While wooded cliff and wild ravine,

Were echoing to my bosom's mirth.

For care had never dimm'd my brow,
Nor friends proved heartless and untrue;
I ne'er had wept love's broken vow,

Nor aught of life's dark changes knew.

Farewell, sweet scenes of past delight!
Slowly ye sink from memory's gaze,
Still beaming with reflected light,
As bathed in twilight's parting rays.

I wander on my weary way,
Unmindful where my lot is cast,
Since wheresoe'er my footsteps stray,
They cannot lead me to the past.

SHE BLOOMS NO MORE.

O Spring! youth of the year-fair mother of flowers! Thou returnest, but with thee return not the serene And fortunate days of my joy. -- GUARINA.

I DREAD to see the summer sun
Come glowing up the sky,
And modest flowerets, one by one,
Opening the violet eye;

The choral melody of June —

The perfumed breath of heaven

The dewy morn· - the radiant noon-
The lingering light of even.

These, which so charmed my careless heart

In happy days gone by,

A deeper sadness now impart

To memory's thoughtful eye.

They speak of one who sleeps in death,

Her race untimely o'er,

Who ne'er shall taste spring's honied breath,
Nor see her glories more.

Of one who shared, with me, in youth
Life's sunshine and its flowers,
And kept unchanged her bosom's truth
Through all its darker hours.

She faded when the leaves were sere,

And wailed the autumnal blast —

With all the glories of the year
From earth her spirit passed.

Again the nodding lilac bows

Beneath its plumy crest

In yonder hedge the hawthorn blows,-
The robin builds his nest.
The floating vines she loved to train
Around her lattice, wear

Their snowy coronals again,

And hang their garlands there.

But she can bloom on earth no more,
Whose early doom I mourn, -
Nor spring, nor summer can restore
Our flower untimely shorn;

Her smile is gone, which beamed on me
With mild and steadfast light;

Her rosy lips have mournfully

Breathed out their last good night.

She ne'er shall hear again the song
Of merry birds in spring,

Nor roam the flowery braes among
In the year's young blossoming:
Nor longer in the lingering light
Of summer's eve shall we,
Locked hand in hand, together sit
Beneath the green-wood tree.

'Tis therefore that I dread to see
The glowing summer sun,
And balmy blossoms on the tree,
Unfolding one by one.

They speak of things which once have been,

But never more can be,

And earth all decked in smiles again

Is still a waste to me.

TO THE SPIRIT OF POETRY.

HAIL! queen of high and holy thought;
Of dreams, with fairy beauty fraught;
Sweet memories of the days gone by;
Glimpses of immortality.
Visions of grandeur, glory, power,
All that in inspiration's hour,
Like sunset's changing glories roll
Within the poet's raptured soul!

Thy throne is in the crimson fold,
Around the setting day-star rolled-
Thou walkest through the sapphire sky,
When the bright moon is sailing high,
Touching the stars with purer light,
And lending holier charms to night:

The clouds a deeper glory wear,

The winds a softer music bear,

And earth is heaven, when thou art there.

There's not a murmur on the breeze,
Nor ripple on the dark, blue seas,
Nor breath of violets, faintly sweet,
Nor glittering dewdrop at our feet,
Nor tinge of mellow radiance, where
Soft moon-beams melt along the air;
Nor shade, nor tint, on flower or tree,
But takes a softer grace from thee.

And love itself— the brightest gem
In all creation's diadem -

Oh! what were mortal love, didst thou
Not lend a glory to his brow?
Degraded, though of heavenly birth,
And sullied with the cares of earth
Wasted and worn, by doubts and fears,
Its youthful smiles soon change to tears:
But at thy spirit-stirring breath,

It burst the bonds of sin and death;
And, robed in heavenly charms by thee,
It puts on immortality.

CAROLINE GILMAN.

MRS. GILMAN, whose maiden name was Howard, was born in Boston, and has proved herself a worthy daughter of the "Literary Emporium." She is not, however, so much distinguished for her devotion to the muses, as for her prose writings, and the hearty zeal with which she has labored to diffuse a literary spirit and strengthen and beautify the moral taste of the community where she resides. — Mrs. Gilman is wife of the Rev. Samuel Gilman, a clergyman of the Unitarian faith, who has been for a number of years pastor of a church at Charleston, S. C. There, the urbanity of his manners, the kindness of his heart, and the truly Christian virtues he has exhibited, have gained for him a warm regard from Christians of all denominations. And to say that Mrs. Gilman has proved "a help meet for him," is to her the highest praise we can give, or that she would covet.

About three years since, Mrs. Gilman, who felt the great importance of giving to the youthful mind a right direction, formed the plan of issuing a "Journal for the Young." She named it "The Southern Rose-bud," and published it semi-monthly. It was so well received and patronized, that she has now enlarged its size, and elevated its character to the standard of a literary and moral paper,* in which persons of all ages can find pleasure and profit.—In this

* "The Southern Rose."