THE LEAF AND THE WORM.

BY EDWARD MATURIN.

LEAF.

THROUGH many a month that was fresh and fair,
When the spring was green, and the summer gay,
I have drank the dew of the morning air,

And bask'd in the golden light of day;
But the autumn blast hath chill'd my core,
The canker-worm hath made me sere,
And the hues which in my prime I wore,
Have faded with the waning year.

My bloom is gone, my sap is dry,

Nor health nor moisture feeds me now;
And the carol I sang 'twixt earth and sky,
Is echoed by the leafless bough.

Ah! little I thought, in my morning hour,
When Beauty hath envied my robe of green,
That the smiling heav'n so soon would lower,
And the tempest sport where I had been.

Through many a month I have danc'd and sung,
And dallied with the wanton air,

But Autumn's chilling hand unstrung

The lyre whose music linger'd there;

Yet why should I grieve? For the balmy breath
Which woo'd my birth, and brighten'd my bloom,

Will sing in the hour of withering death,
And waft me to my autumn tomb!

WORM.

From the depths of earth, where beauty and might
Are sleeping the sleep of eternal night,

Where night and day, not a living ray
Falls from the urn of liquid light,

I come, I come, like a conqueror proud;

My shaft is death, and my robe is the shroud; And I laugh to think, when parts the link

Of life, like the flash from the cloud.

For beauty and might are my spoil, I ween;
Though the lip be red, and the leaf be green;

No spics I have in my mouldy cave,

To tell the terrors which they have seen;

The warrior may die in his conquest-hour,

From the hand of the monarch the sceptre may fall,

But they are my slaves, and the arm of my power

Waveth in triumph over them all!

Down, down with their throne! they are perished and gone; Their darkness and dust are my carnival;

The sceptre and throne are but baubles to me,

Or the monarch that sitteth thereon;

I canker them all as the time-honored tree,
Or the ivy the mouldering stone;
Oh! to banquet on them is my revelry,
And scatter their atoms one by one!

Famine and Sword may boast of their chain,
And Disease may vaunt her wasting pain;
But my slaves are they, who my hests obey,
Smiting my victims o'er land and main;
They live but for me, and for me they die,
To give me a dainty banqueting;

The damask cheek, and the lustrous eye,
The hues and odors of leafy spring,
Are the trophies I pile from my victory.

Mere viands they, for my ghastly board,
Gather'd by Famine, Disease, and Sword!
Oh! 'tis joy to me, when I hear the groan
Of the dying, rack'd on suffering's bed;

And my satellites crawl through their moulder' d hall,
When they hear the cold sepulchral stone
Laid on the breast of the pulseless dead;

And what reck I for silver or gold,

For which human hearts are bought and sold?
For both I command in my fairy land,

Where their column'd piles light my lonely way
With the glimmer of their ghastly ray!

Time! Time! on thy chariot wheels roll on!
The veil of thy years may dim the sun,

And the fading stars forget to pour

The light they have shed so long before;

The moon shall discard her mantle white

She hath flung o'er the sleeping abyss of night; And the wonders of heaven, the sun and the sky, (Those isles in the sea of eternity,)

Shall dissolve like a meteor-flash in air,

When the cloudy hosts meet in thunder there;
But mine must they be, and for me must they fall,
While my kingdom of mould shall outlive them all!

LEAF.

Through many a bright and balmy hour,

When the earth was green, and the heav'n was gay, Aloft have I swung in my air-woven bower,

Nurs'd by the heat of the noontide ray;

Like a child when it sleeps on its mother's breast,
Whose pulse is the soul and the dream of its rest,
For months have I hung on that parent-bough,
And why wilt thou canker and sever me now?

WORM.

The verdant hue of spring has past,
The 'sere and yellow' stain the leaf,
And the wailing of the autumn blast,
Like Nature in her hour of grief,

Sweeps o'er the mountain, through the vale,
Nor spares a leaf of tree or flower;

The ruddy cheek of Spring turns pale,

As she sits and weeps in her wither'd bower!

RELIGION OF NATURE.

WHEN, with wild roar, the gloomy tempests twist
Their coal-black turbans round the mountain's brow,
And the old pines in pluméd legions bow,
And scream the eagles through the mountain-mist,
As through the night they hear the thunder pealing
Amid the time-scathed oaks, and cedars reeling;
When grumbles in its home the savage linn,
And o'er the sea the battling whirlwinds spin;
Oh! then, while shrink the mighty hills aghast,
And the waves howl upon the ocean-main,
And the fierce lightning shakes its burning chain,
As the torn cohorts of the storm move past;
'Let me but taste thy high society,

And of thy soul, my soul a part shall be !'

TWO DESULTORY CHAPTERS.

FROM AN UNPUblished voluME, BY THE AUTHOR OF 'COURTSHIP,' 'JOHN JENKINS,' ETC.

THE EDITOR AND THE LITERARY GAZETTE.

'I'm twenty-five,' said FRANK THORNTON, as he rose from his pillow, on a delightful morning in spring. And what have I done?' was the question that he immediately addressed to himself.

'Ah, what have I done?' is the question that extorts the sigh, perhaps the tear, from the best of us. It seems our fate not to be able to answer that query satisfactorily to ourselves. Franklin says, that in reviewing his life, he finds he has committed two mistakes — and how many errors? It is not our want of policy that tortures us, but it is the want of obedience to those everlasting principles of truth, which rise on our path like the pillar of fire before the Jews, but whose light we reject. This is what makes memory a scorpion, which stings us, when our past life comes up and condemns us for our sins of omission, as well as those of commission.

Frank threw himself into a chair at the window, and looked out on the beautiful little garden beneath him. His mind was soon busied with the past. He recounted his hopes and his fears, his failures and his successes. Again he seemed to sip at the sparkling fountains of bliss, and then the Marah of the wilderness-the bitter spring of wo-dashed its waters at his feet. His life had been a mingled picture much light, and some deep shadow. He was happier than he had been; and he buried his face in his hands, and for a few moments wept thankfully! He soon raised his head, and brushed aside the tangled locks that concealed his ample brow. Tears, at times, afford great relief; and in the present instance, Frank felt as if a mountain had been lifted from his heart. The birds were singing blithely below him, and the morning air breathed freshness. His heart responded to the refreshing influences which were abroad, and he was soon revelling in visions of happiness.

-

A thought recalled his mind to reality. A weekly literary paper had been projected; he had been selected for its editor; and on this, his birth-day, its first number was to appear. That Frank was ambitious, is most true, but his ambition was restricted within certain limits, by the principles which he had adopted for the government of his conduct. He was desirous of literary reputation, but he would not have accepted it, if any sacrifice of integrity were required as its price. No ill-regulated desire for fame, at all hazards, ever took possession of his mind; but his wish was to be admired by his fellows for the greatness of his intellect, and the goodness of his heart. Frank began his literary career on principles which he considered strictly compatible with the highest success. And he was determined to retire from literary pursuits, whenever he found their successful prosecution at variance with the peace of his mind, and the purity of his intentions. He had been indefatigable in the preparation of articles which he presumed would give to his periodical a respectable character. In the important business of criticism, he had resolved

&

6

on abstaining from undeserved severity, on the one hand, and undue praise on the other. As far as was practicable, he meant to be just. He determined that the interest of virtue should receive no detriment from his hands; and considering the union of high intellectual power and religious feeling as the most desirable attainment, he concluded to do all that he could toward recommending their united loveliness to the consideration of all over whom his influence might extend.

His pride was involved in the present effort; and as he descended to the dining-room, a thrill of delightful anticipation shot through bis bosom. • Why, brother, you are lazy this morning. I have watered the

I flowers, fed my bird, and read, I don't know how many pages, in Thomson's Seasons,' said a light-hearted voice to him, as he entered the room.

*You are too active, sister, for my rivalry. What part of the Seasons have you been reading.'

The latter part of the first book; that on domestic love.'
• That is the finest part of the whole poem. How did

you

like it?' I've been delighted.'

They were by this time seated at the breakfast table. Susan Thornton was Frank's eldest sister, and had just entered into the full blush of her womanhood. She was nineteen, though she would have passed for younger. She was less than the ordinary stature of woman; but her form was essentially perfect. The most noticeable feature of her face, was her dark, lively, penetrating eye. There was a mischievous smile usually lurking about her mouth, that added to the effect of her eye, and gave to her expression a mingled look of archness and strength. Her spirits flowed from an inexhaustible fountain, and cast a charm wherever their influence fell. She had the reputation of being a little coquettish, but like many others, who are fond of firtation, her exterior but masked the genuine nature which dwelt within. Her strength and sincerity were adequate to the formation of an enduring tie around any object, in which her affections might become-interested.

While at breakfast, a note was handed to her from ber friend Mary Ellwood, requesting her to come and spend the day with her, as she should be alone and lonesome without her. The note ended with a postscript, requesting her to tell Frank, if he had not written in her album, to do so forthwith, and return it in the evening. Susan sent her word she would come; and Frank, after receiving the lady's mandate, arose from the table, and departed.

Arrived at his office, Frank picked up Miss Ellwood's album, tore off the cover he had carefully wrapped round it, seated himself, and began to look over its pages, thinking at the time much more about its mistress than the book.

•I suppose I must e'en do as I am bid,' thought he, as he nibbed a pen, and opened the book before him. A knock at the door interrupted the current of his thoughts.

Come in!'
Good morning, Frank.'
"How do you do, Mr. Jenkins ? - be seated.'
No, I thank you. I merely stepped over to borrow a volume of

6

Gibbon, for the purpose of reading, once more, those celebrated chapters in which he thought he had digged a grave for the Christian's faith at last.

Then Gibbon sadly miscalculated the force of the adversary with which he contended,' said Frank.

'True,' returned Jenkins; but Gibbon's confidence was not a match for Paine's presumption. He says, in that illogical and inflated abortion, which he called the Age, but which he should have christened the Infancy, of Reason, that he had gone through the Bible as a man would go through a forest with an axe on his shoulder; that he had cut down the trees, whichthe priests might stick up, but could never make grow again.'

'What do you think of Gibbon, Mr. Jenkins?'

'Why, I think that if his father, instead of procuring his dismissal from Oxford, had regarded his deviations as the errors of a young enthusiast, Christianity would never have numbered among the most effective of her opponents the historian of the Roman Empire. As an historian, I think Gibbon one of the six best who have ever written. Mackintosh said that Gibbon's intellect might have been taken out of a corner of Burke's, without his missing it. This was Sir James' prejudice. In France, Gibbon is placed in the very front rank of historical writers. I think there is no one work that will more amply repay a student for his intimacy with it, or that contains a richer and more extensive treasure, than his history. His style is rotund and perhaps turgid; but his course is majestic; his incredulity may reject some facts, but it refuses more fables; his imagination is fertile, and flings a rich drapery of fiction over his descriptions, without destroying their fidelity; in fine, he unites many of the excellencies of Tacitus and Herodotus, and interests one's feelings as deeply as Homer does.'

As he concluded, he bade Frank good morning, and left him to his musings.

A CONVERSATION WITH A QUAKER DAMSEL, ON POETRY, ETC.

WHAT have you been reading lately?'

'Many things, fashionable and unfashionable,' was the answer. 'By fashionable, I suppose you mean fiction?'

'What a compliment to the nineteenth century! Its fashionable literature consists of novels, that are the merest trash, or those that excite the passions, and come not near the diviner qualities of the soul. The leading fault in our fashionable literature, is its excess of passion. Those calm sentiments of love, benevolence, kindness, and the whole host enjoined by Christianity, are regarded as entirely too insipid for the fervid tastes of readers. I saw a stuffed bird-of-paradise to day; its plumage was brilliant, gay, and sparkling, while its interior was hollow and chaffy. It reminded me of fashionable literature; a brilliant exterior, having the hues of life, while all within was death and corruption !'

yet

'And there is a great deal of fascination in it,' said Mary. Is it not strange, that we love to be deceived, and that we should strive so hard to cheat ourselves with fictitious sentiments? Some people