When thou shalt sit in cheerless nook,
The weary spell or horn book thumbing.

Well; let it be! thro' weal and woe,

Thou know'st not now thy future range:
Life is a motley, shifting show,
And thou a thing of hope and change.

SELECTIONS.

[FROM DE MONTFORT: A TRAGEDY.]

De Montford. Yes, it is ever thus. Undo that veil,
And give thy count'nance to the cheerful light.
Men now all soft, and female beauty scorn,
And mock the gentle cares which aim to please.
It is most terrible! undo thy veil,

And think of him no more.

Jane. I know it well, even to a proverb grown,
Is lovers' faith, and I had borne such slight:
But he, who has, alas! forsaken me,

Was the companion of my early days,
My cradle's mate, mine infant play-fellow.
Within our op'ning minds, with riper years,
The love of praise and gen'rous virtue sprung:
Thro' varied life our pride, our joys were one;
At the same tale we wept: he is my brother.

De Mon. And he forsook thee?—No, I dare not curse him: My heart upbraids me with a crime like his.

Jane. Ah! do not thus distress a feeling heart.

All sisters are not to the soul entwin'd

With equal bands; thine has not watch'd for thee,
Wept for thee, cheer'd thee, shar'd thy weal and woe,
As I have done for him.

De Mon. (eagerly.) Ah! has she not?
By heav'n! the sum of all thy kindly deeds,
Were but as chaff pois'd against massy gold,
Compar'd to that which I do owe her love.
Oh pardon me! I mean not to offend

I am too warm- but she of whom I speak
Is the dear sister of my earliest love;
In noble, virtuous worth to none a second:
And tho' behind those sable folds were hid
As fair a face as ever woman own'd,
Still would I say she is as fair as thou.
How oft amidst the beauty-blazing throng,
I've proudly to th' inquiring stranger told
Her name and lineage! yet within her house,
The virgin mother of an orphan race,
Her dying parents left, this noble woman
Did, like a Roman matron, proudly sit,
Despising all the blandishments of love;
Whilst many a youth his hopeless love conceal'd,
Or humbly distant, woo'd her like a queen.
Forgive, I pray you! O forgive this boasting;
In faith! I mean you no discourtesy.

TRUE LOVE.

[FROM HENRIQUEZ: A TRAGEDY.]

Antonio. O blessed words! my dear, my generous love!

My heart throbs at the thought, but cannot thank thee.
And thou wilt follow me and share my fortune,
Or good or ill!

Ah! what of good can with a skulking out-law
In his far wanderings, or his secret haunts,
E'er be? O no! thou shal not follow me.

Mencia. Good may be found for faithful, virtuous love,
In every spot; and for the wand'ring out-law,
The very sweetest nooks o' the earth are his.
And be his passing home the goatherd's shed,
The woodman's branchy hut, or fishers' cove,
Whose pebbly threshold by the rippling tide
Is softly washed, he may contented live,
Ay, thankfully; fed like the fowls of heaven'
With daily food sent by a Father's hand.

Ant. Thou shalt not follow me, nor will I fly.
Sever'd from thee I will not live, sweet love;
Nor shalt thou be the mate of one disgraced,
And by the good disowned. Here I'll remain,
And Heaven will work for me a fair deliverance.

DESPAIR.

Henriquez. The morn! and what have I to do with morn?

The redd'ning sky, the smoking camp, the stir
Of tented sleepers rousing to the call,

The snorting steed, in harness newly dight,
Did please my fancy once. Ay, and the sweetness
Of my still native woods, when through the mist,
They showed at early dawn their stately oaks,
Whose dark'ning forms did gradually appear
Like slow approaching friends, known doubtfully..
These pleased me once in better days; but now
My very soul within me is abhorrent

Of every pleasant thing; and that which cheers
The stirring soldier or the waking hind,
That which the traveller blesses, and the child
Greets with a shout of joy, as from the door
Of his pent cot he issues to the air,

Does but increase my misery.

I loathe the light of heaven: let the night,
The hideous, unblessed night, close o'er me now,
And close forever!

HANNAH MORE.*

THE long and brilliant literary career of Mrs. More has closed, and her "Life," and " Works," are the invaluable possession of the Christian public. She needs no eulogism - she has built her own monument!

Probably no woman ever did so much to promote the cause of moral and social improvement, among all classes of people, as this excellent lady has done; certainly no one ever more consistently subserved the best interests of her

own sex.

It is not, however, in her poetry that the high character of her mind is displayed to the greatest advantage. She possessed more talent than genius, more judgment than imagination; and though her poetry is always respectable, and in its sentiment elevated, yet it seldom rises to the lofty sublimity which astonishes the reader, as it were, with the opening of a new world of beauty and bold imagery nor does it exhibit the brilliancy or breathe the pathos which takes captive the heart and fancy. It is good, in every quality, and seldom merits a higher epithet.

But Mrs. More did not make poetry her pursuit. She summoned the muses to her aid, chiefly to promote some

* Mrs. More's writings have been published in a variety of forms. The best American edition is that of the Harpers', comprising her "Life and Correspondence," and all her "Literary Works."

useful or benevolent object in which she was engaged;"The Search after Happiness," for instance, was written for the benefit of the young ladies at her sister's boarding school; and the "Ballads" and "Tales" to unfold and illustrate religious and moral truths to the poor, ignorant peasantry of her own country.

Many of her Poems were written when she was quite young, and to the youthful poetess she will be a safe model to study, because her sentiments are peculiarly calculated to incite a desire for excellence of character, which is far more necessary to female happiness, and much more easily attainable than eminence in poetry.

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We place her honored name in our Wreath to be an amulet as well as an ornament; and if it be not properly designated by a flower, it is because it deserves something less perishable - it is the evergreen Pine, the emblem of piety and philosophy, whose leaf time will not have power to wither or that divine "Haemony," whose root, transplanted to a more blessed clime,

"Bears a bright golden flower."

The "Life" of this illustrious woman is a lesson which our sex can hardly value too highly. We cannot give even the outline of a career, noble as it was useful and active; but as the volumes of her "Memoirs and Correspondence" are accessible to all, we need merely give the most important data. Mrs. More was born in the year 1745. She was the youngest but one of the five daughters of Mr. Jacob More of Stapleton, in the county of Gloucester. His careful and conscientious education of his children was greatly blessed, and has secured for them all, but particularly for one, an enduring record in the hearts of the pious and intelligent. Hannah early exhibited traits of genius, and that disposition to do good, which continued the ruling passion of her life. It was this philanthropy which incited her to undertake most of her varied writings. Benevolence