seized the booty, which they had been all this while contending for, and carried it off.

The two combatants, who lay and beheld all this, without having strength enough to stir and prevent it, were only wise enough to make this reflection: "Behold the fruits of our strife and contention! That villain, the Fox bears away the prize; and we ourselves have deprived each other of the power to recover it of him."

MORAL.

When fools quarrel, knaves get the prize of contention.

AN EXTRACT.

Down by yon hazel copse, at evening, blazed
The Gypsy's fagot there we stood and gazed;
Gazed on her sun-burnt face with silent awe,
Her tatter'd mantle, and her hood of straw;
Her moving hips, her cauldron brimming o'er;
The drowsy brood that on her back she bore;
Imps, in the barn with mousing owlet bred,
From rifled roost at nightly revel fed;

Whose dark eyes flash'd through locks of blackest shade,
When in the breeze the distant watch-dog bay'd:

And heroes fled the Sibyl's mutter'd call,

Whose elfin prowess scaled the orchard-wall.

As o'er my palm the silver piece she drew,

And traced the line of life with searching view,

How throbb'd my fluttering pulse with hopes and fears
To learn the color of my future years

THE CORAL GROVE.

DEEP in the wave is a coral grove,
Where the purple mullet, and gold-fish rove,
Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue,
That never are wet with falling dew,
But in bright and changeful beauty shine,
Far down in the green and glassy brine.
The floor is of sand, like the mountain drift,
And the pearl shells spangle the flinty snow
From coral rocks the sea plants lift

;

Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow; The water is calm and still below,

For the winds and waves are absent there,
And the sands are bright as the stars that glow
In the motionless fields of upper air;
There with its waving blade of green,

The sea-flag streams through the silent water,
And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen

To blush, like a banner bathed in slaughter: There with a light and easy motion,

The fan-coral sweeps through the clear deep sea And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean

Are bending like corn on the upland lea.
And life, in rare and beautiful form,

Is sporting amid those bowers of stone,
And is safe, when the wrathful spirit of storms,
Has made the top of the waves his own:
And when the ship from his fury flies,

Where the myriad voices of ocean roar,
When the wind-god frowns in the murky skies,
And demons are waiting the wreck on shore;
Then far below in the peaceful sea,

The purple mullet, and gold-fish rove, Where the waters murmur tranquilly,

Through the bending twigs of the coral grove.

SORROW.

SORROW is uneasiness in the mind, upon the thought of a good lost, which might have been enjoyed longer; or the sense of a present evil. The sharpest and most melting sorrow is that which arises from the loss of those whom we have loved with tenderness.

The safe and general antidote against sorrow is employWhoever will keep his thoughts continually busy, will find himself less affected with irretrievable losses.

ment.

Sorrow is a kind of rust to the soul, which every new idea contributes to scour away. It is the putrefaction of stagnant life, and is remedied by exercise and motion.

Truths! hardly earned and lately brought

From many a far forgotten scene!

Had I but listened as I ought,

To your words sage, sèrene,

Oh! what might I not have been
In the realms of thought!

THE WOUNDED HUSSAR.

ALONE to the banks of the dark-rolling Danube,
Fair Adelaide hied when the battle was o'er:
Oh, whither, she cried, hast thou wander'd, my true love,
Or here dost thou welter and bleed on the shore?
What voice have I heard? 't was my Henry that sigh'd;
All mournful she hasten'd, nor wander'd she far,

When bleeding and low, on the heath, she descried,
By the light of the moon, her poor wounded Hussar.

From his bosom that heaved, the last torrent was streaming,
And pale was his visage, deep mark'd with a scar,
And dim was that eye, once expressively beaming,
That melted in love, and that kindled in war—
How smit was poor Adelaide's heart at the sight!
How bitter she wept o'er the victim of war!

Hast thou come, my fond love, this last sorrowful night,
To cheer the lone heart of thy wounded Hussar ?

Thou shalt live, she replied, heaven's mercy relieving
Each anguishing wound, shall forbid me to mourn.
Ah! no, the last pang in my bosom is heaving;
No light of the morn shall to Henry return:
Thou charmer of life, ever tender and true!

Ye babes of my love, that await me afar!

His faltering tongue, could scarce murmur, adieu!
When he sank in her arms, the poor wounded Hussar.

NONE ARE COMPLETELY HAPPY.

So many and so various are the evils incident to human nature, and so frequently are our greatest earthly comforts dashed with alloys of pain and uneasiness, that no state of life, whether of youth or age, of riches or poverty, of grandeur or meanness, is exempt from difficulties and troubles. To hope for perfect happiness is vain; Even joy has ever its alloys of pain.

Since then, an entire and unmixed happiness is not to be expected in our present state, let us not be too sanguine in our wishes to find it here, but place our happiness on things above, and on that state which approaches nearest to it; which is doing our duty in whatever station God has pleased to place us.

THE GARDEN OF EDEN.

THUS was this place

A happy rural seat of various view;

Groves whose rich trees wept odorous gums and balm,
Others whose fruit, burnish'd with golden rind,

Hung amiable, Hesperian fables true,

If true, here only, and of delicious taste!
Betwixt them, lawns, or level downs, and flocks
Grazing the tender herb, were interposed,

Or palmy hillock; or the flowery lap

Of some irriguous valley spread her store,
Flowers of all hue, and without thorn the rose!
Another side, umbrageous grots and caves
Of cool recess, o'er which the mantling vine
Lays forth her purple grape, and gently creeps
Luxuriant; meanwhile murmuring waters fall
Down the slope hills, dispersed, or in a lake,