"My father should wear a broadcloth coat; My brother should sail a painted boat.

"I'd dress my mother so grand and gay, And the baby should have a new toy each day. "And I'd feed the hungry, and clothe the poor, And all should bless me who left our door."

The Judge look'd back as he climb'd the hill, And saw Maud Muller standing still.

"A form more fair, a face more sweet, Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet.

"And her modest answer and graceful air Show her wise and good as she is fair.

"Would she were mine, and I to-day, Like her, a harvester of hay:

"No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs,
Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues,

"But low of cattle and song of birds,
And health, and quiet, and loving words."

But he thought of his sisters proud and cold,
And his mother vain of her rank and gold.

So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on,
And Maud was left in the field alone.

But the lawyers smiled that afternoon,
When he humm'd in court an old love-tune;
And the young girl mused beside the well,
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell.

He wedded a wife of richest dower,
Who lived for fashion, as he for power.

Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow,
He watch'd a picture come and go:
And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes
Look'd out in their innocent surprise.

Oft, when the wine in his glass was red,
He long'd for the wayside well instead,

And closed his eyes on his garnish'd rooms,
To dream of meadows and clover-blooms.

And the proud man sigh'd, with a secret pain: "Ah, that I were free again!

"Free as when I rode that day,

Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay."

She wedded a man unlearn'd and poor,
And many children play'd round her door.

But care, and sorrow, and childbirth pain,
Left their traces on heart and brain.

And oft, when the summer sun shone hot
On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot,

And she heard the little spring brook fall
Over the roadside, through the wall,

In the shade of the apple-tree again
She saw a rider draw his rein,

And, gazing down with timid grace,
She felt his pleased eyes read her face.

Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls
Stretch'd away into stately halls;

The weary wheel to a spinnet turn'd,
The tallow candle an astral burn'd,

And for him who sat by the chimney lug,
Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug,

A manly form at her side she saw,
And joy was duty, and love was law.

Then she took up her burden of life again,
Saying only, "It might have been."

Alas for maiden, alas for Judge,

For rich repiner and household drudge!

God pity them both, and pity us all,
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall.

For of all sad words of tongue or pen,

The saddest are these: "It might have been !"

Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies
Deeply buried from human eyes;

And, in the hereafter, angels may
Roll the stone from its grave away!

THE WISH OF TO-DAY.

I ask not now for gold to gild
With mocking shine a weary frame;
The yearning of the mind is still'd,-
I ask not now for Fame.

A rose-cloud, dimly seen above,

Melting in heaven's blue depths away,Oh! sweet, fond dream of human Love! For thee I may not pray.

But, bow'd in lowliness of mind,

I make my humble wishes known,

I only ask a will resign'd,

O Father, to thine own!

To-day, beneath thy chastening eye,
I crave alone for peace and rest,
Submissive in thy hand to lie,
And feel that it is best.

A marvel seems the Universe,
A miracle our Life and Death;
A mystery which I cannot pierce,
Around, above, beneath.

In vain I task my aching brain,
In vain the sage's thought I scan;
I only feel how weak and vain,
How poor and blind, is man.

And now my spirit sighs for home,

And longs for light whereby to see,
And, like a weary child, would come,
O Father, unto Thee!

Though oft, like letters traced on sand,
My weak resolves have pass'd away,
In mercy lend thy helping hand
Unto my prayer to-day!

VIRTUE ALONE BEAUTIFUL.

"Handsome is that handsome does,-hold up your hands, girls," is the language of Primrose in the play, when addressing her daughters. The worthy matron was right. Would that all

my female readers, who are sorrowing foolishly because they are not in all respects like Dubufe's Eve, or that statue of Venus which enchants the world, could be persuaded to listen to her. What is good-looking, as Horace Smith remarks, but looking good? Be good, be womanly, be gentle,-generous in your sympathies, heedful of the well-being of those around you, and, my word for it, you will not lack kind words or admiration. Loving and pleasant associations will gather about you. Never mind the ugly reflection which your glass may give you. That mirror has no heart. But quite another picture is given you on the retina of human sympathy. There the beauty of holiness, of purity, of that inward grace "which passeth show," rests over it, softening and mellowing its features, just as the full, calm moonlight melts those of a rough landscape into harmonious loveliness.

"Hold up your heads, girls;" I repeat after Primrose. Why should you not? Every mother's daughter of you can be beautiful. You can envelop yourselves in an atmosphere of moral and intellectual beauty, through which your otherwise plain faces will look forth like those of angels. Beautiful to Ledyard, stiffening in the cold of a northern winter, seemed the diminutive, smoke

stained women of Lapland, who wrapped him in their furs, and ministered to his necessities with kind and gentle words of compassion. Lovely to the home-sick Park seemed the dark maids of Sigo, as they sung their low and simple songs of welcome beside his bed, and sought to comfort the white stranger who had "no mother to bring him milk, and no wife to grind him corn." Oh! talk as you may of beauty, as a thing to be chiselled upon marble or wrought on canvas,-speculate as you may upon its colors and outline,—what is it but an intellectual abstraction after all? The heart feels a beauty of another kind,-looking through outward environments, it discovers a deeper and more real loveliness.

the

This was well understood by the old painters. In their pictures of Mary, the virgin mother, the beauty which melts and subdues gazer is that of the soul and the affections, uniting the awe and the mystery of the mother's miraculous allotment with the inexpressible love, the unutterable tenderness, of young maternity, -Heaven's crowning miracle with nature's sweetest and holiest instinct. And their pale Magdalens, holy with the look of sins forgiven, how the divine beauty of their penitence sinks into the heart! Do we not feel that the only real deformity is sin, and that goodness evermore hallows and sanctifies its dwelling-place?

EMMA C. EMBURY.

AMONG American female writers, Emma C. Embury takes no mean rank. She is the daughter of Dr. James R. Manly, an eminent physician of New York, and in 1828 was married to Daniel Embury, a gentleman of wealth, residing in Brooklyn, and much valued for his intellectual and social qualities,-having the taste to appreciate the talents of his gifted wife, and the good sense to encourage and aid her in her literary pursuits. But these pursuits, happily, have never caused her to neglect the duties of a wife or a mother.

Mrs. Embury's published works are-Guido, and other Poems, by Ianthe; a volume on Female Education; The Blind Girl, and other Tales; Pictures of Early Life; Glimpses of Home Life, or Causes and Consequences; Nature's Gems, or American Wild Flowers; Love's Token-Flowers; The Waldorf Family, or Grandfather's Legends. All her writings exhibit good sense, true cultivation, and healthy natural feeling, united to much refinement; and it is to be deeply lamented that a protracted illness has deprived her, for many years, of the physical and mental power requisite for literary pursuits, or even for domestic duties. Great nervous debility and paralysis have shattered her vigorous body and her noble mind, and have left only the gentle affections of her nature untouched.

THE WIDOW's WOOER.

He wooes me with those honey'd 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 stirr'd.

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.

OH! TELL ME NOT OF LOFTY FATE.

Oh! tell me not of lofty fate,
Of glory's deathless name;
The bosom love leaves desolate
Has naught to do with fame.

Vainly philosophy would soar,-
Love's height it may not reach ;
The heart soon learns a sweeter lore
Than ever sage could teach.

The cup may bear a poison'd draught,
The altar may be cold;

But yet the chalice may be quaff'd,-
The shrine sought as of old.