o

tan 2 tr 3} I

THE LAST INTER"

“‘2 \V.’

Here, in this lonely bower, where first I won then, I come, beloved,'bensuth the moon s pale ray, _

To gaze once more, through struggling tears, upon thee, And then to tear~my broken heart away:

I dare not linger near tliee its-a brother;

. I feel my burning heart would still be thine;

How could I hope my passionate thoughts to smother, While yielding all thy sweetness to another, Thou sliould'st be mine!

Batfute hatli willed it; the decree is spoken : x New life may lengthen out its ‘weary chain, ' For, reft ofthee, its loveliest links are broken; ' May we but clasp them all in heaven again! Yeti, thou wilt there be mine, in you blue Heaven! There are sweet meetings ofthe pure and fund; Oh,joya unspeakable to so :h are given,

‘Vhen th

esweet ties ‘ Unite beyond.

of love, that here are riven,

A lorinuachatm from Heaven thou dostinlierit ; ’ be gift ofungels unto thee belongs; I . Then breathe thy love in music, that thy spirit r. May whisper to me tliro‘ thine own sweet songs; And though my coming life may soon resemble. ~ The desert spots thro' which my steps Wlll flee, Tho' round thee than wild Worshippers assemble,

My heart will trim

, Still true to me.

npb, ifthine own but tremble,

Yefi-unt when on our botver the light reposes A In golden glory, wilt thou sigh for me; Nor when the young hes sinksin crimson roses, And the fair. aunbcams tremble o’er the see; .But when at era the tender heart grows fondcr, And the full soul with pensive love is fraught. Then with wet lid o'er these sweet paths tliuu'lt.ivanilcr \Vith tender thought. \

, .

And when at times thy bird-like voice entrances The listening throng with some enchanting lay, {fl out near thee, let thy gentle glances One tender message to my heart convey; I ask but this—a happier one bns‘takcn ' From my lone life the charm which made it clear; I ask but this, and promise thee, unshaken, To meet that look tiflove—hitt. ob! ’iwill waken

Such ruptures here

And now farewell! farewell! I dare not lengtheri

Those sweet and moments out; to gaze on thee

ls bliss indeed; yet it but serves to strengthen The love which now amounts to agony: This ia our last farewell, our last fond meeting; The wotld is wide, and we must dwell apart; M spirit gives thee, now, its last wild greeting, ‘V’itb lip to lip, while pulse to pulse is beating,

Farewell

And heart to heart

! FareWell!

Our dream ofbliss is over!

All,save the memory ofour blighted love; I now must yield thee to thy happier lover, Yet oh, remember, thou art mine abnvcl 'Tis a sweet thought, and, when by distance parted, ’Twill lie upon our hearts, is holy spell; But the and tears beneath thy lids have started, And l—alas, we both are broken-hearted !

Dearas', firewell!

ntitratur

.1

B.

- (From the Lady’s Wreath.)

THE STRANGER’S G

RA VE.

“ She, lies afar in the forest deep,

Away from her native home,

By the wild-wood stream, in dreamloss sleep, She is resting still and lone."

On a fine morning in May, 18-— in which families emigrating were seen slowly flouting down the Ohio.

to the we

, two of those large boats

st descend our rivers, lluilt of rough

heavy timber, and intended to move only with the' current, those unwieldy vessels lay silent and motionless on the wave,

that bore them gently towards their destination.

At a Sllltlll

village—or rather at a spot intended to be occupied as such ‘the boats were brought to the shore and moored, and the

passengers began to mingle with the people, ad drawn to the landing place.

proceeding“ its station among the Os:

ed thus in the wilderness,

that awaited The place

the space ofa mile along the rive into the forest. logs, to which the bark still adh

of our travel

ly approachin

them in the

whom curiosity

It was a missionary family,

tge Indians, tbatlialt-

to receive a foretaste ofthe scenes distant forest.

at which they had stopped was a‘ level plain, ofrich alluvion, from which the timber had been cleared for

Iers_n specimen ofliumn‘ii

r, and nearly that depth A cluster of cabins, recently built, of rough ereil, presented to the eyes

cxistcnce more near-

g the rudeness ofsat'age life than anything they had yet seen. There was nothing

here to recall to me-

mory their own lovely homes—the beautiful villages ofNew England. There was no green spot, shaded with venerable trees, hallowed to the repose ofthe dead—no church, point-

ing its spire Here were

'noatne, and enjoyviients—no d

suckle bowe the village,

to a human

rank growth

dihg apart fi'oin each at

enclosures,

appeared:

to heaven, and Ofllll‘lng no rural embellishments,

r5,

being

of weeds.

But

people.

to those who had been accust

forts and many ofthe luxuries oflife,

new towns the hamlets

voices of the Pilgrims fir

had brought

in the ivest had once bee Were on the

them in safety out ol'thel

And yet the scene-was not destitiit

had done little to spoil, it ttlre had been prodigal stood on the bank, the.

miles above

surface as smooth as p lightly curved, swelling upon the other, bands. The liii

baa tiful.

lar, the elm,

trees, exhibited every

tremes.

gantie vegetation, gavp ol' the landscape, that i

teeter to the

scene, that lighted, and yras a strang

with, his 'God.

Such Were the‘fs on this gentle strca home; and their li'i rished relatives,

were going

with the savage

of her bountie and below them, rolling

out on the on melancholy

the maple, and the gum, variety of verdu

The luxuriant soil, while it loaded a depth and vividuess niparted a peculiar strength and cha-

_ _ But iftlie eye was charmed, there was a loveliness, a stillness,

scene. and a silence, rei touched the heart. ’

the quietness that soothe or here,

beyond the confines ofc

traversed, before they could reach the

labors, and t countryman,

hey felt and or the voice of a brother,

their way. Their spirits sunk, as they

less extent 0

f forest—gorgeous as it W

Va to the humblest cottage an and orchards, and ineadoWs,

elling that seemed to have been endeared by the name of house. lycleared, was thickly set with stumps,

as they really were, shores of the Atlantic, st ascended in prayer to Him who

iid nothing to embellish it, bitt

atid told the traveller

in his own wild woods. to the west, they

ing every day more faint— lages ruder and more dist

a holy refuge to the living.

indicating taste, and

omestic trees, no honev- nor any of those ornaments . and gi

ganco. Gardens, . none, nor any dw

which beautify air of ele- tbere were

The ground, new- nnd covered with a

The li'ail andunsigbtly cabins, stati- her, and destitute seemed to be, residence ofan unsettled

of out-houses and the temporary cheerless as this spot omed to all the com- it was such as all the ti; such, perhaps, as where the

and of persecution. e of attraction. A-rt nn-‘

8. As the travellers

y beheld the “ beautiful rivcr” for

gently along, with a

olisbed crystal. The shores wars

8 side, and receding

so as to exhibit a series afloat: and graceful

es of'tlieri-est were as various as they Were Here was the

trim and sombre leaf, on of snowy whiteness,

cypress, with a dark

d the tall sycamore, with a stem and a foliage ofliglit green- The pop-

with numerous other re between these ex- itself with a gi- to the coloring

going throughout this

he very beauties that de.

d, testified that man that lie was alone

clings ofthe Missionaries, as they gazed m, and its wild shoré. They had left their ends, their pious com; and the scenes oftbeir childhood, and they

anions, their che-

ivil society, to dwell

As they travelled

had seen the traces of civilization becom-

every day they had found the vil- aiit from each other—until at last

where the rifle

scene of their: future

to think how seldom the smile ofa

would cheer them on looked at the bound- as to; the eye, it was

_ existence. The bosom of the saint swelled with a holy joy

. our colonial operate.

still bill a blooming desert, containin‘g nothing to warm the heart or cherish the affections. Every object around them was strange, and they felt like exiles wandering far'lroni the land oftbcir birth. r . . .

These were trials, however, that had been anticipated; and it was easy to see, in the iiiournliil countenancesot these blunble clii‘istians, as they wandered along the shore, that a heavier visitation was pending over them than those which Were necessarilv incident to their situation. One of their companions, it beloved sister, was about to breathe her last sigh. The messenger of death luid arrested her in the Wil- derness; giving a solemn warning to those who journeyed with her, that although they had forsaken the haunts ofmen, thev had not eSCnped the casualities of human existence” Even here, where nature bloomed so fresh, where every surrounding object teemed with youth, and vigour, and im- grance, the messenger of fate could reach its Victim. Bound on a mission of love, and bearing the tidings oflife to 'tlionJ sands, yet they also born with them the evidence of their own mortality. Death was silently pursuing their footsteps; watching his'owu appointed tiine,‘to claim the tribute wluob all must pay to the iiisatiate king of terrors.

The situation ofthe dying missionary Was soon known to the villagers, and a few (if'tliein went to offer, in their own homely way, the offices of hospitality; but they came too late; the sufferer was too feeble to be removed, and the mourning strangers said that they needed nothing from hu- man kindness but a gravo for their companion. The Visitors were deeply affected. The death-bed exhibits at all times upoleinti and a touching scene, and though ol'dnilymccur- relics, its frequency does not destroy its fearful interest. There are few who reason coldly in the chamber ofdisso- lotion; and the imagination is easily excited by any inci— dental circumstance which brings an additional pang to the parting ofthe living and the dying. The present scene Was. ono of no ordinary interest. The stiflcrer was a young and delicate female. A husband watched over her pallet, and two lovely children, unconscious ofthe loss they were about to sustain. were with difficulty withheld from her embrace. ‘ The severing ofhcnrts \t'i-ilrlcd in love-rtlie parting ofa ino- tlicr from her iiiliint children—are events which the most callous cannot view without emotion; but on ordinary ocmt- sioiis there is it melancholy pleasure in tho reflection, that the survivors will often visit the grave ofthe deceased, to drop the unseen tear of affection. Even this mournful cou- i solution was now wanting: and those who sorrowcd, lelt' that when the soul ol'tlicir friend should have departed, tli,:y must abandon her earthly remains. retainiiig'no relic of her whom they had dearly loved. Her tomb would he on the wild shore, where no kindred ashes slept, and where they who dwelt near the spot, could only point it out as a stran- ger’s grave.

The solemn moment liad‘rtrrivcd when none affected to doubt the truth which was too evident, or sought to detain the spirit in its earthly abode. That spirit'bad begun to as- sume its celestial character, and was already invested, in the eyes ofthe lit-holders, with the attributes ofa brighter exis- tence. An angel seemed- to be lingering among men, as if unwilling to sever too rudely the cords of afl‘ection, with which she had been united to human beings. She spoke little; but her words shelved that her thoughts partook of the change she was about to undergo. Her affections alter— nately lingered on the earth, and soared towards a hetter

- but the heart ofthe wife and mother clung to the dearly cherished objects ofits purest and strongest earthly passion.

The mission family embraced a number ofpershns ofbotb sexes, and it was gratifying to see in their daportment, how efficient is religion in the hour of sorrow. Though deeply afflicted, there was a decent composure, a quiet humility, and an entire rcsignntion, in all their words and actions. They spoke not ofdeiitli as the loathsome companion of dis- ease, or the precursor of corruption, but as the natural con- summation ofall earthly being. ’l‘liey sorrowed not for her who was going' to a better world. but for those who remain- ed. Their voices were firni and cheerful—and even the timid soul ivns fluttering in the hope and fear, and joy and- sorrow, of the dying moment, acquiring calmnessfrom the serenity ofotliers. . /

Such was the day. Evening crime, and the slifi'ercr still ived. Prayer and hymn were heard at intervals through- out tlie night, but all else was silent; and at a lntclionr they who cast a look at the shore behold a dim light still enta- nating from the chamber ofdeathmml appearing as a bright speck in the surrounding gloom—like the lingering soul whose feeble radiance still glcained in the dark “valley of the shadow ofdcatli.” '

The following day was the Sabbath. At the dawn, the villagers hastened to the boats. The missionaries were al- ready eiigagcd at tlicir morning devotions. The voice of prayer Was heard ascending through tlie~stillness of that quiet hour. The accciits were low and trembling, lint dis- tinctly audible. The speaker alluded to her whose spirit had gone to the mansions ofthe blessed, and prayed for the bereaved husband and tho orphan children; and the villa-' gcrs then knew thiitslie in whose fnte they had felt so deep- ly interested, suffered no longer. After a moment’s pause, the notes ol sacred song were heard floating overthe tide— so sweet, so niournlul, that every heart was touched, and every eye moistened. v - At sunset the same dat‘, the remains ofthe stranger were borne to the place ofbtiriiil, bylier latel companions, followed by the inhabitants ofthe village. A large lndiati niotind in ‘ the rear oftiie town, lltttl been selected, as the only spot not subject to inundation. The grave was opened on the summit of this eminence, and here was the liodv of a christian female deposited among the relics ofhcntben war- riors. The inhabitants, andhtbe mission family, stood around, with their heads rcvercntly uncovered, while the whole coni- pany joined, chanting with solemn fervor, as il'a flood of devotional feeling bud burst spontaneoust from cvcrv bo- som'at the same instant-and wbcu they all knelt llpO‘U the mound, it was not from any signal or invttalio‘n given by man, bttt God touched their hearts, and as the song ofpraise ceased, they all involuntarily prostrated themselves belore His throne. .‘ v

\Vhen the people rose, and the ofliciating minister had dismissed them with the usual benediction, tlic widowcil husband stepped forward, leudiiigoue ofbis children in each hand. For it iniomcnt liu stood by the newly filled grave, gazmg oti it With an agony, which he strove in vain to sub- due. In a broken voice be thanked the people of the villnne lbr their kindness, and committed the remains ofbis wifelio their protection. l-le bogged them to mark and remember the place ofiiiteruient, in order that “ il hereafter a stranger in passing through their village should ask them for the grave of Maria —, they could lead him to the spot.”

THE WIDOW'S LAST TRIAL.

—_

A TRUE STORY—BY MRS. N. SARGBNT.

“ He was the only son qfhis mother, and she a widow.” “ And to-morrow you are to be taken

into the firm as a partner.” This

_ ‘ . was uttered by an aged female, who was sitting With one ofher withered hands clasped in that of her son’s, a young man of two and twenty, who sat looking in her face, with eyes beaming with affectionate interest.

“ This ftilly repays me, my beloved son, for all 1 have suf- lercd.”

For a moment the son’s fcatur sorrow: he thought what that suffering had been—ofthe years long past, when the mother now sitting beside him, so beloved, had submitted to toil and privation, eiiduriiw all this for his sake ; his eye glistened with tears, till brushiiig them away hastily, asmile broke over his countenance.

“ I‘rue, mother,” he said; “ but let these recollections be forgotten now. The memory of the past we will bury in ObllVIOI'l, and think only ofthe days to come.”

“ But you will not allow present prosperity to harden your heart, William; you will not let your good fortune make you high-minded, and forget him who has been a friend in the hour oftrouble.” “No, mother, I will not forget that 1 am the child of God: yet should temptation assail nie, I have only to think ofyour

es appeared clouded with

precept and example, and tlieywould always deter tne from

doing wrong. But think, mother,”‘be continued, a brigli

t

gleam lighting up every feature, “how happy _l shall in being enabled to place you in the sphere of life to which your virtues entitle you. lfyou knew how often busy fancy has pictured this hour—how often 1 have dwelt tipon the idea of one day being able to place you in a home equal to your merit,‘you would not wonder that now, when I see my wishes on the eve of'accomplishiiient, it should thus subdue me”. ‘

“Nor do l—nor do I. my eon,"ihe mother said, with tear- ful eycs; “ but you think more favm-ably, my boy, ofyour aged mother than she deserves. I doubt not many will think and say the old woman has now more than she merits; and‘really, though I am proud of your advancement, I should not murmur at never having a more comfortable home than the present one you have provided me.” . ‘ .

The night was pitcby dark, not a star being Visible, while the wind, blowing in fitful gusts, portended a storm of‘un- usual violence.

fl" 'willOea stormy night, I fear,” said the young man, rising and going towards the door, to look out. _“ I‘he river is already swollen, and if‘tlie rain falls as it did the other evening, I feat" much damage will ensue: 'You penrd of the poor fellow drowned in the canal last evening ?’ ' I

“Yes,” the mother replied. “I hope he had friends to care for him. ’Tis a dreadful death to die,” she added, mus- ingly. ' . ' .

I “They say not,” said William; “many who have encoun- tered ii,assart that the being brought to is the most painful part to endure.” V

“I! may be so,” the mother answered ;’“ but 1 ferVeittly trust no one door tome may everbe submitted to the expe- riment.” '

A vivid flush ofliglituing, followed by the low rumbling thunder, caused William now to retire, and‘observniglagam that the river would be very bigli, be closed the door.

Tim mother of William had been left a widow while he was in his second year. But, by dint of hard labour,-slie had managed to keep her boy at school until be had arrived in, his fifteenth year, when she obtained a situation for him I with a merchant residing at the flourishing town of Roches- ter, in, the State ol'Ne'w York. \Villiain’s good conduct and. steady application to business, won the favourite opinion ol biscuiployi-r. The merchant was a man of great lNJ'IItEVO- lencc; he could appreciate merit in whatever station it was; to be met; and when he saw the lad supporting an aged‘ mother on his earnings, never mingling with the low and vicious, and practising a fidelity to. business unusual in one so young, it was impossible to avoid feeling an involuntary respect for his character. William was aware ofthe mer- chant’s kindness; he knew that his salary exceeded that given to other boys; still he never presumed on the iner- chntit’s disinterestediiess, but was alike respectful to his em- ployer and his, customers. On the day in which he was introduced to the reader’s notice, he had been offered a share in the merchant’s lucrative business. '

Never had his brightest vision pictured such a result; blit even then, when it would have been more natural to suppose him greatly eluted by his good fortune, he thought only of his mother; and while his expresstons of gratitude were poured in eloquent language into the ear ofhis benefactor, there wasn mingling of thanks that she would be reaper of his iiiiexuinpled kindness.

'I‘o-morrow ? Who may boast ofto-morrow ? "

The widow and her son parted from each other with hap- piness bright in the perspective. The storm_ of the preced- ing evening had been succeeded by a morning of unusual mildness for the season, for it was the middle of_Jaiiuary; and telling his mother he would not ‘return to dinner, but that she would see him early in the evening. William bade lier farewell.