ial throng,
As, gathered round the festive board,
Our healths she pledges in a song.

She meets us in our private walks,
'Mid groves that fairy glens embower,
When Morning gems her purple locks,
Or Vesper rules the silent hour.

Her hand, upon the beech's rind,
Marks well, for fair Belinda's eyes,
(Else vainly murmured to the wind,)
Thy flame, young Damon, and thy sighs.

Stern Toil, beneath her gentle sway,
Well pleased, unbends his rugged brow--
With Bloomfield chants the rustic lay,
Or guides with Burns the daisied plough.

Her form appears the bow of peace,
Upon the clouds that darken life,
Now bidding Sorrow's tears to cease,
And staying now the hand of Strife.

She smiles on me, no bard inspired,
But wand'rer o'er life's arid waste,
Who, fainting, halting, parched and tired,
One cordial, nectared drop would taste.

Companion of the pure in heart,
She tunes the lyre to David's flame,
And rapt, as mortal scenes depart,
She hymns the heaven from whence she came!

THERESA, OR GENIUS AND WOMANHOOD.

A TALE OF DOMESTIC LIFE.

BY MRS. JANE TAYLOR WORTHINGTON.

CHAPTER I.

What sad experience may be thine to bear
Through coming years;
For womanhood hath weariness and care,
And anxious tears;
And they may all be thine, to brand the brow
That in its childish beauty sleepeth now.

Theresa Germaine was a child some six years of age when I saw her
first, nearly twenty-five years ago. It is a long time to look back
on; but I well remember the bright, winning face, and cordial manners
of the little lady, when she would come to the parsonage and enliven
our tranquil hearts by her gay, spontaneous glee. She was full of life
and buoyancy; there was even then a sort of sparkling rapture about
her existence, a keen susceptibility of enjoyment, and an intense
sympathy with those she loved, which bespoke her, from the first, no
ordinary being. Ah, me! I have lived to see all that fade away, and to
feel grateful when the dust was laid on the brow I had kissed so often
in an old man's fondness--but let that pass. I must write calmly, or
tears will blind me; and I have undertaken the task of recording
Theresa's experience, not to tell how well we loved her, but to
strive, however feebly and imperfectly, to lay bare some of the
peculiarities o