THE toils of wintry day are done;
Through fog and foul the laboring sun
Has slowly worn his weary way,
And closed in gloom the gates of day.
How brightly burns that silver flame!
My heart, how cheerful is its frame!
What heavenly peace around me reigns!
How free from care and anxious pains!
That light dispels the darkest shade
Which sable nightfall ever made!
Along the woods the winds may sigh,
Dense clouds may gather o'er the sky,
The shivering rains may beat and fall,
And nature wear her blackest pall;
Let storm-beat ocean lash the shore,
And fright pale mothers by its roar;
Let tempests scour both land and sea,
And waste their wrath with ruthless glee;
Yet, here, how quiet is the hour!
No storm-winds pierce this happy bower.
My cottage walls have marked a place
Within the boundless world of space,
Where peace and comfort nightly flow
From this bright luminary's glow.

At early eve, when spreads the board,
Which manly industry has stored
With all the fruits the seasons bring
From autumn back to budding spring,
How welcome is the bounteous light,
That banishes the shades of night:
It sheds such radiance o'er the scene,
As heaven's resplendent, beauteous Queen,
Or great Apollo, god of fire,
Whose golden arrows all admire,
Can ne'er impart to night or day,

By beams direct, or borrowed ray-
Nor could the glorious stars above
Illume so well this feast of love.

No vapor, fog, or gloomy cloud
Doth ever rise this orb to shroud;
It sheds a lustre bright and clear,
Through all the changes of the year.
Nor must we long to see it rise
To dawn upon our wakeful eyes;
A single spark, or living coal,
Will set on fire its very soul,
To meet our wishes, bless our sight,
And fill the atmosphere with light.
The cloth removed, the banquet o'er,
The fire retouched, and brushed the floor,
The wife and mother brings the chair,
That rocks the Sire, whose hoary hair
VOL. VI.-48

In locks is parted round his ear,
That age may thus the better hear.
The little ones, in neat attire,
Are sweetly grouped about the fire,
With apples toasting in the heat
That burns beside their tiny feet.
And if forgetfulness doth break
The proper silence each should make,
The careful wife (for this she lives)
The needful caution gently gives;
While Laura, fairest of the fair,
With brilliant step and buoyant air,
Brings out the light-stand to its place,
With cloth as clean as nature's face.
Neat volumes, beautifully bound,
Are ranged with careless order round;
Bright annuals of many hues,
Hebdomedals of latest news,

And monthlies, fresh from printer's hand,
Which rouse the genius of the land,
With books in printed covers, lie,
To lure the mind and fill the eye.
Amidst them all, the evening's pride,
With polished snuffers by its side,
The lordly candle rears its form,
Dispels the darkness, cheers the storm,
Diffusing sweet domestic joy,
And chaste delights that never cloy.
The father, guardian of the place,
Whose soul is beaming from his face,
With thoughts of good and prudent care,
Selects a page as chaste as fair,
And through the live-long evening hours
The feast of literature devours.
He tracks the light of science far-
From earth to heaven-from star to star;
Or rambles nature o'er and o'er,
And treasures up the useful lore,
Which sage philosophy reveals,
Beneath stern Reason's seven seals.
Or, charmed by Fancy's airy wing,
He notes her humors, hears her sing,
Pursues her as she upward towers
To fairy lands and fairy bowers.
And if to real life she turns,
His heart expands, emotion burns,
His soul, enraptured or oppressed,
Imparts its passion to the rest,
Till nodding age intently hears,
And all alike are lost in tears.

Now, demons of the night-storm, howl!
Now, dark clouds of the tempest, scowl!
Frown, all ye furies of the blast!
Spend, now, your venom to the last!
Let forests bend, let ocean's roll,
Let darkness spread from pole to pole!
O'er all the happy social group,
On which the night-hags dare not stoop,

378

This bright enchantress, lustrous power,
Pours light and joy in ceaseless shower,
Turns night to day, protracts short life,
Expels the elemental strife,
Illumes for youth instruction's page,
Relieves the leaden hours of age,
And draws a halo round sweet home,
Enchanting us if we would roam.

Ye faithless husbands, truant sires,
Who waste your nights by stranger fires,
Who never taste, or seldom know,

The joys that round your hearth-stones flow;
Whose base desires, or habits vile,
Will lure you many a weary mile,
The better part of life to spend
In vulgar gossip without end,
Repent, return, remember now,
Your once dear homes, your early vow.
Come! bless that circle God has given,
Designed the counterpart of heaven;
Relume those eyes that dimly burn;
All foreign pleasures nobly spurn;
Or, when those pleasures cease to roll,
Imprint this maxim on your soul:
The palest light at home that glows,
Is brighter than the wanderer knows.
If home is wretched, life's a hell
More terrible than words can tell;
If happy, then let worldlings call,
The rich let revel, rise and fall,
Ye have more happiness than all.

www

TO MY MOTHER. COME, mother, rest thy aged head

Upon this loving breast;

And let me soothe thy troubled heart,

By sorrow's hand oppressed. Though manhood's care is on my brow, Yet I can ne'er forget

When first I lisped thy cherished name: Thou art my mother yet.

I know full many a gloomy hour

Hath brought deep woes to thee,

And many a cherished hope been wrecked
Upon life's troubled sea;

And few the friends who now remain
To cheer thy humble cot;
Yet, mother, thou art dear to me,
And dear this hallowed spot.
Now let me gaze upon this brow,
Where Time his frost hath flung:
O, mother, I remember now

When thou wert fair and young;
And oft in dreams I see that face,
My youthful mother still:
Thy calm blue eye, that holy look,
Thy sweet and quiet smile.

Dear mother, oft thy wandering son

Hath smiling faces met;

And gentle tones have soothed my fears,
And bid me grief forget;

But there's no heart which beats as thine,
Nor voice whose holy spell

Can wake such memories in my soul,
Or its wild tumults quell.

Then gently lean upon this breast,
My own, my mother dear;
And if thou passest to thy rest

Ere time recall me here,

I'll seek thy cold and silent bed,

And think again of thee,

And bless the Hand which spared so long That mother dear to me. LAMDA.

MY FATHER'S GRAVE.

BY JOHN M. JULIAN.

MR. EDITOR,-The following lines are the production of a young man of great promise, who died twelve years ago last summer. They were composed a short time before his death, on visiting the tomb of his father. May I hope that this slight effusion of one, who gave promise of lending fresh lustre to the galaxy of western genius, will not be thought altogether inappropriate to your pages. I. J.

I SAT beside my father's grave,

And thought upon that hour When in the dust I saw him laid, To share his love no more.

And though long years have o'er me pass'd
Since that lamented day,

The sad remembrance in my breast
Time cannot wear away;

For oft, amidst the mirthful throng,
My joys have been o'ercast
By recollection that would turn

My thoughts upon the past,

And point me to those happy days,
Of childhood's sunny morn,
Before the father of my love

By death from me was torn-
When I was emulous to gain

A father's look of praise:
'Twas all that I desired to win
In those my boyish days.

And when he smiling looked on me,
What rapture did it give!
Such pleasures as I then did see,

O, why should I outlive!

He's gone, and I am left to mourn
My solitary fate;

But never, while life's sand shall run,
Will I his name forget.

379

LADIES' REPOSITORY.

DECEMBER, 1846.

SEVERAL years ago, a gentleman went to dine with the celebrated writer, Jeremy Bentham. Observing the singular combination of wisdom and simplicity, of learning and childlike gayety, in the character of Mr. Bentham, the guest remarked to the philosopher, that it gave him great pleasure to see, that his many years had not impaired his cheerfulness. The reply is a lesson for all the world. "Sir," said the sage, "I cultivate cheerfulness as a habit. Besides, I have the consciousness of having for sixty years devoted my mind to the promotion of the happiness of my fellow-men, and with this consciousness, why should I be otherwise than cheerful?"

FROM very rigid calculations, it has been shown, that Sir Walter Scott must have written, with his own hand, an average of sixteen closely printed pages a day, besides attending to the business of his office; and yet, Washington Irving, who was once Sir Walter's guest for a number of days, informs us, that he seemed to lead a life of almost perfect idleness. He was always glad to see company, and was always ready for any kind of an excursion. While building his great mansion, he would sit for hours conversing with his workmen; and through life, whenever he went out into the country, which was almost a daily habit with him, he would stop and chat with every intelligent countryman that desired to talk with him. When, or how, he found time for his vast researches, and for the astonishing amount of literary labor which he performed, has long been a mystery to the world. Goethe, the German poet and philosopher, conjectures, that he probably only sketched out the plans of his numerous works, and then filled them up by inferior hands. But Miss Martineau, in her popular review of Scott's genius and characteristics, clearly proves, that every line was undoubtedly written { by himself. His example, in this respect, has probably no parallel in the history of literary men.

POETRY has had various definitions. Lord Bacon says, "It is something divine, because it raises the mind, and hurries it into sublimity, by conforming the shows of things to the desires of the soul, instead of subjecting the soul to external things, as reason and history do." But the definition of Ebenezer Elliott, the corn-law rhymer, a humble name in comparison with Bacon's, suits us better. "What is poetry," says Elliott, "but impassioned truth?" Nothing-nothing else will reach it. Poetry is truth set on fire by the imagination.

WHEN Napoleon Bonaparte was at Dresden, during one period of the French Revolution, he rose one morning before the break of day, to superintend the erection of an important breast-work and bridge. While standing near his men, a large shell from the enemy's camp fell and exploded so near him, as to hurl a piece of timber to his very feet. The men were thunder-struck by the narrow escape of the great commander; but Napoleon, facing round and turning over the fragment of timber, coolly observed, "that a few inches more and it would have done its business."

CONTEMPT of death is not a natural feeling. In every instance, it is the result of thought and discipline.

Seneca gives rules by which it may be attained by a philosopher. A military education imposes it upon the pupil by a long continued effort; but, at last, the soldier's greatest support is, that it is his profession to kill, and his trade to die. But the Christian dies in triumph, because he sees life and immortality before him.

PERFUMES for the sick-room, wherever there is a close attention to the comfort of the patient, will be always in demand; but in many parts of the country, even in many large settlements and towns, they are not always to be obtained. But, by taking a little pains, every family can very easily supply itself, and that, too, at a very moderate cost. Let any lady take the petals of the common garden rose, and drop them into a bottle. Let her then pour in some pure spirits of wine, and cork up the bottle for future use. This makes a splendid perfume, but little inferior to what is styled otto of roses, and may be kept for years. A few drops of it will send a delightful odor through the largest room. Such gentle labors are also very fitting the character of a lady, and, like her own lovely example, leave behind them a sweet and a long perfume.

HOGARTH, the celebrated comic painter, was one of the best men of his age. He was a perfect reformer in his profession. Most comedians live only to make people laugh; but it was Hogarth's glory, that, while his pictures produced the most immoderate and irrepressible laughter, men laughed only at what was vicious, immoral or absurd. Such painters are very useful men, real coadjutors in the work of reforming and educating

the moral sense of mankind.

THE old classic, Epictetus, delivers this caution to those in the habit of telling their dreams: "Never tell thy dream, for though thou thyself mayst take a pleasure in telling thy dream, another will take no pleasure in hearing it." This caution is very good, but the supposition on which it is based is not always correct. The celebrated dream of Pereskius, the friend of Gassendi, has always been interesting, even to philosophers. Pereskius was engaged in the study of ancient coins, weights, and measures. One night he dreamed he met a goldsmith at a certain place, who offered him a coin of the age of Julius Cæsar for four cardecues. The next day the coin was actually offered to him precisely as he had imagined during sleep. Similar examples are very numerous. Let the reader decide what we are to think of such things.

AN old writer, whose book has now become very moldy and dusty, but whose superstition would pass as a fresh specimen with the Romanists of the present day, makes out the following catalogue of the wonderful things seen by himself in St. Mark's church, at Venice, Italy: "Divers heads of saints, enchased in gold; a small ampulla, or glass, with our Savior's blood; a great morsel of the real cross; one of the nails; a thorn; a fragment of the column to which our Lord was bound when scourged; a piece of St. Luke's arm; a rib of St. Stephen; and a finger of Mary Magdalen!" Should it be thought by any one that Romanism has improved in this respect in modern times, let it be remembered that it is but a year or two since the Catholics in Europe professed to exhibit the identical coat, worn by our Savior during his sojourn in this world!

EDITOR'S TABLE.

OUR NEXT VOLUME.-The volume for 1847 begins with the next number. The one now closing up has been edited under peculiar circumstances. The first half of it was conducted by our predecessor, Dr. Thomson, when his thoughts and feelings must have frequently wandered away to the new and important work, which he had promised to undertake in another quarter. During the latter part of Dr. Thonison's term, his engagements at Delaware demanded of him occasional visits to the University, at which times he was compelled to trust many things to the discretion of the printer.

For more than a month after the present editor's period of service began, he was confined to a distant field of labor, which was sufficiently arduous to occupy completely as many hours per day, as most men devote to literary labors. But, by a little pushing and crowding, the August and September numbers were brought out at the ordinary seasons. During the preparation of the October issue, the editor was at his post, and for that number he has no apology to offer. The Repository for November, together with the present number, has suffered more embarrassments than either of their predecessors. Though much of the matter for both had been provided for, and all the editorials for the first had been handed to the printer before the editor left the city on his way to the northern conferences, yet his long absence, and above all his protracted sickness, presented insurmountable obstacles to the attainment of desirable success.

From the above causes, the Repository for this year has not been, on every page, so perfect as it would otherwise have been.

But, after all, our work has continually received the highest encomiums from the literary world. The ediitors of many of our best journals and newspapers have frequently indulged their kind-heartedness, in speaking of it in terms of almost unmeasured praise. We thank them all most sincerely for their friendliness, and hope in future to merit still better their good opinions. We have, also, received numerous private testimonials, to the good character of the Repository, while in our hands, and that, too, from quarters least expected, enough to cheer us on amidst all the embarrassments we have suffered. Both the east and the west have given us a welcome to our new field of labor, and a steady encouragement to our endeavors, which we had never dreamed of meriting or receiving.

Such is a brief outline of the past. The future lies before us.

Although the present editor, after his appointment, had conceived some changes in the general character of the work, in order to give it a still greater adaptedness to the wants and wishes of its readers, he did not think it best to introduce them into the middle of a volume. This obstacle will now no longer exist; and the next volume may be expected by our readers to be in some respects different from those already in their hands. The typographical execution will be the same, because it would be difficult, perhaps impossible, to make it any better; but the reading matter, both as to style and subjects, undoubtedly admits of improvement.

We have spared no pains in endeavoring to enlist the best of our writers to contribute to the pages of the Repository. From our extensive personal acquaintance, both in the east and west, with our literary gentlemen and ladies, we may have an advantage over both of our

distinguished predecessors. We shall strive to make the most of this advantage for the character and success of our work.

Our readers may also expect a decided improvement in the embellishments of the Repository. Although those of the present and preceding volumes were as good as could be conveniently obtained, and equal to those found in the majority of our most popular monthlies, we have made great exertions to obtain better ones, and have been successful in our efforts.

In a word, we expect, if it be possible, to make the Ladies' Repository, not only a better work than it has been, but the best work of its kind extant. We would render it so interesting, that the public will seek for it, and not wait for the customary solicitations to become subscribers and readers. It is our object to present such an array of useful and instructive matter, that those of our people who neglect to read it, will find the loss to be their own more than ours. But, at the same time, and for the same reason, we hope our friends will increase, rather than diminish their efforts, to place the Repository in the hands of all our ladies through the land.

Finally, we present our combined endeavors as an object of prayer. Our success is the widow's hope and the orphan's joy. Many, who, in their days of health and happiness, neglect this work of love, may be accumulating a fearful weight of misery, for those they may soon leave widowed and alone. Pray, then, and labor for our continued prosperity; and so, as the fruit of our united exertions, the light literature of at least a large portion of our country may find a happy redemption, and a thousand hearts, now sad and desolate, may be made to sing.

With many thanks to the public for its past indulgence, we look now to the future with a strong reliance upon its continued kindness.

TO CORRESPONDENTS.-We have many thanks to present to our friends, who have sent contributions to the Repository. Their articles, upon the whole, have been of a high order of merit. Many of them, in fact, if we are a judge, would compare well with the writings of our best English authors; and we have occasionally met with passages, some of them considerably lengthy, which would lose nothing by the severest criticism. The only improvement which could be made by our best contributors would be, to write their entire articles in a uniform style-in a style equal to their best passages. But, as it is, we think they have furnished us as good matter, as can be found in the most popular periodicals in the country. There have been pieces, both of prose and poetry, which will be read in after years, as specimens of good style. Nor need our contributors fear, that, by the exercise of their highest literary powers, they will soar too high for our readers. It is not the design of this work to descend to the low degrees of the world around us, but to bring the world up to the true standard of good sense, sound knowledge, correct taste, and pure religion.

TO OUR READERS.-At the close of this volume, we send out to our numerous readers our heartiest greetings. We trust that they have been amused, interested, and improved by the monthly visits of our periodical. We hope, also, that they will not only continue to receive and read the work, but be prepared to give our new contributors an approving welcome.