Through their long lashes, and her raven hair,
Clustering in glossy curls, or floating free.
Her beauty was so spirit-like and rare,
It seem'd as though her body were a soul,
Not form'd of common clay, but purest air,
With such a holy calm shed o'er the whole,

Such sweetness, and such grace, that every heart she stole.

I see her as she stood by me that night,

Whose morning was to bear me from my home,

Her red lip quivering, and her eye of light

Cast down, and dimm'd by tears, that still would come,
Though much she strove to hide them from my sight;
Fervent, my Ella, was thy love for me,

Yet now that thou art made a seraph bright,
Oh! dost thou now thy wretched brother see,
So guilty, and forever lost to Heaven and thee?

Hark! now, upon the air, a pensive strain
Of softest, purest music, floats along,
My Ella's harp I seem to hear again,
Now, with it comes a sighing voice in song,
That thrills each nerve, and curdles every vein;
My angel sister, dost thou linger here,

So holy, pure, and free from every stain,

Thy guilty Arthur's dying bed to cheer?

Or is it o'erwrought fancy's voice, that fills my ear?

LINES,

Written on the first page of her Album, in 1829.

Ir ever, on my path, the star of fortune brightly shines,
If future years are writ for me in gay and brilliant lines,—
Then oft, in joyous hours, I'll trace these dear memorials o'er,
And think on loved ones, till my eyes with tender sorrow pour.

But if, with stormy clouds of grief, my path be overcast, Or if along its verdure sweep despair's cold withering blast,

Then too, I'll seek these cherished names, and each endearing line

Shall wake my heart to cheerfulness, though joy may not be

.mine.

ROMANCES.

Written at the Greenfield High School, January, 1830.

This and the following piece were sent, by a friend of the Author, to the Editor of the Ladies' Magazine, and were inserted in that work.

MANY, who consider the reading of romances injurious, give no other reason for their opinion, than the assertion that they excite interest only by the exhibition of unnatural characters, and the narration of improbable events. And this objection is not limited to that class of novels, of which only it is true, those in which it is the author's aim to raise cu

riosity by the very strangeness of the circumstances he relates, or the extravagance of the feelings which he describes. It is extended to all those sweet tales, which portray nature and mankind correctly. On their fidelity to nature, depends all the beauty of these most beautiful of fancy's works. If we discover in them any improbable event, or any description of emotions, which, in the given circumstances, we should not have felt to their full extent, our admiration and interest are at an end. Indeed, these tales often describe scenes far less interesting than some we have ourselves witnessed. What, then, is the powerful charm by which they are able to send such a thrill of feeling through the soul; and which, in some minds, is far more deep, and even more lasting, than any reality can produce?

One cause of this charm is, that in these stories we are, as it were, behind the scenes, and allowed to examine the principal characters far more minutely than we dwell on even our own feelings in real life. They describe to us, at length, all those little involuntary actions, and those uncontrolable expressions of the countenance, which develope the working of the mind far more truly and touchingly, than more important actions, which are never so entirely the result of feeling. Though we recognize these as natural when we meet them in narrative, we yet scarely ever observe them when they are before our eyes, or at least do not remember them. We are too much interested in more important events which are going on, or our attention is divided by the many objects around us.

We are also selfish beings; and if we are in the least concerned in any event, we are apt to think of it only in its

relation to ourselves, though this may be far less important than the relation it bears to others. We do not, therefore, feel for them that sympathy, which we so liberally bestow on the actors in any event, which is not to affect our own interest. And, when we consider how few events occur, which affect materially the interests of our acquaintances, without affecting our own in some way, without touching in some point, our selfishness, or our pride, this circumstance might appear to have considerable weight in accounting for the greater interest we feel in fictitious scenes.

There is another circumstance, which always gives a powerful charm to a vivid creation of fancy. In reading a beautiful tale, we paint the hero or heroine of it, and the scenes in which they move, with fancy's pencil; and the picture, although distinct, is not like life. If we could see the most beautiful pictures of our imagination embodied, and standing before us, they would not seem to us the same we fancied. They would be material-earthly. They would want that soft fading away of the dim outline into air, which makes them seem so spirit-like. They would want the pure light we throw over them, and the "clear obscure," which

"So softly dark, and darkly pure,"

makes them enchanting. We should feel then that "the beings of the mind are not of clay."

If these are truly the causes of the charm which the fashionable tales of the day possess, then, to them, the objection against novels, to which we have alluded, certainly cannot apply. It was undoubtedly a very strong, and a

very reasonable one, when, in the olden time, the startling tales of giants and enchanters were so much admired, and half-believed. When giants and enchanters had lost their power, they were succeeded by knights of supernatural valor, and ladies of unearthly beauty, who appeared to the astonished reader, now in situations of the most heart-rending distress, and the next day, or perhaps the next hour, in scenes of rapturous bliss. These were also justly deemed liable to mislead the young mind, by giving incorrect ideas of the world and earthly happiness. The same was true of the romance of more modern times, which merely changed the tournament for the ball-room, and the heroic knight for the sentimental gentleman, but had still the same end in view-that of enchanting by novelty, and inflaming the passions by extravagance. But from these, there is now little danger to any who have access to the publications of the present day. The contrast between the two kinds is readily perceived, and the extravagances of the romance excite, at present, as much ridicule as they formerly excited admiration; while there are many with whom their inelegant style of printing, and old-fashioned covers are a sufficient cause of contempt.

This latter class of novel-readers includes the only ones who would be in danger of material injury from these improbable tales. But our good grandmothers, naturally thinking that a novel must always be a novel, continually sound in our ears, the exclamation which they so often heard and disregarded in their youth-" what false notions these stories will put into your heads!"