid her were in consequence of frequent sensations of oppression and pain in the chest, which clearly indicated some organic disease of the heart. I saw enough to warrant me in warning her mother of the possibility of her daughter's sudden death from this cause, and the imminent peril to which she exposed herself by dancing, late hours, &c.; but Mrs. J—'s remonstrances, gentle and affectionate as they always were, were thrown away upon her headstrong daughter.

It was striking eight by the church clock when Miss J— lit her chamber-candle by her mother's, and withdrew to her room to dress-soundly rating the servant-girl by the way, for not having starched some article or other which she intended to have worn that evening. As her toilet was usually a long and laborious business, it did not occasion much surprise to her mother, who was sitting by

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