A J 
r Writ mu for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
THE FIRST LOVE. 
uy jank k. higby. 
How fast the sands of time have run 
Hi life’s deceitful ^lass; 
How much the changing years have done 
For Wii.mk and his lav. 
It seemeth only yesterday 
Our youthful hearts were met 
In Love's embrace, that is to-day 
Nothing hut fond regret. 
And hopes, and fears, and sorrow's tears, 
With dull, corroding care, 
Have follow’d all the fleeting yean 
That left them treasure there. 
The wreath (hat fancy lov’d to twine 
Upon my brow, is set, 
And other cherish'd loves are mine, 
Hut that one dri anieth yet 
In visions of the stilly night 
I meet that form again. 
And earth hath not a joy more bright 
Than is my blessing then. 
But day-dreams lure my spirit hack 
The old familial way, 
To find hU footsteps in the track, 
And hitter tears will stray. 
A widely sever'd path it is 
1 hat we are treading yetj 
And, though 1 never would be his, 
I cannot quite forget. 
Piffard, N. Y., 1861 . 
» - 
["Written lor Moore's Rural New-Yorker, j 
LITTLENESS. 
It Is one of my idiosyncrasies to have a particular 
Am y for objects that are diminutive; delicacy of 
proportion being, iu my eye, almost a accessary 
attribute of beauty. Scenes and objects which arc 
extensive or colossal, may be described as sublime 
magnificent, and majestic; but, to sue), things as 
bave a Itihpntmn charm about them, the words beau- 
triul and lovely are most apropos. Wo admire the 
iris-tinted humming-bird, no more on account of the 
beauty of its plumage, than for its bewitching tluni- 
ness,—and so with nil things of similar delicacy. 
But, leaving this rather metaphysical side of my 
Bubject to wiser heads, 1 will proceed to enumerate a 
few of my favorites iu the charmed circle of little 
things premising, however, right here, that every 
general rule has exceptions, and that, in consequence 
ieie are some little creations in nature and art for 
which I have little affinity. And first among mv 
ikes, I like Unit ladies, partly, perhaps, because 'l 
JOlong to that class myself, and, very strangely, think 
a good deal of myself. Be that as it may however, 
,, f ™nf.r,ued my opinion, by recalling the 
ang.mge which devoted husbands use in speaking of 
the.r better halves. They always speak of them as 1 
I. Lincoln did Of his not long since, as "the tittle 1 
woman down the street,'* or " the dear little bird at f 
home, though, for all we know, their wives and his 1 
arc live ieet nine at the minimum. a 
I have also a decided penchant for little hands as !i 
part and parcel of the aforesaid little ladies-not 11 
quite so small but as soft and white as snow-flakes. a 
! J hundM ' 1 mt ' an ' tw look Ut, for I believe large fl 
meso^dTi r f “'- At ,WM * !»****« tells w 
^ nut'll f! T a K00d <1,;ul more sense 
about it than my fancies have. Yes, now I think of 
i , am certain I have been acquainted with some 
dear pams 0 f hands that have grown large and brown 
in toiling for a husband’s comfort, or a child’s happi¬ 
ness. To be sure, they are not so pretty to look at, w 
but ! respect them infinitely more than 1 do those U 
wh.te and jewelled little hands of the young lady la 
who reads romances in the parlor, while her mother “ 
is making pies in the kitchen- it 
Next in my list come little feet, if I may be par . Gi 
doned for introducing such a word to the fastidious ou 
ears of a refined public. Really, i shouldn’t have an, 
ventured it, if 1 had not thought of those pretty lines cm 
of the poet: 
| when 1 was a wee child; but many an other thing 
» that looked like living ever so much longer, is gone” 
- Tfie butter-cups remind me of my tiny sister Annie. 
She used to gather these golden flowers, and in her 
infantile glee, tear the shining bits apart and scatter 
them to the winds. They were such frail things, I 
thought, But they come now just as they did then, 
while Annie, the darling, is forever gone. In the 
mornings of every year, for more than a -core, these 
frail blossoms have opened their eyes above her nar¬ 
row grave, but her soft eyes open not. 1 gather a 
cluster of these yellow blooms every summer and 
when they fade, 1 think of Annie. Perhaps 'i atu 
wandering from my text in speaking of her. but 
Annie whs a little thing, -onlyfour when she died,— 
ami writing of little things makes me remember her 
Wow they grow in heaven 1 know not, but to me’ 
sweet Annie comes in dreams, as a little angel, with 
j little bird-like wings, and a crown deftly wrought 
but tiny as ust.tr. J cannot think her large. 
But in accordance with my premises, 1 want to I 
tell you of a thing or two of little size which I do 
not like, a nd never will. | 
One is a little clumpy man. Certainly no one is 1 
amenable for his size; but I do believe I should he nn j 
reconciled to my lot If I were a man, and little at that 
1 know some little men are talented, - some regular 
LiUiputs 1 have seen who were wondrously eloquent- 
but even in their highest flights of graceful oratory I 
have always caught myself thinking, if not saying. 
"Ah me, whut a pity Nature didn’t clap an inch or 
two more on the top of your heads.’’ No, I’m cer¬ 
tain nothing would persuade me to marry a little man. 
Next in ray catalogue come little canes, little 
dandy caues, such as those elegant gentlemen carry 
to keep company for a conspicuous watch-chain and 
ornamented opera-glass. They think, these exquis¬ 
ites, that the ladies admire them for these embellish¬ 
ments; but they don’t,—at least, common sense ones 
like me, don’t. A good, honest enno, large enough to 
tr “ Ki u, ‘ in,irra ,,ld gentleman down the street, shows 
lf that it is made for some good purpose; but these 
y l,ilult - v> Polled, delicate little canes, are made for 
fl noth,,1 g. M 1 can see, but to aid a young mau in 
, making a fool of himself. 
* 0nt ‘ or two th '"K« more, Mr. Type-Setter, and I’ll 
. spare you. Don’t you hate these little box stoves 
, that you come across now and then ? If you don’t, I 
» d0, An,] thifl is w| iy 1 "nee spent a cold winter with 
. a very economical family, who provided me with a 
little stove, not much bigger than a mouse-trap, and 
under Madam Economy’s supervision, it proved a 
very saving piece of furniture. For, us little sticks 
of wood are a necessary concomitant of similar sized 
stoves, and as mine host next to never remembered 
to have any sticks cut short, the beat from my little 
stove was out short at once, because the wood was 
not. I effected a change in IO y lodgings as soon as 
practicable, and now before I engage a boarding 
place, I always look to sec if there is a little stove on 
the premises. 
Last of all, and worst of all, I dislike little souls. 
Many people are so greedy for gain, in such haste to 
be rich, that they forget that souls, like other things 
made to grow, want nourishment, and so, instead of 
acting the benevolent part toward them, they shut 
them up in some pinched up corner of their bodies 
and neglect and starve them, till they become as dry 
and almost as invisibly little as the kernel of a worth¬ 
less ehineapin. But these maltreated souls are not 
always going to stay so. Some day they will emerge 
rom their obscurity, and becoming each a Nemesis, 
W ' U *? m k ble ' Wigeance < n their despotic masters. 
Fayetteville, N. Y., iSlIl. AMP 
[Written for Moore's Rural N^w-Yorker.] 
THE LAST OF A NOBLE RACE. 
BY J. W. BARKER, 
[Ralph Farnham, the last of that noble band of patriots 
»lio fought on Honker Hill, died at Acton, Maine, a few 
veeks since.] 
Dropping as the golden stars 
In the deep ethereal blue. 
Fading slowly, one by one, 
k rom the all-admiring view; 
Or, as from the western mountain 
Fades the latent golden ray, 
Tinging now the crystal fountain 
In the sunset hills awav,— 
Thus the noble heroes vanish 
From our nation's galaxy. 
Passing through the “shadowy valley” 
To a nobler victory. 
O’er the smiling hills of June, 
Nature spread her softest green. 
Beauty 'mid the roses by 
All the smiling hills between; 
Down the merry streamlet singing 
Toward the deeply blushing sea, 
While a thousand homes were ringing 
Witli the peals of ” liberty." 
Gallant sires and gallant brothers, 
Leave the plowshare on the sod, 
Boldly hurry to the conflict, 
Trusting in the freeman's Goo. 
I*rom the fields of* Lexington, i 
And front Concord’s bloody frar, t 
IV here the inouotain eagle soared 
Over freedom's natal day; 
I r P Hie hill at early morning c 
feee those noble patriots swell, ^ 
In their souls a fir# is burning 8 
Which the despot cannot quell. n 
See them press the friend and brother, o 
While deep thunder rends the sky, k 
Pledged to God and one another, j, 
There to conquer or to dio 
e ’ 
Leaden death is sweeping round, Cl 
Strong in truth they heed it not, m 
In the light of happy homes, sf 
Toil and danger are forgot; . 
Hands may fail, but spirit never, 18 
Freedom is a child of light. 
Livelh on, and lives forever,_ I 
Lives amid the darkest night. Bf 
Warren fell, but freedom triumphed, ha 
Charlestown suffered sword and flame, thi 
Yet above the fearful earnsg* ’ ce 
Freedom wrote her angel name. trc 
But those heroes have departed, cal 
Ripe in years and noble-hearted; " 1; 
As eternal scenes were dawning, j 8 f. 
Blest they that eventful morning, q 1 ], 
When they dared the haughty foe, nrfi 
Laughed to scorn the threatened woe; 
And above the hills of promise m0 
Saw the golden day-star rise,— 80b 
Saw the mellow light of freedom aro 
Fringing all the distant skies. fish 
They are gone, but, living yet to a 
On the fair historic page, °I' H 
They may guide our rebel feet, * 
Guide our haute and light our age. like 
If the spirits of those heroes witl 
O’er earth* scones are e’er intent,— otht 
If from out their bright entrenchments, pict 
Earthward, sontinols are sent,_ | . 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker 
SHE JUST LOVED HIM. 
, H ' r beneath her petticoat, 
""ce stole in and out, 
As if they feared the light » 
If such an ethereal thing as poetry can harbor the 
word, surely my common-place prose can. But 1 do 
rather wonder at the use of that word " petticoat " 
m a poem. I wonder if it wouldn’t have suited both 
°L the hur,lun aud Poetic, just as well, if 
some French word, that, meant the same thing, but 
t idn t sound so vulgar, had been introduced. How¬ 
ever m no poet, 80 I won’t, play critic on a poet’s 
fine fancies. 
ti 1 !i? S , IH l le ! <ifl ° r S#tin sli PP er - just the size of 
the little foot, that is, on three-ply carpets or velvet 
apestry; but I do not respect tho good sense of the 
owners of such appendages, when they refuse to put j 
on a thick leather shoe, or rubber boot, on a walking 
excursion, for fear people will think their feet are 
large. 
I admire little children.-not little gentlemen and 
l-uhes, whom their mammas set up in the parlor, as 
stiff and prime as so many wax dolls, or take into 
the streets to be admirod,-but bonajide children, who 
have been "brought up” in the country, and own 
sparkling eyes and rosy cheeks. Those that I like 
wear calico dresses, and homo-spun aprons, that are 
not too nice to admit of a frolic in the grass, among 
dandelions and daises, or an egg-hunt in the barn or 
a game of hide and seek on the hay-mow. Some of 
the dearest, sweetest little boys I have over known 
go barefooted in summer, wear coarse cheeked pina¬ 
fores and very often a brimless straw hut. I don’t 
call those pale, dyspeptic, starched and ruffled little 
creatures that one meets in the city streets, chil<l re „. , 
icy are early in life thoroughly initiated into tho love i 
of finery and display, and too often grow up to be silly t 
dandies and heartless coquettes, which varieties of , 
the germs hoy I hold in unqualified contempt. But , 
next to children. I love those first cousins of theire, 1 
the lovely race of little flowers. Not the flaunting t 
fragrant less tulips, or the gay yellow lily, or big bra- v 
zen-faccd sun-flower, looking as though it meant to t 
stare all creation out of countenance: but sky-colored c 
spring-beauties, that seem the reflection of tl.e blue « 
eyes of the children who gather them; and early 
violets, and the sweet little bells of the lily of the v 
valley every one brim full of fragrance. There is w 
the verbena race, too, beautiful in whatever dress they 
M ear and tiny pink rose-buds. snowy candy-tuft, and j l: 
bridal wreath,”—I like them all. 
But, perhaps no flower is so great a favorite with M 
me as the yellow butter-cup that gilds the fields so v < 
gorgeously in summer time. I hardly know why l „ r 
fancy it so greatly, unless it bo that 1 loved it in 
< i hum], and it is a sort of weakness, common to », 
ever) u y, i believe, to love the things that were i,; 
dear to them when they were boys and girls. Life is te . 
so strange; butter-cups look just as they used to I . 
ppi. "She just loved him,” Aunt Eunice Clark says 
at, "»><*«» people ask her how she managed to bring up 
loae (,E0K0E 80 well. She speaks wisely, too, for the old 
ady lady never possessed a spark or what is called 
her " government.” She used to tell those who thought 
i their duty to warn her about being "so slack” with 
, ar - Lsokoe, (hut she knew they were right; that she 
,us ought to be more severe, but she didn’t seem to have 
ive any gift that way,—she was sorry, more so than they 
ues could bo possibly, that George was such a bad boy 
but she could only love him, and there wasn’t any 
use in her trying to do anything else. 
Now if Aunt Eunice had understood human nature, 
which she did not at all, and had managed George, 
she could not bave calculated better, for George was 
oae of th08e spirits boys whose Combativeness is 
ever ready to overflow, und if any one forbid ills 
!. d °i«K anything lie would surely do it from a spirit of 
H opposition. There were some who were ever on the 
" Watt ; , ‘ t0 him do something wrong, and he took 
, good car * uot t0 disappoint them. But his mother 
* 8 never irritated him, whatever were his misdemean¬ 
or 0r *' sl '° J “ 8t loved bim- l^he carried a sad and 
patient face in those days, which haunted her unruly 
Ll boy more than anytliiug else. 
'* , E,lt 88 <iEOl “ 1K older, bo disappointed those 
who were ever predicting that he would always be 
8 a 90urce of 8orro " to his mother. He gradually left ' 
t !ns ,nid habits, became industrious and kind to 1 
his mother, whose heart was tilled with joy for 
i George was her only Child. But hla old disposition 1 
8 re, naiued still, although ho did not yield to it as in i 
> the days of his childhood; but it rose up occasion- < 
J 8 l - v ' Particularly when lie thought of marrying. 1 
i There were two girls of ins acquaintance, who were 1 
his favorites above all others, but be was a long time 0 
I dec,dl “l? between them. Ho had an intuitive knowl- b 
' odge uf i" 8 mother's opinion, although she had t( 
never tittered a word on the subject. ti 
He know that she thought that Caroline Mintokn P 
although a dashing girl, was bad-tempored, and Had •' 
no real love for household duties: while ho knew that h 
she had ever a smile of welcome for Mary Hill, b< 
whom, in his sensible moments, he could but c< 
acknowledge himself was much more amiable than " 
Caroline. But lie still could not help a feeling of 
fepite towards his mother for seeing things us they gi 
were; so one day after studying upon the matter, he »t 
resolved to ask her advice about the two young Ei 
ladies, almost declaring mentally that he would marry iu 
ti‘ e 0,10 “ he did nut choose. So he told her that he be 
was thinking seriously about marrying one of the 8,1 
two above-mentioned young ladies, provided, of tic 
course, that they would accept him, and asked her «tt 
which of the two she liked best. of 
"My son," said Aunt Einice. tenderly, "marry 
your own choice, uot mine. I promise you to love a v 
whoever you do.” c . 
George was melted. He never thought of that we 
interview afterwards without a tenderer feeling t-ue 
towards his mother. Not many weeks after that, wb 
Mary Hill was his promised wife, and before the it v 
year was ended she became the mistress of his house ivy 
and heart, and lie had the satisfaction of knowing dri] 
that Mary just lilted his mother’s affectionate heart, atm 
And now, when she is older and more dependent on us, 
him for comfort, he just loves her with a truth and mm 
tenderness which is ever the mother’s richest reward. J pies 
Geneva, Via, 1861. B. C. D. whe 
Earthward, pontiaaU ato gent,_ 
An- they uot rilfi ’-•fl,, . ,1 ;,' r u„ \ 
With tlielr myrtle ptiw«r4n<I lite 
Breathing on Uiean t mU , v# 
Soothing paasiou* heated strife? 
We may hear them through the shadows, 
Parting where they nobly fell, 
“ Guard the flag that floated o’er u«, 
Love the snored ensign well.” 
Buffalo, N. Y., 1861. 
rWritten for Moore s Rural New Yorker ] 
PERFECT GRATITUDE. 
ave ' V ,3KN we consider the relation which man, in his 
hey ° nglual I’ ur ’ty, bears to the Divine, we can not fail 
oy; t0 rea,l5ie t),c sublimity which filled the heart of the 
my I maln,i '‘ d '> when he uttered these words,— " For thou 
bast made him a little lower than the angels, and 
re. ,ast downed him with glory and honor." Man is 
jjs, 1 ® noblest work of Gon,—a combination of heaven 
fas Und pa rtb, — a typo of that eternal power, whereby 
is th e sun, moon, and toe innumerable stars are kept in 
!j|g their orbits, and around which the lightnings, like 
of aWlIt winged chariots, are made to revolve. But in 
he ° rdeI ' t0 ft PP ,oa °b onr subject more definitely, we will I 
ok ‘ Slkl! frolu out t,K ‘ feeble, perishing casket, which 
ier foniiS tbo m " rfal num > the rare but real creation form- 
n iug the etem il God. 
Vi hat an inclosed garden is the human heart in its 
l.v P r,mar y rtamp! True it is, that disobedient man has 
greatly marred its loveliness,—has torn away the lily 
sc and the rose, and planted in their stead the brier and 
3e the thorn, but when on that bright mom which spake I 
rt creation's birth, it came forth fresh from the hand of 
t0 don, every plant fragrant, sweet, and fair, we do not 
>r wonder that its Maker looked upon and pronounced 
' n j 1 very good. ' We do not wonder that He collected 
n its every gem, and studded them in a love-wreathed 
casket, whereon was engraven His own ima-re. 
f‘ btehgbtful bower! Well may tiny songsters make 
e tlloir neatM ; and "bunt upon its festooned vines songs , 
e of its purity, benevolence and gratitude / On that i 
I- bright morn, "when the stars or Heaven sang . 
I and the sons of Gon shouted aloud for joy ” i 
there descended from Heaven a soft-winged worship- 
, per, and took its place among the sons of earth Its 
1 low wings trailing in the dust, it bowed before the 
t humble manger, and lifting its clasped hands to f 
, heaven, praised Gon for the little babe within its !] 
t confines. Under its new breath of inspiration the , 
i " world knelt in solemn adoration, and from the . 
r general heart-altar there arose such a silent flow of " 
gratitude that the Angela of heaven veiled their faces 
and feared to look,lest they might marthejoyousscene.’ 
Ever since that bright morn, gratitude has been an i f 
inhabitant of our earth, and the little arbor in every di 
heart-garden is cheered by its genial rays. Thick tL 
and fast as the spangled rain-drops from the silver- S I 
tinted iountains, blessings descend, filling our out- bi 
stretched cup, and flooding our souls with new bursts bf 
of grateful love. ( >] 
Away down in the halls ofineuioiy, arises the form of en 
a well-remembered one. Endeared by those close asso- wi 
ciiitions which form the. heaven of onr lives, how could if 
we be but one. Pure, holy and almost perfect, with vjr- an 
lues all clustering in a bright nucleus, revolving around 
which were cousteliatiuus us faithful as immortal, 
it was easy for our hearts to entwine their choicest rat 
ivy around such oak,—to give the weak, trailing ten- em 
dri Is to other pruning, and to learn to live in that dre 
atmosphere which makes us purer as we breathe. To chi 
us, that one possessed the keys of heaven: and ever the 
mingled with the consciousness of pardon, is a gentle the 
pleading voice and a magic leading to Calvary. And All 
when, one short year since, we pressed the' marble the 
hand upon the lifeless breast, and smoothed for the 
i last time the plaited locks upon the icy brow,—when 
we ira Printed the warm kiss upon the ashy lip, sealed 
forerer, and then laid her gently beneath the snow- 
white Illy, think you, we knew not what gratitude 
was? Ah, yes! the silent heart can best express the 
meaning of that word, as kneeling beside a new- 
atriots madC moun ' ? ’ u thanks fJon for a friend. 
'a few 4I Pe [ m ! t a 8m,e ' Aro,,nd th ” Bttle family altar, as 
the shades of night are gathered close, and the even¬ 
ing zephyr sings a. low lullaby, is assembled a band 
of ftear ones. Every heart is lifted in silent worehip 
as the chosen one thanks Gor. for the full blessings 
oi the day. Little hands are taught to clasp and 
turn towards heaven,—little hearts to bow in holy 
fear, and little voices to breathe—" My Father.” Oh < 
we sometimes think that the angels around the great 
white throne must envy, as they linger with seraphic 
wings over such a scene, tho beauty and holiness 
surrounding it, and would fain exchange their celes¬ 
tial duties, to return to earth and join sue), worship- 
pors. Let those who arc deprived of it speak, and 
tin y will say that to them it is a glorious, heavenly 
picture, over which should be unfurled a pure white 
banner, angel hands should have the care thereof, 
and inscribed upon its sacred purity, in shinin- char¬ 
acters should he—Perfect Gratitude. 
Adrian. Mich., J861. ,, 
Mollik. 
[Written-for Moore* Rural New-Yorker] 
THE CYNIC. 
There are some people who take to faultfinding as 
naturally as ducks take to the water, —they seem 
to lie iu their natural clement only when snarliireat 
somebody or something,-never looking upon or 
enjoying the bright side of life, but, like the poison- e f] 
ous spider, extracting venom from the fairest bios- rr 
soms and the choicest fruits. Cold-hearted and ill- 
natnred themselves, they are never willing to see— jj, 
or, if compelled to observe, will not appreciate a t )n 
k.ndly virtue or a noble deed in another, and to the f r( 
honest and friendly praise which one good heart is w ] 
ever ready to accord to another, they ever render the «„ 
curt rejoinder, or the sneering smile. We have all tin 
met such persons and heard them converse. Thev V oi 
sometimes play the amiable in society, but sooner or ] 
later they betray the hidden venom within the heart. 0 ci 
The hand book of mommy which they carry, is not t io, 
od with records of the pleasant things of this 
life,—it does not, mention the blessings which they 
have received, the comforts they have enjoyed or 
the favors from others which they are so ready to ae- R 
cept—no, these are not worth treasuring up; but the 
troubles and cares of which all have their share, aro 
carefully garnered - gathered, as it were, Into one ,! 
“baneful band,” and they appear to take infinite sat- nh „ 
refaction in gazing upon the congregated miseries. 
They really seem to experience a grim sort of plea*- ,. in . 
ure in considering themselves the most miserable of '<1 
mortals, and not content with thus making them- .. 
selves supremely unhappy, they render every one | 
around them equally so, as far as they are able Sel- 
fish and uncharitable themselves, they are ever ready n “ 
to assign the same, or, if possible, worse qualities to ' 
others, and in this way do they reveal the bitterness Z. 
of the fountain within. The generous soul delights " 
like ttie beneficent sun, to paint every object around T™ 
with its own fair hues, assigning with alacrity to " Up 
others those virtues with which it is itself endowed 
picturing forth its own purity and brightness in the - t , ' 
characteristics which it so cheerfully accords to oth- I 
ere. So the cynic unconscious^ reveals nature in 1 
the judgment he deala to others. Keen through the . '‘"1 
windows of his soul, benevolence becomes extrava- 
gance; sobriety, moroseness; cheerfulness, heartless 
levity; neatness and taste, a love of vain show; and 
[ the most harmless amusements are sinful indulgen¬ 
ces iu his eyes. Tim brightest virtues and the 
noblest traits are distorted and discolored iu his 
vision,—the happiest hearts are wounded by the 
taunts of his tongue,—toe most cheerful firesides « 
are darkened by his presence, - moving through the eB< " 
warm currents of society like the gloomy iceberg of 
the frozen north, he crushes aud chills wherever he 
goes. Snules fade in his presence, the purest emo- 
tilde [Written for, Moore's Rural New-Yorker ] 
(the TRUST IN GOD. 
lew- „„ 
BY K. H. FORD. 
r, as Bend dim, clouded skies above thee, 
ven- Hover shadows ail around thee, 
Yield not to despair.— 
,. Folded is the silver lining 
P Of the dark clouds, soon a shining 
11 £ B Surface they will wear, 
and 
l0 ]y Ro11 t!ie Bavre of sorrow o’er thee, 
yp , Seeming in their power to crush thee, 
Let not thy faith remove,— 
63 An the moni severe the chastening, 
tnc A 'l the nearer thou art resting 
ess In thy Father* love. 
!CS“ 
" Life is but a troubled ocean,” 
'B Dangerous storms must be thy portion 
nrJ Sailing o’er the tide; 
'B-V But "o hidden rocks shall wreck thee, 
ite For tby Pilot s'iCc will guide thee 
of, °’ cr the waters wide. 
ar * O’er the billows foaming, tossing, 
To a haven of “sweet rest,” reposing 
In perfect calm and peace, 
Anchored there no storms can reach thee, 
There all doubts and fears will leave thee, 
There all troublings cease. 
Geneva, N. Y., 1861. 
-*- ♦ ♦ i - - - 
tlS 
' [Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
at “ T WOULD NOT ALWAYS REASON.” 
> r -So says the poet Bryant, in one of his poetical 
effusions, and who does not agree with him in this 
^ S f C K t? N < Vh ° WOUld be ever guided by cold reason, 
and be a faithful subject to her tyrannical sway? 
ant is .^ud to deal wisely with his themes, and 
a th.s is a sage remark, quite worthy of the source 
t I rom whence it came. Certainly, there is no one 
8 who car, desire to check each impulse, each act or 
hough prompted by nature, while he looks at it with 
the forbidding eye of reason, considering it in its 
’ Vft rions lights and shades when thus seen. 
lteason should he our guide sometimes, but wo may 
occasionally castoff ite fetters, and permit imagina 
■ tion to reign unchecked a short lime, 
“ While we trace 
The mazes of the pleasant wilderness 
Around us.” 
But we should not be entirely ruled by it, so that we 
can never throw aside its heavy, burdensome weight, 
and yield to nature’s love of mirth arid pleasure. 
It must be doll enough to be always reasoning and 
philosophizing, with a grave, solemn mind and coun¬ 
tenance, such as one must necessarily have under such 
circumstances; never relaxing the one from the ex¬ 
cited state of its reasoning powers, or the other into 
a genial smile or a hearty laugh at some merrv play¬ 
fulness, or witty sally. 
It gives one such an air of coldness, and beartlesa- 
ness, to he. always controlled by reason, that it actu¬ 
ally makes one almost repulsive. We should never 
think of loving such a person as we should one who 
sometimes permits nature’s promptings and impulses 
to appear in his behavior, without being subdued by 
reason. 
It is well to make it our counsellor, but not to allow 
it to become a tyrant over us, restraining the deeper 
emotions, and making us beings of cool, deliberate 
Lculation with never one free, unrestrained thought, 
word or act. 
: For tho spirit needs 
Impulse* from a deeper source than liors, 
And there are motions in the mind of man 
Thai efae roust look upon with awe. I bow 
Reverently to her dictates, but not lew 
Hold to the frail illusions of old time,— 
illusion* that shed brightness over life, 
And glory over nature.” 
Seneca Co., Jan, 1861. R w 0 
lions are chilled by his breath, and the ties of con¬ 
sanguinity and love sundered by his ruthless blows. 
No character is so pare as to be free from his assaults- 
no home so happy but he will scent and proclaim the 
skeleton there. Supremely miserable himself, he is 
a torment and a dread to others; when his true char¬ 
acter becomes known, he is by the many despised, by 
none loved, by all feared and shunned. e. a. t 
F ast Henrietta, N. Y., 1861. 
[Written for Moore*Bural New Yorker.] 
WITH THEE ALWAYS. 
Happiness.—Tillotson truly says that man counte 
happiness iu a thousand shapes, aud the faster he fol¬ 
lows it, the swifter it flies from him. Almost every¬ 
thing promises happiness to us at a distance —such a 
step of honor, such a pitch of estate, such a fortune 
| or match fora child-hut when we come nearer to 
j it, either we fall short of it or it falls short of our 
expectations: and it is hard to say which of these is 
the greatest disappointment. Our hopes are usually 
larger than the enjoyment can satisfy; and an evil 
long feared, beside that it may never come, is many 
times more painful and troublesome than the evil 
itself when it comes. 
T hk 'i ears, i hey do not go from us, but we from 
tiiem. stopping from the old into the new, and always 
leaving behind us some baggage, no longer service¬ 
able on the march. Look back along the way we 
have trodden: there they stand, every one in his 
place, holding fust all that was left in trust with 
them. Some keep our childhood, some our youth, 
and all have something of ours which they will give up 
to neither bribe or prayer,—the opinions cast away, 
the hopes that went with us no further, the cares that 
have had successors, and the follies otit-grown,—to be 
reviewed by memory, and called up for evidence 
some day. 
Have friends proved false and left thee in thy ex- 
• tremity? Have adverse tides borne thee down, and 
j kft thee alone iD the lowest depths of bitter ungulsh? 
If so, listen, do you not hear, in accents soft and 
i sweet, words like these:-"! am with thee always » 
0, does not thy very being thrill with glad surprise, 
with intenser joy, ns this new manifestation of the 
love and presence of Him who " knoweth our feeble 
irame, ’ and stands ever ready to minister to our 
wants. 
Ihen when the sky gathers darkness, and raging 
tempests hurl fiery shafts in thy pathway, fear not, 
for He that stilled the tempest on Galilee has lost 
none of His power, aud it is He who promiseth to be 
with thee “always, even unto the end of the world.” 
Always! Thrice blessed promise. With thee not 
only when the sun of prosperity shines nndimed by a 
passing cloud, but 
“ (V hen the winds of adversity rise 
And hopes that were brightest are fled. 
When storm clouds darken the skies 
And our joys are all withered and dead ” 
Then, when the grave closes over the lifeless forms 
of those held most dear, go not forth into the world 
again feeling that thou art alone in thy desolation, 
witli not a friend on whom to lean for support in thy 
unmitigated sorrow, for the great heart of Him who 
wept with the sisters of Lazarus, is yearning to pour 
into thy bruised and bleeding heart the balm of con¬ 
solation. tV hen thy feet also draw near the swelling 
flood, and the rushing tide sweeps over thy frail form” 
bearing thee in triumph out into the chilling waters 
ol Death, then, high above the raging waves, will rise 
the oft repeated promise,—" I am with thee always.” 
Oxford, N. Y., 1861. P M Turskk 
< >nk Drop at a Time. — Have you ever watched an 
icicle us it formed? You noticed how it froze one 
drop at a time until it was a foot long or more. If 
the water was clean the icicle remained clear, and 
sparkled brightly iu the sun; but if the water was 
but slightly muddy, the icicle looked foul, and its 
beauty spoiled. Just so our characters are forming. 
One little thought or feeling at a time adds its influ¬ 
ence. If each thought be pure and right, the soul 
will be lovely, and will sparkle with happiness; but 
if impure and wrong, there will be final deformity 
and wretchedness. 
A Shower op Mint-drops. — If gold and silver 
rattled down from the clouds, they would hardly I 
enrich the land so much as soft, long rains. Every ' 
di op is silver going to the mint. The roots are ma- 
chiuery, and catching the willing drugs, they assay 
them, refine them, roll them, stamp them, and turn 
them out coined berries, apples, grain, and grasses. 
All the mountains of California are not so rich as are 
the soft mines of heaven. 
Meeting Our Own Prayers. — In eternity it will 
be a terrible thing for many a man to meet his own 
prayers. Their very language will condemn him; 
for he knew his duty and he did it not. Those fer¬ 
vent prayers, which the good man labored to make 
effectual, will be "shining ones” in white raiment to 
conduct their author into the banquetiug-house of the 
Great King. But the falsehoods uttered at the throne 
of grace will live again us tormenting scorpions in 
the day of the Lord’s appearing. "Be not rash with 
thy mouth, nor let thy heart be hasty to utter any¬ 
thing be foie God, is an objection that forbids more 
j than irreverence in prayer. It forbids os, by impli¬ 
cation, to ask lor that which we do not sincere!v 
desire. Above all, it forbids the asking from God 
those blessings which we are hindering by our ne¬ 
glect, or thwarting bv our selfishness and unbelief. 
Beautiful Reply.—"W hat are you doing?” said 
a minister, as he one day visited a feeble old man 
who lived in a hovel, and was sitting with a Bible 
open on his knee. " Oh, sir, I am sitting under His 
shadow with great delight, and his fruit is sweet to 
my taste.” 
