And answereth to thee, as I turn to go,

It is a stain

On man!-Thus, even thus low

Be brought the wretch, who could for sordid gain,
Work thee such wo!

A. M. W.

FANCY'S FLIGHT.

"I have grieved to think that these beauties must all
Fade with the breath of the first bright hour;

Rock, forest, and silvery waterfall,

And diamond palace, and rose hung bower."

THEY may talk of trees being most beautiful when they are laden with "rich fruit and leaves," and their boughs bending beneath the weight; but if possible,-imagine any thing more lovely, more splendid than those same trees in thedeep winter" glittering with icy jewels. What coronet of diamonds and all precious gems, can glisten like them in the sun-light, so many colored as they seem, and still so silvery in their whiteness. Oh! I do love ice and frost-work! how many hours have flown by while I was forming such worlds of beauty from a shapeless mass of ice. Waterfall, mountain, pyramid, ay, even kingdoms have appeared at my fancy's call ;-and "snow white spirits" seemed ready to glide into the icy house prepared for them,-gardens, and deserts have sprung up as if by magic on the casement -there, I have seen the chamois hunter on his Alps, the shepherd on his hills of Scotia, the "weary palmer" with staff and cross, bending his steps toward that holy Palestine -the lighted pyre for Hindoo sacrifices; and Rome and Athens! Rome! Rome! thou hast lived again in all thine ancient splendor on my small window! There, I have seen thy rise and fall; thy glories and thy ruins! But the forest trees, so dazzlingly transparent in their brightness, can I forget that thought of mine as I drew the curtain on the sunny morning? It seemed to my "enchanted gaze” some fairy scene, some celebration of a wedding among the trees, for there was the oak in "princely greatness," armed in his

"warrior steel" of ice, he, the bridegroom was, and beside him trembling clung the small vine, as if half frighted at the attire so new, and yet so beautiful who could mistake the bride. And then that towering poplar waving so gloriously, and clad in the "vestment of glory," thus pointing to Heaven, that minister of the field stood in "solemn awe" as if uniting those before him, "till death did them part,' and when he had made that oak and vine as ONE for life, the oak around whose manly limbs the vine and young tendrils might twine; the vine, to be a shield when" tempests tost ;" an ornament in the sunshine of its youth, and in age to be a friend, a sympathiser in the lone hours of its protector, and when all this was said, the wind swept by, and the now wedded ones with the surrounding guests bowed, as the ministerial poplar spoke the "amen," and then the fall of jewelled diadems upon the frosted flowers was their music, and those "little airy limbs" moved gracefully to the sound. It was sport to see the forest trees dancing so joyously and bending each to the other in concord with their own harmony, mingled with that of the winds which came from afar to grace the wedding. That wedding of my caprice resembled life, and like life that glorious vision of a moment passed away; for what with the sunny ray, and the wild wintry wind, soon there was scarce a trace of that so gorgeous array, those icy, pendant gems, those thousand brilliant images so strewed around, and the frozen wreaths of that bright festival, ALL, one after another, beneath the sunbeam melted away, and soon the music of their fall was heard no more.

"

I looked again; the oak, so valiant and so brave, still was the supporter of that vine; yet I fancied both told that many, many years and cares had gone by, and that now in age, they rested (as in youth they had promised) solely upon each other. Oh! is not that like life? And that hoary poplar," divested of his glassy drapery, still stretched his arms, but there was a bending which seemed to tell that soon he would "low be laid;" and in his trembling sway he sought for some rising brother as a successor to watch and guard that happy forest band, over which he so long had been as a guardian spirit!

When I looked from my window that inorn, and saw the change come o'er the spirit of my dream," heart's tears

"gushed from their fount," their own icy coldness recalled my wandering mind, and I feared that it was wrong thus to let starry trees and cloudless heavens affect me; then, when I turned to the cold, cold world, I felt how much the lustre of my life was increased by "fancy's flight!"

Glen Crean.

A- -E.

Perhaps some cynical critic may object to the foregoing, and urge that it hardly deserves to be called a flight of Fancy, for the imagination of a young lady to portray a wedding; but we thought the manner of the day dream sufficiently ingenious to deserve a place in the Magazine.-ED.

THE DYING GIRL.

Written after watching with her the night before her death.

She slept the patient sufferer. I had watch'd
The livelong night, and vainly wish'd that rest
Might for awhile be hers; but still the sigh,
The stifled groan, the frequent, trembling glance
Of her mild eyes, told me she was awake.
At length, as dawn arose, and waning stars

Look'd faintly through the dews, sweet slumber stole
Upon her weary watch. I stood and gazed
Upon her peaceful face-there was the brow
As smooth and pale as marble-heavy folds
Of her dark hair lay on it—the sunk check
Had lost its hectic flush, and now it wore
The whiteness of the snow-sickness had left
A rose tint on her lips-silence came o'er
My spirit as I gazed-such mystery

Of meaning lay in the pale slumberer.

Methought she dream'd of Heaven, and saw, and heard

Forms of angelic radiance round her bed,
Pouring their songs of welcome in her ear.
She smiled, and oh, the rapture of that smile!
I oft had seen that gentle girl in health,

When the light jest went round, and she had joined
In the free laugh-and joy, like sunlight, beam'd
Forth from her happy features-but how faint
Was this to the seraphic glow which now
Illumin'd them with heavenly light and bliss.
A holy awe came down upon my soul;
All thought of earth was hush'd, and holy spirits
Seem'd ministering there around her bed.
And then I almost wish'd her lot were mine,
That I, like her, might fear no more the touch,
The blighting touch of time, but like her, rest
Wand'ring no more 'mid memory's wither'd bowers,
Waking no more from dreams of happiness,

To cold reality.

Something she knew

Of the sad hollowness of earthly hopes;

And when a slow decay brought to her soul
The solemn thoughts of death, in quietness
And holy confidence, she lean'd upon

The strong arm of her God-meekly she bow'd
Her youthful head, as once her Saviour did,
And gentle peace came down and dwelt with her-
The hours roll'd on. The morning rose; its light
More brighly streamed into the darken'd room—
The sleeper woke to pain and weariness.

The thought of this for one dark instant cross'd
Her recollection, but again the hope

Of future bliss relumed her sadden'd brow,
And when I parted from her, heavenly joy

Beam'd from her eyes, and the low trembling tones
Of her sweet voice had such a thrilling sound,
They seemed the echo of an Angel's.-Deep
And dreamless are her slumbers now, for she
Is with the dead.--She has exchanged the dreams
Of earth for heaven's realities-and pain
And weariness, for everlasting joy.

FINELLA.

THE WARNING.

"Coming events cast their shadows before."

WHETHER those sights and sounds which have been interpreted as warnings of particular events, were designed as such by that power who regulates the movements of the Universe, is a secret, mortals may not penetrate. However, as the affirmative belief has, in all ages, been indulged by many, who, in every other respect, were entitled to confidence, there needs no apology for taking such a tradition as the basis of a story; especially when Sir Walter Scott has lately given so successful an example of the interest which pertains to the marvellous. I allude to his legend of the "Tapestried Chamber," in the Keepsake; a story, by the way, which, besides being very excellent of its kind, had on my mind the additional sympathy of awakening the remembrance of a strange tale, told me many years since, by one who attested to its truth, and who was worthy of being credited.

It was in September, 17-, that George Howe, Esq. set out on a journey from his residence, in N————, at that time a small town, to the city of Hartford. Howe was a young lawyer, and it was to attend the session of the Supreme Court that he had undertaken his journey. The town of N was somewhat more than thirty miles from Hartford, and as it was nearly two o'clock, P. M. when he started, and the roads, in those days, being very indifferent, he did not expect to reach his destination till very late; yet his business being quite urgent, he intended to pursue his journey without much pause till he arrived at its end. He rode on, deeply immersed in cogitations on the probable consequences which would follow from the loss of a suit in which he was then engaged. He knew the issue to be very doubtful, and from the peculiar manner in which it had been brought forward, felt that his own character as a counsellor, was involved in the event, if not, his character as an honorable man. Yet he did not regret the part he had undertaken; it was the defence of the rights of an orphan family, against the persecuting and pillaging fury of a false friend and faithless guardian,