She issued thence, her guardian's gentle arm
Was round her clasped, her glittering robe to white
Was changed, her jewelled sceptre to a shield,
Which turned aside the shafts, that from that throng]
Which she had quitted, fell upon her fast.

Again I saw her, and her pathway led
Across a dreary desert, nought was there
To cheer the eye, or glad the heart, except

One pure white flower of Friendship, which she watched
With tender care. By holy saints 'twas nursed
In Paradise, and thence by the soft hands
Of her mild friend, transplanted o'er her path
So dark, to shed the odors of that land

Of light. It seemed for these ungenial climes
Too fair, too mild its breath for gentlest gales
That gladden earthly bowers. 'Twas given in love,
And meekly 'twas received, and day, and night,
She o'er it bending, cherished carefully
Its budding beauties, lest one leaf should fade
And die; and if upon her breast to wear,

She pluck'd one petal soft, 'twas with a touch,
Too delicate, the dew-drop bright to shake,

That in its fragrant bosom chastely slept.

And oft with grateful tears, she thanked and praised
The Lord of Paradise, for sending her

In loneliness, this one sweet flower to love.

But midst her tender cares her hand was pierced

E'en to the quick, blood streamed from the deep wound,
Her heart was chill'd, and her whole form did writhe
In agony, while o'er her features spread

A ghastly pallor, and the damp of death
Seem'd gathering on her brow; but fearfully
Then struggled life, that stricken one to gain.
She slowly woke, and sadly sought the cause
Of so much pain And there beneath the leaves
Concealed, a thorn to strength had grown, and now
With her own blood was stained, and all around
Each flower and bud, more thorns were shooting forth.

In some unguarded hour her watchful foe

Had grafted on its stems buds from the bowers

Of earth, and round its roots a baser soil

Had thrown-thus earthly culture through her plant
Infused a grosser nature; here no more
Without a pang could she enjoy its sweets.
But her too constant heart could not forget
Its former beauty, still she clung to it
And cried, "I cannot give it up. 'Tis all

That's left to me on earth, and to my heart

I still will clasp it, though my own life's blood
Should follow the embrace." Then that sweet voice
Which oft had solaced her, now spoke again.

Weep not, it said, but let it die ;
and though
It shed no more its perfume on thy way,
And thou shalt have no object here for all
Thy gentle cares, for thee shall all its seeds
Be garnered up, and it shall grow again

In that bright land where thou art going; there
Again thy hand shall tend it; there 'twill bloom,
And watered by life's river, yield for thee,
Immortal fruits. For in that clime alone
Can Friendship live in all its purity.

Again I saw her, in a narrow path

She trod; straight was the way, but broken, rough,
And oft beset with dangers; but her robes
She gathered close around her, and her feet
Were shod with sandals suited to the way.
Below her far on either side were broad

And pleasant paths, where thousands walked, with songs
Of mirth, who loudly called on her, to leave
Her dismal way, and journey on with them.

But all in vain, she heeded not, nor heard
The sight, or song, or luring call. A cloud
Which hid them from her view encompassed her,
And on its top illumined, she beheld

The glorious image of the golden gates

Toward which he hastened, and her eager ear
Was bent to echoes faint and distant far

Of angel minstrelsy. In safety thus

That path she walked, till she approached a deep
And fiercely rushing river; over her

And 'round her, all was dark and dismal, there
Damp vapors rose, and monsters dragged along,
And heaps of human bones lay mouldering there,
And hideous sounds were heard, like muttered groans
Of deep despair. Firm was her tread, when first
She entered this dire place, beyond it shone
The gates she sought to reach, and the mild form
Of her tried friend, was by her side; but soon
That guardian left her, though near by unseen
Regarded her. Forsaken thus, she raised
A fearful cry for help; when through the gloom
A bright transcendant form advanced to her-
From his expanded arms dropped dazzling rays,
And 'round his brow in massive folds was coiled

A fillet bright of varied gems. He smiled
And with soft words, all her deep woes bewailed,
And promised ne'er to leave her, if with him
She would consent to go; and to a land

Of flowers and sunshine, he would bear her soon;
Her's should be wealth untold, and she should wear
The gems that sparkled on his brow. And then
Untwining them, he bade her hear the sound
Of that dark flood through which she else must pass.
To take the proffered gift she raised her hand,
But at the touch, her frame with horror chill'd.
It was a serpent! and she hurled it down,

And saw the fangs protrude in harmless wrath
From out its bruised head. Then she exclaimed,
Depart thou base deceiver! well I know
Thy deadly hate; how thou would'st see my bones
Whitening with those beneath; but now, in this
My greatest strait, thy power I do defy!

He fled; then rushed with joy that gentle one,

And clasped her trembling form, and bore her on

Through the dark valley. In that stream they plunged,

And its wild waves closed over them. But lo!

On the far shore they rise! th'eternal gates

Swing wide! then close her in.

One radiant glimpse

Of heaven I caught, then ringing far above
Its battlements, in th'empyrean clear,
Once more that song of triumph rose.

I turned

That same calm voice, again bade me to hope,
Beside me stood that form, serene and mild,
Into its hand I gave my own, for well

I knew that gentle one had come to guide
My weary wanderings, to that world of bliss.

GERALDINE.

MARSCHALK MANOR.

The old man treadeth wearily,
Wearily down the hill;

But the old man prateth cheerily,
Prateth cheerily still.

CHAPTER FIRST,

Showeth forth the Marschalk Manor, both Historically and Descriptive.

Few who have ever seen any of the Dutch Manor-Houses which yet remain in the valley of the Hudson, can resist experiencing a sense of delight, and a heartfelt longing after the quiet, peaceful life, which seems afforded to its inhabitants. It is seldom that any of these old residences displays much architectural taste. The elegant refinements of carved buttresses and ornamental windows are generally wanting; proportion of parts is rarely strictly ob served; even the adaptation of any particular authorized style is regarded as a matter of but little real consequence. Yet its timeworn walls and irregular construction impart a quaint and antiquated aspect, suggestive of comfortable security and open hospitality, more than an equivalent for any lack of the richest adornments of English or Italian fancy.

In such excellent features, the Marschalk Manor-House is second to none of its cotemporaries. How it was commenced, and how it attained its present form, a few words will explain.

In the year 1643, a grant of land was obtained from the Indians by Balthazar Marschalk, the first of the name in this country, though, by the family archives, his lineage could be traced some centuries back in the bistory of Holland, during which time, his ancestors had held sundry posts of influence and honor, The land given at first covered an extent of several square miles, and although since much reduced, is yet one of the best farming tracts in the State.

Two years after, the grant having been confirmed by the Dutch government, Balthazar engaged in the then profitable fur trade, and built a large depot for the purpose among the Highlands. That was the commencement of the Manor-House.

At first it must have seemed but a sorry habitation, for it bore none of its present appearances of comfort, its only purpose being to protect pelfries from the weather, and occasionally to shelter, during a night, some straggling band of friendly Indians. To this end, four thick stone walls, as rough inside as out, were its only requisites, while a few little cannon, together with a liberal supply of fire-arms, composed its sole furniture. But years afterwards, when the trade was becoming less profitable and the intercourse with the natives less hazardous, the mansion underwent sundry

alterations, in order to fit it for a family residence, and the Marschalks, leaving the town of New York, came hither to live.

Then the exterior of the depot was much enriched with a variety of embattled gables which crowned the roof, and quaint arcs and angles, which were made to project from every window and doorway;-while the inside was divided into compartments and neatly plastered throughout. Several wings were also added, in order to afford increased accommodations. For in those days, a larger mansion was needed than now, since the Marschalks were numerous and powerful, and held frequent family meetings;-and it is said that often, upon festival occasions, some fifty persons, all related, enlivened the old Manor-House with music and dancing, and made the woods to resound with the cheerful blasts of their hunting-horns and the larder to be fragrant with the newly killed deer. That time might have been called the glory of the Marschalk family. Now, one solitary deer, the last of his race in this part of the country, stalks up and down the park, divested of all his youthful energy, his only remaining pleasure being to stand upon the river's bank, and, with glazed and filmy eyes, gaze upon his own poor reflection. And only one Marschalk now walks through these ample halls;-like the poor deer, a miserable representative of former times.

At the same time with those other improvements, a circumference of nearly two miles was laid out round the house as a park, and tastefully planted with shade trees. These have now grown venerable with age, and form one of the greatest ornaments of the estate. Moreover, the whole edge of the park, except where the Hudson washes its turf, was bordered with box-wood, which nore than an hundred years have changed into a beautiful hedge, wonderful to all the surrounding country for its height and thickness.

The inside of the Manor-House is not at all inferior to the outside in picturesque appearance. A hall over twenty feet in width divides the mansion, and all the rooms which open into it are well furnished with antique and curiously carved furniture. But my chief delight is the library, to which leads a wide stair-case, flanked with bannisters carved in that massive and grotesque style of art which so much prevailed some centuries ago.

The largest room in the house is required for a library, for not only is it obliged to contain a fine assortment of English and Dutch volumes, but all my curiosities and antiquities must also be collected in one place. Among the principal of these I might mention sundry family portraits, most all painted by the most celebrated masters of their respective times. On one wall, hang some giant antlers, mementoes of my ancestors' skill in deer-stalking. On another side are some costumes of the days of Stuyvesant, complete from the cocked hat to the gold shoe-buckles. In one corner, are several old pipes, richly painted, and in another leans one of the little cannon which once served to protect the fur-traders. In fine, the apartment is so crowded with my antiquities, that there