We are pleased to find that Ariel has “replumed his ruffled wing," and has renewed to us his “angel visits" which we hope for the future will neither be "few nor far between." He appeared on Wednesday morn-curricle' or a wheel barrow. And yet they ing at the window of our ark, with the Olive branch of peace, and so we put forth our hand and took him in.

There is a splendour in man's glowing youth
When his bosom is pure, and his language is truth,
When his thoughts look forth from his beaming eye,
And his soul is breathed in his ardent sigh;
E'er his lip, the circean bowl hath prest-

Or remorse strewn her thorns o'er the couch of his rest;
When his arm is strong in his country's cause,

And his voice is high in defence of her laws-
Or when with holy zeal at the shrine
Of religion, he sues for grace divine,
Raising his soul in fervent prayer,

Exploring those worlds where angels are-
Then heaven's own light illumes his eye,
And brightens his path to his native sky.

In the busy scenes of commercial life,
Or the fearless war of political strife,
He engages with all that ardour of soul

Which nothing but death has power to controul;
Yet when in the shade of the twilight bower,

In nature's soft reclining hour,

He breathes in the youthful maiden's ear

His hopes, and his vows, with a soul sincere

His eye is as mild as the evening sky,

And his voice is as soft as the zephyrs' sigh.
E'en his gay song in the festive hall,

Or his bounding foot at the airy ball,

The flash of his wit, and his laugh of glee,

When his thoughts are light and his bosom is free-
Have each a charm, with which the heart

Of feeling heaves a sigh to part!

But there is a glory in man's decline,

Like the lights which expire on a sacred shrine
When the chant is breathed, and the right is past,
And the languid flame is fading fast-
His parting hour is as calm and as bright,

As the splendour that borders the mantle of night;
Like the sun, when he sinks in the glowing west,
While his radiance illumines the ocean's breast,
When the halo of glory that circles his brow
Is all that is left of the hero now,

When the bosom that throbbed at freedom's call,
Or the voice that was heard in the senate hall,
Is calm and still as the hour that is given
To fit his soul for the peace of heaven.
E'en he who explored the page of truth,
To rob disease of her venomous tooth,

That hand which arrested the shafts of death-
The skill which prolonged the quivering breath
Is powerless, his own bright form to save

From the grasp of disease-from the blight of the grave !
Yet there's a charm-a nameless grace,

That hovers o'er his tintless face,

When his dark hair lies on his pale cold brow,
Like the shade of the yew on the mountain snow,
When his smile is soft, and his eye is resigned,
And his voice breathes the peace of his tranquil mind,
When all that was bright and all that was gay
Like the rainbow's hues are passing away.

There is even brightness in man's decay,
For his eye beams forth an unearthly ray;
It glows with the triumphs and joys that are past,
While it speaks of the peace he hopes for at last-
When the being he loves shall close his eyes,
And share with heaven his parting sighs;
O, then his pure soul, from regions above,
Shall revisit the scenes of his earthly love-
And when the hour of her final doom
Consigns her to the same cold tomb,
His hovering form shall await her there,
With a lover's smile, and an angel's care:

And their spirits shall rise from this orb of clay
And wing their flight to eternal day.

WANDERINGS.

BY F. S. HILL, ESQ.

Oh, had my lonely spirit pinions swift,
To soar through yon ethereal space, beyond
The reach of mortal view! Then would I leave
This cheerless region, and afar would seek
That world, where sorrow never dims the eye,
Where memory glances o'er the scenes behind,
And sees around them rainbow hues of joy-
Where o'er the Future, a thin veil is drawn,
Through which mild pleasure beams, inviting on
The spirit, to enjoy a heavenly rest.

Familiar, wearied in the scenes of earth,

Imagination loves to seek that land

Whose scenes are bright with loveliness, and where
Whatever meets the eye, is holy, fair,

And smiling in such purity, as once

Dwelt in the bowers of Paradise. Around,

Rise verdant mountains, o'er whose living green
Full many a rill in sparkling gladness flows.

Above, celestial beauty sits enthron'd

Amid bright clouds with purple brilliance ting'd,
Or in dim twilight, other orbs look forth
In vestal beauty from their lofty seats,

AUGUSTA.

And linger in the west, and seem to shine
With new effulgence, as their parting ray
They shed, then hasten on their course.
Rich perfume breathes in every gale, and near,
Embosom'd in the grove's luxuriance,
The crystal mirror of the lake appears,
Where forest, mountain, rock suspended seem.
Beneath, the coral grows, and spreads its branch,
Encircling round the Naiad's cold retreat.
The floating clouds seem rich with melody,
And music swells from unseen harps and flutes,
Filling the soul with inspiration sweet;
And then it holds communion with the Source
Of harmony and love-it whispers low
The notes of adoration, and delights

In his own temple, at His shrine to bend.

There would my soul inhale the calm delight
Which hovers round that blessed land, as soft
As overhanging clouds at noontide hour,
When upon Summer's bosom, Nature rests.

MEMORY.

BY W. LEGGETT, ESQ.

When memory paints with pencil true
The scenes where youth delighted roved,
She throws o'er none so sweet a hue
As robes the home of her I lov'd.

Each tree, each flower, that flourish'd there,
In former beauty seems to wave;

I seem to breathe my native air,

Mid friends who're sleeping in the grave.

But soon these shades of joy depart
And present sorrows start to view-
Memory, like Hope, still mocks the heart
With visions sweet-but fleeting too!

But Faith points out your radiant heaven,
And bids the mourner not despair;
Whispering, "afflictions are but given,
"Liks angel-wings to waft you there!"

LIGHTS AND SHADES.

The gloomiest day hath gleams of light;
The darkest wave hath bright foam near it;
And twinkles through the cloudiest night
Some solitary star to cheer it.

The gloomiest soul is not all gloom;

The sadest heart is not all sadness;

And sweetly o'er the darkest doom

There shines some lingering beam of gladness.

Despair is never quite despair;

Nor life, nor death, the future closes;

And round the shadowy brow of Care,

Will Hope and Fancy twine their roses.

VOL. I.

BOSTON.....SATURDAY.....NOV. 29, 1828.

No. 48.

ORIGINAL SKETCHES....... NO. VII.

INGRATITUDE.-(A true story.)
[CONCLUDED.]

ALTHOUGH Ellen felt gratified at the observed respecting her conduct. liberality which her lover evinced, in thus placing her where she might advantageously pursue those studies which as yet, she had only commenced and although she was pleased with the delicacy which had suggested to him the propriety of her being accompanied to her new situation by a female of respectability, still, she felt deeply mortified to learn that his family, who had now removed to their residence in the city, declined her introduction to them, until the year which was the term allotted for her tuition, should expire. In vain Jones urged them to see her, but could obtain no other favour than the offer of an old maid aunt, who had always resided in his family, to accompany Ellen to the academy and converse with her instructors relative to her future studies, and the rules which she deemed it necessary should be VOL. 1.

To do Ellen justice, she sedulously improved every moment of her time, and her progress, particularly in the lighter branches, was remarked with pleasure by her instructors; these accomplishments joined to the superior graces of her person, soon obtained for her here, as in her native village, the admiration of all who beheld her. Conscious of her attractions, her love of Albert lessened not her ambition for conquest, and as she listened to the voice of flattery, she vainly imagined that all the praises she heard, and the benefits she received were but just tributes to her superior beauty, and had no doubt but any one of her admirers would under similar circumstances have been as liberal as the man to whom her faith was given. Under these impressions, her gratitude for the generosity of Albert soon diminished, and although her

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