VZ ROBERT wzier; Lic=Lpiroll.] .Tat VW ith sweetest flowers enrieh'd. From various gardena ctill'd with care." TOR THE OLTTYSCUROII STAR AND DANNER. LINES • Inscribed to Me HON. THADDEUS STEVENS, as a liable tribute of respect to talents that honor Pennsylvania. ar OLLYKR Dams nr Iit'CLEAN. Av ! in her grave, Athenm can no more Hem- as %was warbled by her sunny shore, borne on :Cohan breezes o'er the tido The song, that hail'd her Freedom's chosen bride Chaunted by Grecia's many mermaid-isles As the sea girt them with a zone of smiles. —And there—Rome's crumbling skeleton Doth fill the view of centuries of shame, And marks where did Dominion's Mastodon Once and forever rest its mighty frame. —So too it will be—to the dust must turn The loftiest trophies, and the proudest name Futurity will ever list to learn As on its ear cloth peal the trump of Fame, Must have its latest echo borne away To where Oblivion cloth none other make, And in whose void domain, not e'en Decay Au answer, to its dying voice shall wake. Such as repcateth glory's fading swell Where doth grim Ruin like a hermit dwell. —Thou, Time, Oblivion's Charon art ; but none Need take a moiety of what he's won [grave, From life's rain commerce, when he seeks the To pay thee for his passage o'er the wave, The glassy wave of the world's memory. A beggar—Reputatlon is to thee— Rut yet not long upon thy pittance fed— For place, 'mong things that are, it most doth find When wither'd by the curses of mankind, Or mummied 'along Tradition's musty dead. Thou art no friend to Greatness— thou dost spoil The monument on which was spent the toil Of cemturies, yet o'er the leaden lid Beneath whose dust a Monarch's name lies hid, Thou dost with closest caution wave thy wing To drop the dust it has been gathering. -The earth's sarcophagus soon wastes the bones Of its inhabitants, but as their thrones, And pyramids, and palaces are shorn Less rudely of their beauty, and are worn More idly downwards to their builders' tomb— Thou turn'st them all to silent sepulchres, And o'er them mak'st thine ancient moss to bloom Where, as the pilgrim-traeler *tom be stirs Tb' embodied spirit of funereal gloom. —Yet—there's a glorious Empire, founded long Before Earth cradled thee in infancy. That had antiquity of triumph, 'mong The very heavens where woke thy lullaby. A City too—where each eternal spire Mounts to reflect far brighter, holier fire Than that, that in the solitude of space God kindled to direct thy weary race— Upon whose pageants, o'er whose bantier'd walls There gleams a glory that shall ne'er expire, And in the palace of whose festivals Thou never wilt hang silence—Echo's lyre: Thnt Empire--Mtmo I—That City is the Soul. I • Gettyalrurg, November, 1837. VLIID Eal":6s)4)JadtbUlVci FOR THE GETTY/n;(100H STAR AND BANNER. The Human Heart. Tire weakness of the heart forms a deplorable instance of the imbecility of human nature; and it has been a matter of so much comment, that it would be almost supererogatory to add any thing by way of remark; and it were also absurd to say Might as regards discontent against its operations. The human system lias been framed and construc ted by an all-wise Creator; and it would be un chrisuanlike, and exhibit a want of fidelity to Him, to descant in rigid or even dissatisfactory terms on any of His works, which we are taught to believe • are all congruous with His great end and aim. But, notwithstanding, as the human eye takes a retro spect, or even but a coup d'oeil of the vest field •of human nature, and - perceive its dreadful work ings—the numerous sympathising instances of its frailty—it cannot but lament its marvellous imbe cility. If we scrutinize human record, wo will find hundreds °raceme in prqof of the weakness of the humatilmart—wo will read (although they are mo4ly,fiaion, they are nevertheless a correct rep :vim:dollen of the heart,) of instances of broken tearts, caused merely by unrequited or deserted . • • atiVctions—of the delicate and lovely female pining away with sorrow ,to an untimely grave—of being prematurely entombed within the dark recesses of . the earth, solely because of the infidelity of the op posite sox. The heart is the seat of Love. It is there alrectirriX-generetert, and explodes in its destined coriseqbences; and as the heart is the sphere of wo_ cannot love, unless wo love from the heart. And with thoso who stand in relation to each other oPposite to a correlative position, the pervading, influence of love, if both parties are un fcigned,beccirnes!to,eentred in their different hearts, that nothing short of death can separate them; they will cling to one another alike through the storms of adversity and the . itunshines of prosperity. It has been truly expressed by a writer who conspicu ously stands at the head of the literati of our own famed couitty;,and whose lines upon the subject -.run smooth as the ritirface . of the glassy waters," that there have been numerous instances of broken hearts, rind there is a possibility of dying of disap pointed love. Although not a malady often fatal' to the male scx,it verily withers down many a love ly, young woman to an, early ,grave. "Come, Eliza let us take a walk—the shades di evening ore approaching, the hot sun is just de scending Alto western horizon, and it has become really. pleasant out--quite cool and refreshing," ;said the lively Jane Ihlig, at the close of a hot sul try day, to her fair:and more melancholy cousin, Eliza Morton. "Oh, dear cousin,", answered Eliza, "I wish you would excust3 me fur this time. I am to-day Mille led with a troublesome headache, which alone you might deem a sufficient palliation for my non-com pliance. Besides. I feel otherwise indisposed." "What," replied Jane, assuming a serious air, "is it possible that you have r.lapsed into OM of those baneful fits of melancholy of late so tiepin. rably frequent with you? They will yet be the death of you. Como, cheer up; your habitual sad ness recently, is to Inc a source of extreme pain, coal doubly so. as I am totally at a loss what to as cribe it to. Surely it cannot be the consequence of the bereavement of a tinnier, friend, or of inula ted or unrequited affection, and remain concealed from me, hitherto your faithful confidant. Dear Eliza," continued Jane, as she wiped from off her dimpled cheek a tear which had stealthily glided down, caused by the sadness of the theme and mo ment, "reveal to rao the cause of your sorrow. If you have suffered aught or been wilfully wronged, candidly confess to me, and I will cheerfully con tribute my feeble mite towards mitigating your suf ferings, or repairing your wrongs. You know I have always acted the part ofan undisguised friend; therefore, why,in this instance, do you secrete from me the reason of that sorrow which is obviously preying on your mind." She paused for a reply. Eliza remained mute, she answered not; which fully corroborated Jane's suspicion that her cousin was under the dominion of deep-seated melancholy, and she gave vent to a flood of tears, which caused Eliza, incapable of remaining unaffected at the sight, also to burst in to tears. "Let us take the proposed walk," again urged Jane; "it may do you good; you will inhale the pure and fresh air, which will probably dissipate your headache, invigbrate your faculties, and en liven your mind." "Well, I presume, there is no other alternative but to go," replied the sorrow-stricken maiden, as she wiped away the tears which bedewed her fair checks, and streamed their course down her alabas ter neck, then profusely covered with shining tres ses of matted hair thrown over the palsy-like stroke given her by her innocent cousiti,by broaching tli& topic which had Already been to her a sin. or much mental pain, and which the green tint of gradual care that slightly overshadowed her lovely cheek, foretold it would prove a poises/oils draught' —for she had deeply, though shortly, quaffed of the cup of bitterness—as her cousin caught4l4. arm, assuming a pretext of compulsion. The young maidens left the mansion-house, and pursued their walk, just as the shades of evening began to lower over the firmament. Jane soon fell back into her usual gaiety—soon relaxed into that vivaciousness common to maidens of dispositions so lively and thoughts so desultory and irregular. The other, absorbed in reflection natural to one of so contemplative a disposition, and apparently suf fering under the pain of mental sickness, although an ostensible effort was made to conceal it. As they slowly wended their way down the green lane, little or no conversation took place between them; Juno frequently attempted to get her sad cousin to converse, by introducing themes which atre knew to have been suitable to her disposition, but every effort proved void—ineffectual. The only rejoin der she got to her interrogatories was oyes" or "no;" and, disheartened by such unsatisfactory an swers ceased saying any thing more, to the grati fication of the thoughtful girl—as it afforded her a chance to meditate, freely and undistarbedly, on the painful subject which was uppermost in her mind—on her wrongs and sufferings—the baseness of en unfaithful lover. Treachery, which dwells no whore but amid the dark-souled,finds not an abiding place but amongst the most fiendish villains and callous hearted wretches; for none but the debased and wicked could be guilty of a deed so base as the betrayal of an unspotted female heart. Oh! that every puzi and innocent female would vigilantly guard against the snares and tricks—the thorns and briars that adorn their pathway! That they would proudly shun and resist the serpent-like insinuating graces of the unfaithful courtier and enticing libertine; that they would build around their hearts a for tress—a citadel—impregnable to the attacks of the treacherous and unconfiding! Then, many—aye, n great many, would live balmily in vestal purity. while their hearts only would be accessible to the honest and faithful. They had reached the termination of their walk, and were returning, when, just as they arrived at a footpath which crossed their way, a young man, of handsome features and pleasing exterior, passed. He coldly, though politely and familiarly saluted them, which sheaved that he had been an associate. As ho slightly nodded, a blush of deep vermillion suffused the of Eliza ! "I cannot think what make Henry Green so cold and formal of late in his deportment towards us. It contrasts . so.strangely with his wonted or former intimacy and sociability. Certainly none has offered him any offence. Can you explain the mystery, Eliza—tho cause of his umbrage 1" enquired Jane. "No, my cousin, I cannot imagine," replied Eli za, in a tremulous and agitated time. "Report tells us, that she is soon to be married to Mary Henry ; and the different families aro bu sied in making preparations for the nuptials," said Jane. This was too much for Eliza to endure, and it was with considerable difficulty that she concealed her emotion front her cousin's observation. She briefly and with secret regret expressed her plea sure nt the annunciation of the news, which, of a verity, pierced her to her very soul. Misled and deluded girl When was her wrongs and miseries —her griefs and sorrows, to be at an end ! She despaired of their termination, until she should bo laid within the dark and cold recesses of the grave ! And well might she so despond. Tho dawn to her afflictions, she was destined never to behold ! All around her seemed dark and gloomy. The world in which she lived, seemed vain, cold and selfish. Tho lurid sphere where sho resided, had no longer any attractions—and she walked about, as it were, amid tho gloomiest objects— none, save her cousin and parent, offered her the bountiful hand of relief which she despaired of re ceiving, and who seemed to her lucid polar stars, amid numerous lurid ones! They hurried onward, and when they reached their place of destination, Eliza begged absence of her cousin, pleading a slight indisposition, and re tired to her room. There sho freely poured forth the sorrows of her heart—the griefs of her mind— and, while tears: coursed their way like a stream down her beautiful, though now pallid checks, re flected on the vileness and turpitude of him who had presented himself to het as a confiding and true lover—had cultivated and gained her affec tion, and then, in the zenith of her felicity, inhu manly deserted her and centred his affections on another! And, even whilst writhing in agony, breathing, seraph like, from her very soul, her en tire forgiveness of the being who line treated with levity her soul-enduring affection—who had cruel ly trifled with her fond heart. She finally wiped her lovely face, then glistening with those tears which bad been shed by dint of intense grief, and , 64 1 WISH. NO OTHER 'HERALD, NO OTHER SPEAKER OF Kr Livrivo ACTIONS, TO KEEP . MINE HONOR FROM CORRUPTION." urautwavarrortazz u zpa. rtioaxiztir. QW(O7 3 11112Z02,111 al, tun/. I hood in which Mr. Morton iesidcd, a family by the name of Green. Mr. Green was a gentleman in good circumstances and had children. The eldest of his sons, named Henry, was a young gen tleman at this time about eighteen years of age. He was a promising young man,of fine talents and handsome appearance; but vacillating and incon stant. Ho had already graduated at one of the most celebrated Colleges in the country, though his extreme youth was an obstacle, which however ho soon surmounted by the rapid progress he made in his studies. The appearance of so handsome and respectable a young man as Henry Green, created a great talk among the ladies—the pride and beauty of the Gay. All admired his politeness of deportment, and commended his handsome features, as well as his shining talents. In short, he became the admiration of the young ladies, and consequently ho reciprocated their feelings of kind ness. Ho was ushered into their society, and was an object of female panegyric; and why should ho not have been? They deemed him handsome, tal ented, petite and, as they thought, honorable.— Handsome, polite and talented he truly was; but thoroughly honorable and confidential he was not. Although some feelings of honor pervaded his heart,. which is the chief and most desirable accompani mont to the oonstitution of honor, ho was of a rest less and unconfiding spirit—which,in most instan- ccs, entirely subvert nr stifle those honorable emo tions which . emanate from the soul—that magna nimity which characterizes the movements of all honorable persons, and with which the bosom of every confidential individual glows. Ho was be nevolent in his disposition, and liberal in his ac tions—all of which eminently contributed to make him a kind-hearted man; but his acts of kindness wero of so limited a naturo as not to admit of his being termed, with truth, either a benevolent or an honourable man., When ho became acquain ted with a handsome female, ho would lavish all possible kind nttentions upon her—would treat her so affectionately, and, as a fatal concomitant with it, talk so softly, sweetly and persuasively, thereby commanding such a mellowing and soul-stirring influence, casting its mildew upon their pure and assuming an air, of as much gaiety as practicable, repaired to the etting-room, where she found her cousin gaily playing the piano, and passed the evening, as her cousin thought, with accustomed hilarity. Vain thought—hollow and delusive idea ! Had she but known the nature of her cousin's sorrow—r• what was passing within—corroding internally upon her—that there was something inwardly that operated like a cankor•worm, that was eating away her vitals, and promised ere long to terminate her then burdensome existence, as life was to her a grievous clog—a something which she fain would have removed—or she would not have thought so. But her thoughtless cousin never as yet experien ced aught of the pains, the troubles.—of the griefs, the sorrows of the human heart—never even felt a pang of that species which proceeded from the op erations of the heart, and sometimes contains a never ending chain of barbed griefs ! Therefore, she was perfectly excusable—her total ignorance of her cousin's melancholy, palliating. But why should I protract? Why Igo to any further extent, occasionally commenting on -her afflictions and sorrows in a tone which must sure ly presage, in explicit letters, the sequel of her griefs and pining, without informing the reader the cause (although he might pretty fairly conjec ture from what has already been related) of that melancholy which was seated on her countenance, and that sorrow which was preying upon her heart 1 Her story is brief, hut affective—concise,but se ious and pathetic. It might occupy pages, but can with as much elaboration and simplicity, al though perhaps not satisfactory, be comprehended in a few words. She was, as I have already im plied, a victim of the human heart. She had bow ed at the shrine of love, and was sacrificed ! She knelt at the altar of human affection, and was im °late(' ! In short, she was a victim of disappoint ed love—of unrequited affection. !She had lived for awhile in the elysium of loveliness—although only plausible, but was considered unfeigned.— She pined away, and finally crumbled into dust, a sacrifice of human love—a victim of A BILOKEN lIE trtr! ELIZA Monroe was the only child of an op lent gentleman who had formerly resided in the city; where he was extensively engaged in the mercantile business ; but growing weary, retired from business to a splendid country seat, where he contemplated passing the remainder of his days in retirement. His family was small, consisting of a few servants, wife, daughter and a niece, about the age of Eliza, who had previously came to live with him—her parents having died, leaving Mr. Morton solo executor of their large estate, and guardian to their only daughter. Eliza was at this time about the ago of sixteen, and the charming beauty of womanhood was just making its appearance on her features. Her countenance had assumed a serious cast, which ever after was discernable; and upon her check dimpled with girlish lorelinelas,. the beautiful tints of Pastor° womanhood was xts sutning its place with slow strides. The idol and ' love of her doating parents, she lived in all imagi nable felicity—the charm and praise of tbo neigh borhood, her days went by as it were upon the wings of the dove. All loved her for her kindness and benevolence; admired her for her beauty ; lauded her for her magnanimity ; and, conse6ent ly, she was, in the estimation of all who knew her, de'stined to Ind a life of comfort and joy. Thus time glided swiftly and happily by for two years; and comfortably did the Morton family pass a life that seemed impossible for any thing to have been thrown in their way calculated to extenuate aught their comfort or blast their felicity. Eliza was then just eighteen, in the meridian of her beau ty and loveliness, respected and loved more than ever. She roved, about like the busy bee from flower to flower, adding verdure and fragrance to every one that she lit upon. She wandered to the different poor and sick in the neighborhood, open ing her purse to the needy, and extending the hand of relief to the afflicted. Thus Eliza Morton passed her young days, and how could, she be oth erwise than loved ? ' Her sphere was one of kind- nese and loveliness, and how could she be other wise than admired and respected 1 The atmos phere in which she lived, was one of sweetness and fragrance : and then how could she be other wise than happy and contented—extolled and be loved ? About this time there removed to the neighbor rrnaffected hearts, Which he so easily penetrated, that they could not, without acting in contraven tion to their natural feelings, abstain from regard ing him in the light of an honorable young men; and after having bestowed for some time his atten tions upon her,happening to observe another female who in his estimation, eclipsed the ono he then paid his attentions to, he would suddenly fly to her and pour upon her the oil of his affl,ctiona; and so going on, making a never-ending chain to his rest leasneea and inconstancy, which conduced to make him an individual of extraordinary vacillation, in whom no confidence could bo safely reposed. Among the many ladies, and the last our, of the neighborhood Henry Green became acquainted with, was Eliza Morton; and an unfortunate mo ment it was for her. As she was the belle of the neig.thorhood, Henry fixed upon her as a prize which to win would be an honour, and when once won, would prove invaluable, little imagining that his affections, which were ever roving, would be so limited and truly lamentable—little thinking, that when once he had vanquished the citadel of her heart, and centred within its precincts his own distrustful image, impressing it deop--aye,so deep that its extirpation, ero his fleeting love had been realized, would have been impossible. Suffice it to say, that Eliza was of a verity in love with Henry, which he plausibly reciprocated; but how sincere the affection was he bore her, is yet to be expressly told. She loved him, and why should she not'? Why should she not fall into the recesses of his dangerous soul—why should she not have linked her fate with his—locked her af fectiomite heart within the weak fibres of his un- I confiding one, when ho presented himself to her I all "milk and honey," in the enchanting garb of a man of talent, respectability and, best of all, strict honor—all of which being eminently calculated to charm the passions, captivate the heart and enli ven the soul of the inexperienced and unsuspect ing female? She loved him with all the ardor and sincerity of true love-- with all the devotedness and soul-confiding affection th it the heart is suscepti ble of, under the natural impression that ho would prove ever faithful—natural impression—aye, more—natural certainty—for ndthing like a doubt of his inconstancy over floated across her innocent mind. She could not, naturally, be otherwise dis posed towards him, after his having, with the seem ing sincerity of a true lover, knelt at her hallowed shrine, and poured out the feelings of his heart— the workings of his soul—his deep, his unyielding, his never-dying niThction for her. Mohths rolled away and matters continued the same. The aspect of siThira in relation to the Morton family were precisely the same. Henry was still the same courtier—still continued his vis its to Eliza, whom the public considered his affi anced Bride, without having settled upon a day or definite period for the contemplated marriage— which, alas ! was destined never to be ! The pa rent's of Eliza were as yet ignorant of any attach ment existing , between them, and regarded his visits to the family as the dietatsicaf courtesy and familiarity—neither had any proposals been made to them, for the hand of their lair daughter—hod there been, he would not have been refused, for his family wore highly respectable. But Henry had no intention of proposing for her ; be !mewed his affection alone to Eliza herself, for the solo purpose of gaining her unlimited confidence. ,He was ostentatious, fond of show, loved the world, delighted in its pleas.ures and luxuries; he was young yet, and thought ho might go through a long train of courtships without producing any ca sualities, ere ho embarked upon the state of con nubial bliss, which ho than thought would be un endurable to a man of his years ! Henry, after having been unceasingly regular and attentive to the Morton family,began to mani fest an evident lukewarmness in the ardor of his love, and eventually discontinued has visits. Eliza secretly viewed his conduct with regret—ascribed it to different motives, and hoped that he woulil ultimately return : and bring with him joy and hap piness. But, alas! vain and deceptive was the idea! Henry, the black-hearted Henry, entertain ed no such laudable purpose; hut,to be brief:finally abandoned her—left her, speedily to fall into the corroding arms , of emaciation, and ultimately to ho consigned to a premature grave—merely prov ing himself to the world to ho a heartless monster, a creature - devoid of sensibility and unworthy of being ranked amongst a feeling or chnstian coin- munity! The feeltngs,situation and condition of the sweet and confiding Eliza cannot be described. She en deavored for awhile to keep all her sorrows from her kind and coating paronts,and her cousin. Jane; but time and sufferings compelled her to disclose From tho day she evinced to her cousin such strong symptoms of her malady—while taking the walk already described—a suspicion of tho rea cause darted across the la tter's mind at the moment Sho communicated nor suspicions to ElizO's pa rents, who determined upon ascertaining the cause of their daughter's sorrows. They made the no- cessiry inquiry and soon learned the reason of her habitual sadness—the nature of her disease! They sorrowed over her unhappiness and wept at her afflictions—they condoled with her, and whilst they were conscious of thn incurable nature of her disease,ejaculated a prayer of supplication to Hea ven to receive her into its joys—for they know that she would die. and therefore hoped. for her felicity It the world to come! Eliza, too, know that she would soon die—soon cave her tender parents, and many as were the pangs of grief whiCh she had to endure, she en- deavored to appear contented as long as she was permitted to totter upon the dreary brink of this world's life. And cruelly ns she , had been treated by Hen6",,she unfeignedly prayed for his perpetual happiness; wronged as she had been, she with an angel-like spirit uttered an ejaculation of sauna FORGIVKNESS, She knew she was destined to be a victim of sorrow—to be sacrificed upon the altar of false love, and the shrine of man's hard-hearted ingratitudo--earth no longer had any attractions, & with a complaisant spirityielded up all her hopes o smiling Heaven; solacing herself with the.•an icipation of soon ascending into its bright regions, here to dwell forever and to ""mingle with the spirits just made perfect." . It is scarcely necessary to state anything more, by way of des,cription, of the privations and sor rows which, unfortunately, became the better por tion of the once beloved, beautiful and fascinating Eliza Morton. Her sufferings are left to the im- agination of those who may deem this faint and imperfect sketch of a victim of the human heart, worthy a perusal ; and her fate can, without any need of subsequent verification, be presaged by all. Sufficient be it to say, that after enduring for some twelve month, all the tortures, miseries and aline , tions which human life is•susceptible of, she sub missively fell into the grasping arms of death— consigning her god-like spirit to the illumed do main of Him, who is always ready to receive in His heavenly Kingdom those who had undoviate ingly trodden in the smooth path of rectitude and righteousness ; and her remains were followed to the grave by a vast retinue'of mourning relations arid sympathising friends, who could not but shed tears at the departure.of one from "this life," so lovely, beautiful, and withal, so incomparably af fectionate and benevolent; and they more deeply sorrowed that she was a lamentable sacrifice of man's hard-hearted depravity—of his dissimulation and inconstancy ! Thus tragically is .concluded, this somewhat te dious. although it is hoped not altogether uninter esting tale ; and the writer, who is a novitiate in literary compositions, consoles himself under the expectation, that its defects, numerous as he is fully conscious they are, will bo looked over by the indulgent made!. The writer is aware that he is illy capable of delineating in true and fervid col ours, the - happy and sad events attendant upon scenes of love—the felicity usually connected with the consummation of connubial ties; and the trag ical events that generally emanate from the occur rence of blasted, disappointed, or of false fidelity. G***. LANCASTF:II, PA Wa'EV - et?U'o FOR THE GETTYSBURG"! !TSAR AND BANNER "MY ows !" ah, surely thou host not Thy vows of love and faith forgot. And yet, methinks it must be so, Or why that dark and angry brow ? Ah ! tell me why I have not heard Of late from thee ono gentle word ? Why does thine eye so sternly dwell On her who loves thee "passing well ?" Why does thy face no longer wear The smile of love I've welcom'd there? And why does not thy footsteps roam More frequent to my lonely home Ah ! tell me, have my lips to learn For thee a title cold and stern ? Must Friend—Protector—only be Swart names for cherisli'd memory ? And must I school my heart to bide, Its feelings deep, which oft defied, What lighter love had shrunk beneath The Slanderer's cold and withering breath— The love which made me Turn from all Which might fond woman's heart enthrall, To watch thy bright but wayward.smile And love to madness all the while— To wait and mark thy changing mood, When cares thy noble heart subdued. To sit besldo thy couch of rest And pillow thy head upon my breast; To hail my idol—lord in thee. Oh 1 this was joy enough for ado 1— What chang'd the scene—why must Igo? Afar from thee, to feel, to know, Thy love hai Red—Ah ! tell me why • So coldly stern thine eagle eye,? But no—l could not bear to hear " Another's smile to thee was dear— To think that while in lonely sadness I turn'd from all to dream of thee, Thou 1111'd another's path witligladnets And left mine strewn with misery.L To know, that on thy lofty brow Where oft my hand in fondness press'd. ANo•ruea's touch may linger now, Anther's kiss thy lips have bless'd— I'd rather die—yes, death were sweet, Strike, strike—while kneeling at thy feet— But never let me know, there's one Who shares the love that's mine alone ! What—thirst thou say 'twas glory spoke When first thy hallow'd vow thou broke ? Did wild ambition's syren-tone . School thy strong heart to beat alone ? Oh pause !—with bland and gentle smile Thy steps to ruin she'll beguile. ' - And when alas ! it is too late, Thoult curse thy dark and fallen state, And mourn thy dreams of power fled _Which hover'd o'er thy elumb'riog head. Oh ! in that sad and lonely hour,- When storms , upon thy sky shall lower, When clouds shall dim thy mystic star, Whose radiance now is streaming far-- If then, thy friends have left thee lone, Oh wilt thou not recall the tone Of her, whose love and soothing povver . Thou'st felt In many a by gone hour? And think there's one whose timid eye Will only smile when thou art nigh, Whose love is still unchang'd through all, , Aud clings more fondly in thy fall, Is happy—blest—if then with thee Her home on earth may ever bel Gettysburg, Novena bet sth, 1837. FROM THE ITEAV TORN. ?MIAMI. The Changes of Fortune. Tho following tale illustrates ono of the many instances of distress existing among the poor seam stresses of the city, and the lady who has commu nicated it for publication in the Mirror, vouches for its authenticity.) "Do you give out work here'!" said a voice, so soft, so low, so lady-like, that I involuntarily look ed up from the purse I was about purchasing for my darling boy, a birth-day gift horn his papa. "Do you give out work here?" "Not to strangers." was the rude reply. The ostranger" turned and walked away. "What purse is very cheap, ma'am." do not wish it now," said I, as taking up my parasol, I left the shop, and followed the stranger lady. Passing Thompson's, she paused—went.•. in— hesitated—then turned and came out. I now saw her face—it was very pale—her hair,black as night, was parted on her forehead—her eyes, too, were very black, and them was a wildness in them that made me shudder. She passed on up Broadway to Grand street,where she entered a miserable•look ing dwelling. I paused—should I follow farther! She was evidently suffering much—l was happy —blessed with wealth, and, oh, how blessed in hus band, children, friends! I knocked—the door was opened by a crosselooking womsit— uls there a person living here who does plain sewing'!" I inquired. "I guess not," was the reply. "There is a wo man up-stairs, Who used to work, but she can't gel -SUAES. MMZ!! ' oiit no more to do 7 --and I shall turn her row." “Let me . go up," said 1, as, passing the ir • •• with a shudder, I liscended• the stairs. ‘i You can keep on . up io'the'garret," she V - 4 ed after me—and so I did; and there I sawrilig. of which 1, the child of aliluence,had never dresinW cd! The lady had thrown ofther hat, and 'Wits% kneeling by the side of a poor low bed. ,Her hail fallen over her shoulders—she sobbed not,-;-'- breathed not—but seemed motionless, her - face buried in the covering of the wretched, - miserable bed, whereon lay her husband. Ho was sleeping. I looked upon his high pale forehead; around which clung masses Of damp, brown hatr—it was knit,atztl the pale hand clenched the bedclothes--words broke from his lips-44 cannot pay, you now," I heard him say. Poor fellow! oven in his dreams, his poverty haunted him! T could bear it no long er, and knocked gently on the door. The ladi raised her head, threw back her long black bair,and gazed wildly upon me. It was no time for cere mony—sickness, sorrow, want, perhaps starvation, were before nie--i.I came to look for a person to do plain work," was all I could say. "Oh, give it me," she sobbed. ""Two days we have not tasted food!—and to-morrow----. She gasped, and tried to finish the sentence; but coda not. She knew that to-morrow they would be both homeless and starving 1 • comforted—you shall want no More 1" I kept my word. In a fow days she told meedl —of days of happiness in a sunny West Indian isle, her childhood's home. Of the deaths of fath or and mother—of a cruel sister and brother-in law—how she loft that home, hoping to find a brother in America—how she eoughthira m vain, but found, in stead a husband—ho, too, an Eng lishman, a gentleman and scholar, had been thrown upon the world. Sympathy deepened into love— alone in a crowd, all the world to each other, they. married—ho procured employment in a school, she plain needle-work. Too close attention to the duties of his school, tong walks, and scanty fare, brought ill health and confined him s at length to his bed. The shop from which his poor wife ob mined work, failed, and their resource was cut off. She had looked long, weary days, for employment —many had none to give—othera gave no work to 'strangers.' Thus I found them—to comfort them for a little time—then I trust, they found indeed a CoMferter in heaven I The buidnUid died thst—died, placing the hand of his poor wife in mine ! I needed not the mute, appealing look ho gave.me; I took her to my own happy home—it was too lath 1 It is a very little time ago, I went one morning to her room; she had passed a restless night ; had dreamed, she said of her dear George—she called me her kind and only friend—begged me to sit a little while beside her,,and looked up so sadly in my face, that my own' heart Seemed well nigh breaking. I lett her not again. In the still, deep night I heard her murmnr—r ""Sister Anne,•do not speak so harshly to me; oh Mamma, why, did you leave me 1" Then again she said. "Give me an ofahge, my sister, I ant very faint." Her soul was again in her own sun ny home: • "Lay mo by my George, and God wilt bless you," were her Last words to me. lied my hush ed children to look upon her sweet pale face, as she lay in her coffin: They had never seen sorrow or death, and then I gave them the first knowledge of both ; then I told them of the sin, the cruelty, of those who wound the "stranger's heart." ' "Light is but the shadow of God," says a mod ern writer. The prophet Habakuk introduces a similar comparison when ho mays, "that the bright,. ness of light is but the hiding of His power." We doubt whether the English language could furnish a more beautiful and splendid trope. . EARLY PISA DVA NTAGES. —"I learned ffranamar," says William Cobbett, 6 !when'i was a private soldier on the pay of sixpence a day. The edge of my berth,or that of my guard bed, was my seat to study in; my knapsack was my book case, and a bit of board lying in my lap was my writing table. I had no money to purchase candle or oil; in winter time it was rarely that I could-get any light but that of the fire, and only my turn even of that. To buy a pen or sheet of paper, I was compelled to forego some portion of my food though in a state of half starvation. I had no moment of time that 1 could call my own; and I had to read and write amidst the talking, laughing ; singing, whist ling,and bawling nf,at least balfa score of the most thoughtless of men; and that too in the hours of their freedom from all control. And I say, , if I, under eircutnetancea like these, could encounter and overcome the task, is there, can there be, in the whole world, a youth who can find an excuse for the nom pi3rforinancer SELF•AIADE MEN.—The return of Mr. Ewing to the Senate from the State of Ohio, which the National Intelligencer considers certain,will be an event on which the nation may well rejoice. Ho will succeed Mr. Mon. cis, whose term of service expires in March, but as the sense ofhis constituents will have been ascertained before that, it is to be ex pected that he and his colleague, Mr. Allen, by whom Mr. Ewing was superseded, will, as advocates for the doctrine of instruction ‘ resign, and let the people be truly represen. ted. When such men as Mr. Ewing and . Governor Ritner, both , of whopi were, it is said,in the hUmblest occu pations during the early parts of their lives, rise , to deserved \;:' eminence, we have rea4on to be proud of our • country and her institutions. - -Nat. Gra. No NEWEIPAPera—The time is coming when the man who has the means and at` not take a newspaper, will be looked at by his neighbors.as a fish without a flti,a - crow without a wing,a blind horse, a mole or what you. please. Such an individual might do well enough to live after the manner ors Robinson Crusoe, but he has no Slain for thrusting hi caselfamouget those who do take newspapers and arectietter informed; tooth. or whatever political or general iatePiseasw . they - may choose to drop for him: AY* know many such mon,and might notate Os* but we refrain; lint you gentle roodorikdii* point them out yoursel!sito ' i . r,
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