The scenes of many a vanished joy,
Which once the sad heart knew.
I looked, in hope her dreary sketch
Like Fancy's scenes would fade:
I hoped in vain — fadeless her tints
She only paints in shade.

MELANCHOLY.

"There are times when melancholy thoughts oppress us, we know not why, and come upon us, we know not whence. In the midst of the festive scene, no less frequently than in the loneliness of our closet, our hearts thrill beneath them, even as the chords of an untouched heart will vibrate to the wild sweep of the evening breeze."

WHENCE Comes this painful heaviness of soul,
These dark presentiments of coming ill?

These dreams, that spurn at reason's sage control?

And these thick gathering phantasies that fill

The spirit with deep fearfulness, and chill

The heart with sudden terror? Are they sent

As portents of the future, to fulfil

The dark decrees of fate, or only meant

To sap the strength of mind- - man's noblest battlement?

We know not whence they come, nor can we tell
Whither they flee- we only feel their power
Withering our hearts by some mysterious spell,
And stealing o'er us, even in the hour

When hope and joy are brightest, till we cower
Before these shadows, as the warrior steed
Undaunted braves the battle's iron shower,
And yet will quiver like a shaken reed,

If through a moonlit wood his onward pathway lead.

Oh man, how stange a mystery thou art! The noblest, yet the weakest in creation; Unable to subdue thine own proud heart, Yet swaying oft the fortunes of a nation; Godlike in thy high attributes and station, Wormlike in each low, grovelling desire; Yet, even in thy lowest degradation, Showing forth glimpses of that heavenly fire, Which, though earth-stained and dim,can never quite expire.

THE WIDOW'S WOOER.

HE Woos me with those honied words

That women love to hear,
Those gentle flatteries that fall

So sweet on every ear.

He tells me that my face is fair,
Too fair for grief to shade :
My cheek, he says, was never meant
In sorow's gloom to fade.

He stands beside me, when I sing

The songs of other days,

And whispers, in love's thrilling tones,

The words of heartfelt praise;

And often in

my eyes he looks,

Some answering love to see,-
In vain! he there can only read

The faith of memory.

He little knows what thoughts awake,
With every gentle word;

How, by his looks and tones, the founts
Of tenderness are stirred.

The visions of my youth return,
Joys far too bright to last;

And while he speaks of future bliss ;
I think but of the past.

Like lamps in Eastern sepulchres,
Amid my heart's deep gloom,
Affection sheds its holiest light
Upon my husband's tomb.

And, as those lamps, if brought once more
To upper air, grow dim,

So

my soul's love is cold and dead,

Unless it glow for him.

STANZAS TO A SISTER.

"Her lot is on you- silent tears to weep,

And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour,
And sumless wishes from affection's deep,

To pour on broken reeds, a wasted shower!

And to make idols, and to find them clay,
And to bewail that worship— therefore pray!”

FELICIA HEMANS.

Ay, mark the strain, sweet Sister! watch and pray

Wean thy young stainless heart from earthly things:
Oh! wait not thou till life's blest morning ray
Only o'er withered hopes its radiance flings;

But give to Heaven thy sinless spirit now,
Ere sorrow's tracery mar the placid brow.

Gentle and pure thou art—yet is thy soul

Fill'd with a maiden's vague and pleasant dreams,

Sweet phantasies, that mock at thought's control,
Like atoms round thee float, in fancy's beams;
But trust them not, young dreamer, bid them flee
They have deceived all others, and will thee.

'Well can I read thy dreams-thy gentle heart,
Already woman's in its wish to bless,
Now longs for one, to whom it may impart

Its untold wealth of hidden tenderness,
And pants to learn the meaning of the thrill
Which wakes when fancy stirs affection's rill.

Thou dreamest too of happiness - the deep
And placid joy which poet's paint so well:
Alas! man's passions, even when they sleep,

Like ocean's waves are heaved with secret swell; And they who hear the frequent half-hushed sigh, Know 'tis the wailing of the storm gone by.

Vain are all such visions! - couldst thou know

The secrets of a woman's weary lot

Oh! couldst thou read, upon her pride-veiled brow, Her wasted tenderness, her love forgot,

In humbleness of heart thou wouldst kneel down,
And pray for strength to wear her victim crown.

But thou wilt do as all have done before,

And make thy heart for earthly gods a shrine; There all affection's priceless treasures pour,

There hope's fair flowers in votive garlands twine; And thou wilt meet the recompense all must, Who give to mortal love their faith and trust.

ANNA MARIA WELLS.

MRS. WELLS was born in Gloucester, Mass. Her maiden name was Foster. Her father died when she was an infant; her mother married a second husband, and soon after removed to Boston, where Anna Maria received every advantage of education then enjoyed by young ladies. She was distinguished during childhood for her passionate love of reading and of music-these pursuits almost excluding the desire for what are usually considered amusements, of every kind. Her juvenile essays in literary composition are said to have evinced quite a precocity of genius; but, happily, her taste was also early formed and refined, and hence she was a fastidious critic of her own performances. It was not easy, therefore, to induce her to publish her effusions; and she rarely did this till after her marriage, in 18-.

Her husband, Thomas Wells, was a man of considerable literary talent and taste; but, unfortunately for his family, he had small inclination for business, and great love for the luxuries of life. Mrs. Wells, in consequence, found it necessary to exert her own powers. There is no

stimulus to the female mind so irresistible as the maternal affections. Let the mother find that her genius can confer benefits on her children, and she will be roused to efforts of mind, which no other earthly inducement could have made her attempt.