All that with so much anxious skill
The pencil's art had traced.

Then Memory came-with dark cold tints,
And pencil rude, she drew

The scenes of many a vanished joy,
Which once the sad heart knew.
I looked, in hope her dreary sketch
Like Fancy's scenes would fade:
I hoped in vain-fadeless her tints—
She only paints in shade.

MELANCHOLY.

"There are times when melancholy thoughts oppress us, we know not why, and come upon us, we know not whence. In the midst of the festive scene, no less frequently than in the loneliness of our closet, our hearts thrill beneath them, even as the chords of an untouched heart will vibrate to the wild sweep of the evening breeze.”

To

WHENCE Comes this painful heaviness of soul?
These dark presentiments of coming ill?
These dreams, that spurn at reason's sage control?
And these thick gathering fantasies that fill
The spirit with deep fearfulness, and chill
The heart with sudden terror?-Are they sent
As portents of the future, to fulfil

The dark decrees of fate, or only meant

sap the strength of mind-man's noblest battlement?

We know not whence they come, nor can we tell
Whither they flee-we only feel their power
Withering our hearts by some mysterious spell,
And stealing o'er us, even in the hour

When hope and joy are brightest, till we cower
Before these shadows, as the warrior steed
Undaunted braves the battle's iron shower,
And yet will quiver like a shaken reed,
If through a moonlit wood his onward pathway lead.

Oh man, how strange a mystery thou art!
The noblest, yet the weakest in creation;
Unable to subdue thine own proud heart,
Yet swaying oft the fortunes of a nation;
Godlike in thy high attributes and station,
Wormlike in each low, grovelling desire;
Yet, even in thy lowest degradation,

Showing forth glimpses of that heavenly fire, Which, though earth-stained and dim, can never quite expire.

THE WIDOW'S WOOER.

HE WOOs me with those honied words
That women love to hear,
Those gentle flatteries that fall

So sweet on every ear.
He tells me that my face is fair,

Too fair for grief to shade:
My cheek, he says, was never meant
In sorrow's gloom to fade.

He stands beside me, when I sing
The songs of other days,

And whispers, in love's thrilling tones,

The words of heartfelt praise;
And often in my eyes he looks,

Some answering love to see,

In vain! he there can only read
The faith of memory.

He little knows what thoughts awake,
With every gentle word;

How, by his looks and tones, the founts
Of tenderness are stirred.

The visions of my youth return,

Joys far too bright to last;
And while he speaks of future bliss,
I think but of the past.

Like lamps in Eastern sepulchres,
Amid my heart's deep gloom,
Affection sheds its holiest light
Upon my husband's tomb.

And, as those lamps, if brought once more

To upper air, grow dim,

So my soul's love is cold and dead,
Unless it glow for him.

STANZAS TO A SISTER.

"Her lot is on you-silent tears to weep,

And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour,
And sumless riches from affection's deep,

To pour on broken weeds, a wasted shower!
And to make idols, and to find them clay,
And to bewail that worship-therefore pray!"'

Felicia Hemans.

Ay, mark the strain, sweet Sister! watch and pray

Wean thy young stainless heart from earthly things: Oh! wait not thou till life's blest morning ray Only o'er withered hopes its radiance flings;

But give to Heaven thy sinless spirit now,
Ere sorrow's tracery mar the placid brow.

Gentle and pure thou art-yet is thy soul

Filled with a maiden's vague and pleasant dreams; Sweet fantasies, that mock at thought's control,

Like atoms round thee float, in fancy's beams: But trust them not, young dreamer, bid them flee— They have deceived all others, and will thee.

Well can I read thy dreams-thy gentle heart,
Already woman's in its wish to bless,
Now longs for one, to whom it may impart

Its untold wealth of hidden tenderness,
And pants to learn the meaning of the thrill
Which wakes when fancy stirs affection's rill.
Thou dreamest too of happiness-the deep

And placid joy which poets paint so well:
Alas! man's passions, even when they sleep,

Like ocean's waves are heaved with secret swell; And they who hear the frequent half-hushed sigh, Know 't is the wailing of the storm gone by.

lot

Vain, vain are all such visions!—couldst thou know
The secrets of a woman's weary
Oh! couldst thou read, upon her pride-veiled brow,
Her wasted tenderness, her love forgot,-

In humbleness of heart thou wouldst kneel down,
And pray for strength to wear her victim crown.

But thou wilt do as all have done before,

And make thy heart for earthly gods a shrine; There all affection's priceless treasures pour, There hope's fair flowers in votive garlands twine: And thou wilt meet the recompense all must, Who give to mortal love their faith and trust.

ANNA MARIA WELLS.

MRS. WELLS was born in Gloucester, Mass. Her maiden name was Foster. Her father died when she was an infant; her mother married a second husband, and soon after removed to Boston, where Anna Maria received every advantage of education then enjoyed by young ladies. She was distinguished during childhood for her passionate love of reading and of music-these pursuits almost excluding the desire for what are usually considered amusements, of every kind. Her juvenile essays in literary composition are said to have evinced. quite a precocity of genius; but, happily, her taste was also early formed and refined, and hence she was a fastidious critic of her own performances. It was not easy, therefore, to induce her to publish her effusions; and she rarely did this till after her marriage, in 18—.

In 1831, Mrs. Wells appeared before the public as authoress of "Poems and Juvenile Sketches," a volume which was commended, as the production of maternal love and female genius should be, in a community which ostensibly makes virtue and talent the basis of renown. She had previously contributed to several periodicals, and her pure and gentle muse was always kindly welcomed. She has, of late, chiefly published her effusions in the "Southern Rose," a popular periodical under the care of Mrs. Caroline Gilman, published at Charleston, S. C.