GOD'S-ACRE.

I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls
The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just;
It consecrates each grave within its walls,
And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.

God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts
Comfort to those, who in the grave have sown
The seed, that they had garnered in their hearts,
Their bread of life, alas! no more their own.

Into its furrows shall we all be cast,

In the sure faith, that we shall rise again
At the great harvest, when the arch-angel's blast
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.

Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,
In the fair gardens of that second birth;
And each bright blossom, mingle its perfume

With that of flowers, which never bloomed on earth.

With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow;
This is the field and Acre of our God,

This is the place, where human harvests grow!

THE RAINY DAY.

THE day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast
And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,

Into each life some rain must fall,

Some days must be dark and dreary,

Nathaniel Parker Tillis.

WOMAN'S LOVE.

MAY slighted woman turn, And, as a vine the oak hath shaken off, Bend lightly to her leaning trust again? O No! by all her loveliness-by all That makes life poetry and beauty, no! Make her a slave; steal from her rosy cheek By needless jealousies; let the last star Leave her a watcher by your couch of pain; Wrong her by petulence, suspicion, all That makes her cup a bitterness-yet give One evidence of love, and earth has not

An emblem of devotedness like her.

But oh! estrange her once-it boots not how

By wrong or silence-anything that tells

A change has come upon your tenderness,

And there is not a feeling out of heaven
Her pride o'ermastereth not.

NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS.

AGE, 47 YEARS.

N. P. WILLIS is a native of the city of Portland, where he was born on the twentieth day of January, 1807. His early years were mostly spent in Boston and vicinity. He received his preparatory education at the Phillips Academy, in Andover, Mass., and entered Yale College, New-Haven, at an early age, and was graduated from it in 1827. Before he had attained the age of twenty, Mr. Willis won for himself a then extended and somewhat enduring popularity, by his sacred poems and sketches. He soon after published, in 1828, a "Poem, delivered before the Society of United Brothers of Brown University," and his "Sketches," which were well received. For two years succeeding, he was editor and proprietor of a literary periodical, under the title of "The American Monthly Magazine," which, in 1830, was merged into the New-York Mirror, with which he became connected. The following year he went to England, where he became very familiar with the leading literary men, and many of the most distinguished personages, of whom he wrote with an unlicensed familiarity, in his "First Impressions" of the country, people, &c., in a series of letters published in the "Mirror," and which were afterwards collected and issued in a volume, in London. The freedom with which he gave private gossip with distinguished men, to the public, caused the volume to be justly and very severely criticised, and also led to unfriendly troubles. It is one of Mr. Willis' greatest faults, that he allows himself to give to the public eye, what his own mind should tell him was intended only for his private ear.