The red men of the forest have passed away, like the withered leaves before the autumnal gale, and the wild bear and deer are now strangers in their secluded haunts.
The young wife and mother passed from the sober matron to mature age, and there were deep furrows upon her cheek, and the frosts of many winters whitened her hair; but when she related the events of that night to her grand-children, or great-grand-children, she ever spoke with trembling voice, and called it the "long fearful night."
On Hearing a Bird Sing, December, 1826.
Cease, little warbler, cease thy lay,
For summer, with her sunny day,
Far to the south has fled away;
And autumn's chilly finger
Has touch'd the leaf on ev'ry tree,--
And blighted everything we see;
Then, warbler, do not linger.Fly where groves of citron bloom,
And orange orchards shed perfume,
And birds of ev'ry varied plume
With music charm thee:
Fly, little warbler, quickly fly,
Far, far away to southern sky,
Where nought can harm thee.For, oh, it is no careless voice--
That bids thee fly and seek for joys,
And shun the rushing whirlwind's noise,
That soon will pass before thee.
But one, whose bosom knows full well,
The heartless scene, the winter spell,
That soon will hover o'er thee.
Variety.
Variety is sweet to me
As many blossoms to the bee;
And I will roam from flower to flower,
Sipping honey ev'ry hour;
I will wander with the bee,
And drink thy sweets, variety.But if I idly flit away,
All my sunny summer day,
Dancing round from flow'r to flow'r;
What shall grace my winter bow'r?
No, I'll not wander with the bee,
So tempt me not, variety.But I will prune my myrtle tree,
That in winter green will be,
When other flow'rs are pale and dead:
Their color gone, their beauty fled,
No, I'll not wander with the bee;
So away, variety.My myrtle then shall be my care,
That's green and fragrant all the year;
I will not spend the fleeting hours
Flitting round more fragrant flow'rs.
I'll not wander with the bee,
So begone, variety.This in youth should be our care,
To improve for future years;
For if we flit from toy to toy,
Chasing the painted bubble, joy,
No real substance shall we find
To nourish or improve the mind.
Then I'll not wander with the bee
Since it leads to misery.And youth's fair morn will vanish soon,
And the bright sun grow dim at noon;
Trials will rise along the way,
To cloud the dreary winter day;
Then I'll not wander with the bee,
So farewell, variety.
Henriette Clinton;
Or, Reverses of Fortune.
At the foot of the Alleghany Mountains stands the flourishing village of Hollidaysburg. On the banks of the blue Juniata, that winds on till it buries its waters in the rolling Susquehannah, stood the elegant mansion of Esquire Clinton, the village lawyer. He had lost his young wife many years since, and Henriette, his only child, shared largely in the affection of her father. Her every wish was gratified, and she was educated in the fashionable etiquette of the place. She was the guiding star in the fashionable circle in which she moved, and a general favorite.
But there came a change. The father was seized with sudden illness, and in a few short hours was no more. The grief-stricken Henriette had watched with an agonized heart the progress of the disease, had attended to his wants, and supplied his necessities with her own hands. A skillful physician had done all that medical aid could do, but nothing could avail. The grim messenger lingered not, and the beautiful Henriette was left sole mistress of the splendid mansion.