Haply, some hoary-headed swain may say,
"Oft have we seen him, at the peep of dawn,
Brushing, with hasty steps, the dews away,

To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.
"There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech,
That wreathes its old, fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
"Hard by yon wood, now smiling, as in scorn,
Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove;
Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn,

Or crazed with care, or crossed with hopeless love.

"One morn I missed him on th' accustomed hill, Along the heath, and near his favorite tree; Another came,— nor yet beside the rill,

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

"The next, with dirges due, in sad array,

Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne ;Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."

EPITAPH.

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth,

A youth to fortune and to fame unknown; Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth, And Melancholy marked him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ; Heaven did a recompense as largely send : He gave to misery all he had, - a tear;

He gained from Heaven - 'twas all he wished No farther seek his merits to disclose,

Nor draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they, alike, in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God.

- a friend.

Into what dreary mazes will they wander,
What dangers will they meet?

Will they go stumbling blindly in the darkness
Of Sorrow's tearful shades?

Or find the upland slopes of Peace and Beauty
Whose sunlight never fades?

Will they go toiling up Ambition's summit,
The common world above?

Or in some nameless vale securely sheltered,
Walk side by side in Love?

Some feet there be, which walk Life's track unwounded,
Which find but pleasant ways;

Some hearts there be, to which this life is only
A round of happy days.

But they are few. Far more there are who wander
Without a hope or friend

Who find their journey full of pains and losses,
And long to reach the end!

How shall it be with her, the tender stranger,
Fair-faced and gentle-eyed,

Before whose unstained feet the world's rude highway
Stretches so strange and wide?

Ah! who may read the future? For our darling

We crave all blessings sweet-
And pray that He, who feeds the crying ravens,
Will guide the baby's feet.

THE WANTS OF MAN.

BY JOHN QUINCY ADAMS.

N 1841, a Washington correspondent of the Albany Evening Journal, writing of the distinguished individuals then in Washington, says:

"John Quincy Adams is one of the intellectual prodigies whose characters distinguish eras of time. An hundred years hence I doubt whether the American annals will show more than two names-Benjamin Franklin and George Washington-brighter than that of John Quincy Adams.

"Mr. Adams is now seventy-four years old. But years have made no impression upon his intellect. That is still fresh and vigorous. He is, as has been so frequently stated, always in his seat; always watching the course of business, and always ready to shed light upon the question before the House.

"The Hon. Mr. Morgan, whose seat is near to that of Mr. Adams, has obtained for me, with permission to publish in the Journal, a copy of the poem which I enclose. It was written in July, 1840, under these circumstances: — General Ogle informed Mr. Adams that several young ladies in his district had requested him to obtain Mr. A.'s autograph for them. In accordance with this request, Mr. Adams wrote the following poem upon The Wants of Man' each stanza upon a sheet of note paper. What American young lady would not set a precious value upon such an autograph from this illustrious statesman?"

THE WANTS OF MAN.

"Man wants but little here below, Nor wants that little long." -Goldsmith's Hermit.

I.

AN wants but little here below,

Nor wants that little long."
'Tis not, with me exactly so;
But 'tis so in the song.
My wants are many, and, if told,
Would muster many a score;

And were each wish a mint of gold,

I still should long for more.

II.

What first I want is daily bread,

And canvas -backs, and wine; And all the realms of nature spread

Before me, when I dine.

Four courses scarcely can provide,

My appetite to quell;

With four choice cooks from France, beside,

To dress my dinner well.

III.

What next I want, at princely cost,

Is elegant attire ;

Black sable furs for winter's frost,

And silks for summer's fire,

And Cashmere shawls, and Brussels lace, My bosom's front to deck,

And diamond rings my hands to grace, And rubies for my neck.

IV.

And then I want a mansion fair,

A dwelling-house in style, Four stories high, for wholesome air, A massive marble pile; With halls for banquets, and for balls, All furnished rich and fine; With stabled studs in fifty stalls, And ceHars for my wine.

V.

I want a garden, and a park,
My dwelling to surround,

A thousand acres (bless the mark!)

With walls encompass'd round,

Where flocks may range and herds may low,

And kids and lambkins play,

And flowers and fruit commingl'd grow
All Eden to display.

VI.

I want, when summer's foliage falls, And autumn strips the trees,

A house, within the city's walls,

For comfort and for ease

But here, as space is somewhat scant,

And acres rather rare,

My house in town, I only want,

То оссиру- - a square.

VII.

I want a steward, butler, cooks,
A coachman, footman, grooms;

I want a library of well-bound books,
And picture-garnished rooms,
Correggio's Magdalen and Night,
The Matron of the Chair;
Guido's fleet coursers in their flight,
And Claudes, at least a pair.

VIII.

Ay! and, to stamp my form and face
Upon the solid rock,

I want, their lineaments to trace,
Carrara's milk-white block,

And let the chisel's art sublime,
By Greenough's hand, display,
Through all the range of future time,
My features to the day.

XXI.

I want the genius to conceive,

The talents to unfold, Designs, the vicious to retrieve, The virtuous to uphold. Inventive power, combining skill;

A persevering soul,

Of human hearts to mold the will,

And reach from pole to pole.

XXII.

I want the seals of power and place,

The ensigns of command;

Charged by the People's unbought grace,

To rule my native land –

Nor crown, nor scepter would I ask,

But from my country's will,

By day, by night, to ply the task,
Her cup of bliss to fill.

XXIII.

I want the voice of honest praise,
To follow me behind;

And to be thought, in future days,
The friend of human-kind,
That after ages, as they rise,
Exulting may proclaim,

In choral union, to the skies,
Their blessings on my name.

XXIV.

These are the wants of mortal man,

I cannot want them long-
For life itself is but a span,
And earthly bliss a song.

My last great want, absorbing all,
Is, when beneath the sod,
And summon'd to my final call,
The mercy of my God.

WORDS FOR PARTING.

BY MARY CLEMMER AMES.

WHAT shall I do, my dear,

In the coming years, I wonder, When our paths, which lie so sweetly near, Shall lie so far asunder!

O, what shall I do, my dear,

Through all the sad to-morrows,

When the sunny smile has ceased to cheer, That smiles away all sorrows!

What shall I do, my friend,

When you are gone forever?

My heart its eager need will send, Through the years to find you, never. And how will it be with you,

In the weary world, I wonder? Will you love me with a love as true, When our paths lie far asunder?

A sweeter, sadder thing,

My life for having known you; Forever, with my sacred kin,

My soul's soul, I must own you;
Forever mine, my friend,

From June till life's December;
Not mine to have and hold,
Mine to pray for, and remember.

The way is short, my friend,

That reaches out before us;
God's tender heavens above us bend,

His love is smiling o'er us.

A little while is ours,

For sorrow or for laughter;

I'll lay the hand you love in yours,

On the shore of the hereafter.

THE EVENING BELLS.

BY THOMAS MOORE.

HOSE evening bells, those evening bells!
How many a tale their music tells
Of youth, and home, and native clime,
When I last heard their soothing chime.

Those pleasant hours have passed away,
And many a heart that then was gay,
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those evening bells.
And so it will be when I am gone;
That tuneful peal will still ring on,
When other bards shall walk these dells
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells.

THE SCULPTOR BOY. HISEL in hand stood a sculptor boy,

With his marble block before him :And his face lit up with a smile of joy

As an angel dream passed o'er him. He carved that dream on the yielding stone With many a sharp incision;

In Heaven's own light the sculptor shone, He had caught that angel vision. Sculptors of life are we, as we stand,

With our lives uncarved before us; Waiting the hour when, at God's command, Our life dream passes o'er us.

Let us carve it then on the yielding stone,
With many a sharp incision:-

Its heavenly beauty shall be our own—
Our lives, that angel vision.

THE CLOSING SCENE.

BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

ITHIN the sober realm of leafless trees,

The russet year inhaled the dreamy air;
Like some tanned reaper, in his hour of ease,
When all the fields are lying brown and bare.
The gray barns looking from their hazy hills,
O'er the dun waters widening in the vales,
Sent down the air a greeting to the mills,
On the dull thunder of alternate flails.

All sights were mellowed and all sounds subdued,
The hills seemed further, and the stream sang low,
As in a dream the distant woodman hewed
His winter log with many a muffled blow.
The embattled forests, erewhile armed with gold,
Their banners bright with every martial hue,
Now stood like some sad, beaten host of old,
Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest blue.

On sombre wings the vulture tried his flight;

The dove scarce heard his sighing mate's complaint; And, like a star slow drowning in the light,

The village church vane seemed to pale and faint.

The sentinel cock upon the hill-side crew

Crew thrice and all was stiller than before; Silent till some replying warden blew

His alien horn, and then was heard no more.

Where erst the jay, within the elm's tall crest,
Made garrulous trouble round her unfledged young;
And where the oriole hung her swaying nest,

By every light wind, like a censer, swung.
Where sang the noisy martins of the eves,
The busy swallows circling ever near —
Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes,

An early harvest and a plenteous year;

Where every bird, that waked the vernal feast,
Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn,

To warn the reaper of the rosy east ;

All now was sunless, empty, and forlorn.

Amid all this, the center of the scene,

The white-haired matron, with monotonous tread,
Plied the swift wheel, and, with her joyless mien,
Sate like a fate, and watched the flying thread.
She had known sorrow. He had walked with her,

Oft supped, and broke with her the ashen crust,
And in the dead leaves still, she heard the stir,
Of his thick mantle trailing in the dust.

While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom,
Her country summoned and she gave her all;
And twice war bowed to her his sable plume-
Re-gave the sword to rust upon the wall.

Re-gave the sword but not the hand that drew,
And struck for liberty the dying blow;
Nor him who, to his sire and country true
Fell 'mid the ranks of the invading foe.
Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on,
Like the low murmur of a hive at noon;
Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone

Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous tune.

At last the thread was snapped - her head was bowed; Life dropped the distaff through her hands serene; And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud, While death and winter closed the autumn scene.

LOVE LIGHTENS LABOR.

GOOD wife rose from her bed one morn,
And thought, with a nervous dread,
Of the pile of clothes to be washed, and more
Than a dozen mouths to be fed.

There's the meals to get for the men in the field,
And the children to fix away

To school, and the milk to be skimmed and churned;
And all to be done this day.

It had rained in the night, and all the wood

Was wet as it could be;

There were puddings and pies to bake, besides

A loaf of cake for tea;

And the day was hot, and her aching head, Throbbed wearily as she said:

"If maidens but knew what good wives know, They would be in no haste to wed!"

"Jennie, what do you think I told Ben Brown?"
Called the farmer from the well;
And a flush crept up to his bronzed brow,
And his eyes half bashfully fell,

"It was this," he said- and coming near,
He kiss'd from her brow the frown;
"'T was this," he said, "that you were the best,
And the dearest wife in town."