while I created only one! Which set are the counterfeits?' To resolve the question, he sent Mercury to seize the two who were on earth, and drag them to Olympus. The son of Maïa departed with a speed proportioned to the power and impatience of the sender; but with a like speed he returned and solved the mystery. The two on earth were neither Fortune nor Misfortune, though greatly resembling them in external appearance. They were not even deities, but plodding earthborn spirits, who are as steady and uniform in their ministrations as the others are fickle and capricious. Still they had interfered with Jupiter's intentions, and he resolved to extirpate them; but on looking into the Book of Fate, he found they were destined to endure as long as the human race, and their proper names are Management and Mismanagement. What could be done under the circumstances Jupiter resolved to do, for he much wished to relieve himself from the imputation that Heaven permits Fortune and Misfortune to govern the world, or organizes some men for eloquence and literature, others for ineloquence and ignorance; some men for riches and honor, others for poverty and dishonor. And to place the future beyond all contingency, he issued a decree, supplemental to the one already announced, and which, like it, is to endure till the end of time, that Management and Mismanagement shall be subject to the control of mankind only, and be employed by every man as the man himself shall direct. That the person who most eschews Mismanagement, and who employs Management most skilfully and diligently, shall saw the most wood, if he directs his efforts to that object; he shall obtain the most literature and eloquence, if he directs his efforts to those objects; and he shall accumulate the most money, if he applies himself to the acquisition of property.

VOL. XXXVI.

Ir the fair Maid of Shiraz would list to my song,
And accept of the heart I have proffered so long,
For the smile of her lip and the clasp of her hand
I would give my Bockhara and Samaracand.

Boy, bring me the wine that remains in the cup!
For this night, if to Eden your soul were caught up,
Ye would sigh for the bowers of MOSELLA the fair,
And the sweet streams of Rockna that murmur not there.

They told me the maid whom I prized most of late
Had spoke of her love in the language of hate :
Ah! no- bitter words never came from a lip
Where the red ruby laughed and invited to sip.

Yes, HAFIZ, thy song not unsweetly was sung,
For its words were like pearls, which beauty had strung;
And the soft balmy light which it sheds upon love,

Is like that which the Pleiads shower down from above.

23

ONCE again on the hill-side the young grass is springing;
Once more the bright waters flow sparkling and free;
And afar in the wild-wood the blithe bird is singing,
And faint on the breeze floats the song of the bee:
But my hopes that are flown will return again never,
And vain is the music of spring-time to me;

I but feel from thy side I am parted forever,
And sad is the heart that throbs only for thee.

Still close to my bosom I cherish the token

Thy hand pressed in mine, while you vowed to be true;
And my cheek told the tale that my lips had ne'er spoken,
As we sat on the bank where the wild-flowers grew :
I watched for thee long, till the pale flowers perished,
And the dead leaves fell quiv'ring to earth silently,
And all the bright dreams that my bosom once cherished
Had fled from the heart that throbs only for thee.

OCTOBER.

OCTOBER in the wilderness! How silent! how glorious! A veil of smoke hangs over the mighty stretch of wood, and quivers all around through its gorgeous aisles, while the dead leaves, like floating blossoms, roll through it, swayed by Autumn's faintest sigh. Yon lake, wrapped in a soft haze, lies asleep in the golden arms of the forest. The very mountain, which towers above it, dyed to its very peak, nods amid the dozy air, and showers down its drapery upon its still waters. Afar, beyond the lake, a small prairie, like a little sea, sends its gores up into the main land, with here and there an island of trees, that looks in the distance like globes of fire suspended between the heavens and the earth. There is the tread of the wild-fowl, the gathering in of the squirrel, the tap of the acorn- all mingled. Hark! it is the partridge. She walks demurely and cautiously toward yon log, and mounting it with a dignity as stiff as great Cæsar's, thunders away to the whole surrounding wood. The POWER that made her spins her garments and spreads her board. Her harvest of wild berries ripens for her without thought or care. Away she whirrs and soars, her form waning fainter and fainter in the changing shadows that flicker around, until - she is

lost.

Chickaree! chickaree! chickaree! Good morning to you, Mr. Chipmuck. And so you are gathering in your winter stores. That acorn under which you are staggering is as great a tug as a mountain to a

giant. That's the third time you have attempted to grasp it, but it rolls away. There, now you have it. Chickaree! - and darting away, his little chequered mantle is swallowed up in the earth. And away down there his little palace is built, as noble as a lord's. It is warm with furs, and its granaries are full. The blast of winter, as it howls above him, cannot penetrate his home. I have great respect for the chipmuck, for he belongs to the aborigines. His forefathers, I am very credibly informed, crossed Bhering's Straits thousands of years ago, on a piece of bark, using their tails for masts and sails, as squirrels now do when crossing streams. Oh! that the history of the continent could be revealed by you! The mound-builders and thy race were contemporary. Your ancestry runs back into generations of men, who have only left us their monuments and their bones. Chickaree! — and out he flies, and chattering up a mighty oak hard by, buries himself in its top. And that oak, reader, will count ten centuries by its rings, (those notches of time,) covering more than thirty generations. It was here where Peter the Hermit preached his crusade; and the gale that wafted the May Flower shook, perhaps, its green top in its westward flight. Yet there it stands, deep-rooted in a mound filled with the remains of a people; and that people, reader - why their stony faces are now grinning at us from the monuments that are shrowded in the silence and gloom of Palenque. At least, so I am informed.

Hark! 'tis the drone of the Bee. How he blows his tiny trumpet in the autumnal sky, now swelling, now dying, as he winds away, the strain of his horn sinking less and less, until it expires in the finest and most exquisite thread of melody! That bee is not alone. He is one of a colony, whose city, streaming with wild honey, is built high up in the trunk of yonder gnarled beech. And that city, reader, holds its queen, its military, its police, and its commons. Its streets, squares and edifices, are built with a strength and economy that mathematics cannot improve. O man, who cannot find any evidence of a SUPREME BEING, study the government, the art and science, that controls and preserves that little colony! You may almost see the awful presence of DEITY moving behind it.

Ha ha! Mr. Grasshopper, arrayed in your green surtout, and high mounted on yon tall spire of grass, how those gauze-like wings shiver out their music, though touched, methinks, now and then with a note of melancholy. Relatively, you are a great body. The chain of animated nature that reaches around the earth runs far below thee in minuteness of form, down down beyond the reach of eye or ear.

But, reader, the whole forest is peopled; a world of life, the half of which is unknown, is here cared for by their CREATOR. This is their palace. The sun their light by day, as well as ours; the moon their lamp at night; the drifted leaves, rich as woven rainbows, their couch : their board is ever spread, without care. They have but to gather in. The curse was upon man alone.

And, reader, the red man is here a fragment only of a great tribe. Alone he sits on yonder cliff, gaudily clad, his bark-canoe anchored below him. He too is here, a wanderer in a deserted temple- the last of the worshippers. The solemn drapery of October hangs around as

What tradi

of old, but his chief, his prophets, his laws are no more. tions are locked up in that breast, which will never be profaned by the white man's ear! Methinks he hears again the war-whoop of Tecumseh of Pontiac - the rush of battle and the conflict of arms he sits, immovable, like a piece of sculpture, wrought out by Autumn when the woods were changed.

- yet there

But enough. The long shadows of the trees have struck the eastern shore of the lake, and I must away, where sterner pictures of life will be found. And until another meeting - farewell!

Michigan.

H. H. R.

* MISS CHARLOTTE CANDA, who lost her life by a melancholy accident in New-York a few years since.

*FREEBORN, the pilot, who lost his life in an attempt to save the crew of a ship which was wrecked on the Jersey shore.

+ A FIREMAN who lost his life during a conflagration in New-York some time since.