And what though the vision of happiness flies

From the heart that had cherished it fondly before? Its flowers may be withered, but memory supplies Their vigor, and, fragrance, and beauty once more. Oh! may my remembrances never depart!

May I still feel a bliss in beholding the past-
While memory over the gems of the heart
Shall, sentinel-like, keep her watch to the last.

KINDRED SPIRITS.

DROPS from the ocean of eternity,

Rays from the centre of unfailing light,
Things that the human eye can never see,

Are spirits, yet they dwell near human sight!
But as the shattered magnet's fragments still,
Though far apart, will to each other turn,—
So, in the breast imprisoned, spirits will
To meet their fellow spirits vainly burn;-
And yet not vainly. If the drop shall pass
Through streams of human sorrow undefiled,—
If the eternal ray that heavenly was,

To no false earthly fire be reconciled,—
The drop shall mingle with its native main,
The ray shall meet its kindred ray again!

CAROLINE BOWLES.

"ALL high poetry must be religious," says Professor Wilson. And who that is conscious of possessing a soul which longs for immortality, but feels the truth of this doctrine? There is an aspiration in every mind for something higher, better, lovelier than can be found on earth; and it is the holiest office of poesy to embody in language these vague yearnings for happiness and purity, and paint, on the dark and torn canvass of human life, transparent and glowing pictures of heavenly beauty and tranquillity. Few writers have done this with more effect than Miss Bowles. There is a sincerity, a devotedness, ay, and an enjoyment too, in her religious musings, which shows that Christian feeling has elevated the poetic sentiment in her heart till she can sing of the "better land” with the sure and sweet conviction of its reality and blessedness.-Would that we had room for a larger number of extracts from this poetess, as her effusions are not as well known in our country as they deserve to be. Her volume entitled "Solitary Hours" has never been reprinted here. And it is only through the annuals and periodicals that, occasionally, a strain of hers is wafted across the Atlantic. But every true sister of the lyre feels a companionship with Caroline Bowles. And she is a model to which we delight to direct the attention of our young ladies. As the myr

tle is all beautiful, leaf, flower and tree, so is her poetry all worthy of our admiration and esteem.

In private life Miss Bowles is the Christian lady, doing good and communicating happiness in her domestic pursuits as well as by her literary talent. She is sister of the Rev. William Lisle Bowles, and in genius, as well as in its direction to subjects of devout and benevolent character, their tastes and minds harmonize, like the music from instruments tuned by the same hand.

THERE IS A TONGUE IN EVERY LEAF.

THERE is a tongue in every leaf

A voice in every rill;

A voice that speaketh everywhere

In flood and fire, through earth and air—
A tongue that's never still.

"Tis the Great Spirit wide diffused
Through every thing we see,
That with our spirits communeth,
Of things mysterious-Life and Death,
Time and Eternity.

I see Him in the blazing sun,
And in the thunder-cloud;
I hear Him in the mighty roar
That rusheth through the forests hoar,
When winds are piping loud,

I see Him, hear Him everywhere,—
In all things-darkness, light,

Silence and sound-but most of all,
When slumber's dusky curtains fall,
At the dead hour of night.

I feel Him in the silent dews,
By grateful earth betrayed;
I feel him in the gentle showers,

The soft south wind, the breath of flowers,
The sunshine and the shade.

And yet (ungrateful that I am!)
I've turned, in sullen mood,

From all these things, whereof He said,
When the great whole was finished,
That they were very good."

My sadness on the loveliest things
Fell like ungrateful dew;

The darkness that encompassed me,

The gloom I felt so palpably,

My own dark spirit threw.

Yet He was patient-slow to wrath,
Though every day provoked

By selfish, pining discontent,
Acceptance cold or negligent,
And promises revoked;

And still the same rich feast was spread

For

my insensate heart!

Not always so I woke again,

To join Creation's rapturous strain, "Oh Lord, how good thou art!"

The clouds drew up-the shadows fled;
The glorious sun broke out;

And love, and hope, and gratitude
Dispelled that miserable mood
Of darkness and of doubt.

ABJURATION.

THERE was a time-sweet time of youthful folly!-
Fantastic woes I courted-feigned distress;

Wooing the veiled phantom Melancholy,
With passion born, like Love in idleness.

And like a lover-like a jealous lover-
I hid mine idol with a miser's art,

(Lest vulgar eyes her sweetness should discover,) Close in the inmost chambers of mine heart.

And there I sought her-oft in secret sought her, From merry mates withdrawn, and mirthful play---To wear away, by some deep, stilly water,

In greenwood lone, the live-long summer day;

Watching the flitting clouds, the fading flowers,
The flying rack athwart the wavy grass;
And murmuring oft-" Alack! this life of ours-
Such are its joys-so swiftly doth it pass!"

And then, mine idle tears (ah, silly maiden!)
Bedropped the liquid glass like summer rain;
And sighs, as from a bosom sorrow-laden,

Heaved the light heart, that knew no real pain.

And then, I loved to haunt lone burial-places, Pacing the churchyard earth with noiseless tread;