And oft, when the summer sun shone hot And she heard the little spring brook fall In the shade of the apple-tree again And, gazing down with timid grace, Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls The weary wheel to a spinnet turn'd, And for him who sat by the chimney lug, A manly form at her side she saw, Then she took up her burden of life again, Alas for maiden, alas for Judge, For rich repiner and household drudge! God pity them both, and pity us all, For of all sad words of tongue or pen, Ah, well for us all some sweet hope lies And, in the hereafter, angels may grave THE WISH OF TO-DAY. I ask not now for gold to gild A rose-cloud, dimly seen above, Melting in heaven's blue depths away,Oh! sweet, fond dream of human Love! For thee I may not pray. But, bow'd in lowliness of mind, I make my humble wishes known,— I only ask a will resign'd, O Father, to thine own! To-day, beneath thy chastening eye, And feel that it is best. A marvel seems the Universe, In vain I task my aching brain, And now my spirit sighs for home, Though oft, like letters traced on sand, VIRTUE ALONE BEAUTIFUL. "Handsome is that handsome does,-hold up your hands, girls," is the language of Primrose in the play, when addressing her daughters. The worthy matron was right. Would that all my female readers, who are sorrowing foolishly because they are not in all respects like Dubufe's Eve, or that statue of Venus which enchants the world, could be persuaded to listen to her. What is good-looking, as Horace Smith remarks, but looking good? Be good, be womanly, be gentle,-generous in your sympathies, heedful of the well-being of those around you, and, my word for it, you will not lack kind words or admiration. Loving and pleasant associations will gather about you. Never mind the ugly reflection which your glass may give you. That mirror has no heart. But quite another picture is given you on the retina of human sympathy. There the beauty of holiness, of purity, of that inward grace "which passeth show," rests over it, softening and mellowing its features, just as the full, calm moonlight melts those of a rough landscape into harmonious loveliness. "Hold up your heads, girls;" I repeat after Primrose. Why should you not? Every mother's daughter of you can be beautiful. You can envelop yourselves in an atmosphere of moral and intellectual beauty, through which your otherwise plain faces will look forth like those of angels. Beautiful to Ledyard, stiffening in the cold of a northern winter, seemed the diminutive, smoke stained women of Lapland, who wrapped him in their furs, and ministered to his necessities with kind and gentle words of compassion. Lovely to the home-sick Park seemed the dark maids of Sigo, as they sung their low and simple songs of welcome beside his bed, and sought to comfort the white stranger who had "no mother to bring him milk, and no wife to grind him corn." Oh! talk as you may of beauty, as a thing to be chiselled upon marble or wrought on canvas,-speculate as you may upon its colors and outline,-what is it but an intellectual abstraction after all? The heart feels a beauty of another kind,-looking through outward environments, it discovers a deeper and more real loveliness. This was well understood by the old painters. In their pictures of Mary, the virgin mother, the beauty which melts and subdues the gazer is that of the soul and the affections,-uniting the awe and the mystery of the mother's miraculous allotment with the inexpressible love, the unutterable tenderness, of young maternity, -Heaven's crowning miracle with nature's sweetest and holiest instinct. And their pale Magdalens, holy with the look of sins forgiven, how the divine beauty of their penitence sinks into the heart! Do we not feel that the only real deformity is sin, and that goodness evermore hallows and sanctifies its dwelling-place? EMMA C. EMBURY. AMONG American female writers, Emma C. Embury takes no mean rank. She is the daughter of Dr. James R. Manly, an eminent physician of New York, and in 1828 was married to Daniel Embury, a gentleman of wealth, residing in Brooklyn, and much valued for his intellectual and social qualities,—having the taste to appreciate the talents of his gifted wife, and the good sense to encourage and aid her in her literary pursuits. But these pursuits, happily, have never caused her to neglect the duties of a wife or a mother. Mrs. Embury's published works are-Guido, and other Poems, by Ianthe; a volume on Female Education; The Blind Girl, and other Tales; Pictures of Early Life; Glimpses of Home Life, or Causes and Consequences; Nature's Gems, or American Wild Flowers; Love's Token-Flowers; The Waldorf Family, or Grandfather's Legends. All her writings exhibit good sense, true cultivation, and healthy natural feeling, united to much refinement; and it is to be deeply lamented that a protracted illness has deprived her, for many years, of the physical and mental power requisite for literary pursuits, or even for domestic duties. Great nervous debility and paralysis have shattered her vigorous body and her noble mind, and have left only the gentle affections of her nature untouched. THE WIDOW'S WOOER. He wooes me with those honey'd words So sweet on every ear. He tells me that my face is fair, Too fair for grief to shade: He stands beside me, when I sing And whispers, in love's thrilling tones, In vain! he there can only read He little knows what thoughts awake With every gentle word; How, by his looks and tones, the founts The visions of my youth return, Joys far too bright to last; And while he speaks of future bliss, Like lamps in Eastern sepulchres, 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. Man's sterner nature turns away Wealth's glittering gifts, and pleasure's ray, But woman knows one only dream,- For on life's dark and sluggish stream THE MAIDEN SAT AT HER BUSY WHEEL. The maiden sat at her busy wheel, Her song was in mockery of Love, "The gather'd rose and the stolen heart I look'd on the maiden's rosy cheek, And I sigh'd to think that the traitor Love But she thought not of future days of woe, A year pass'd on, and again I stood Oh, well I knew what had dimm'd her eye The maid had forgotten her early song, She had tasted the sweets of his poison'd cup, And the stolen heart, like the gather'd rose, |