The type of the restless soul of man, the weary, wingless bird.

COWS.

I admire cows in their proper places. They are undoubtedly useful animals; some may think them handsome and graceful: this is, as yet, an unsettled question. They certainly figure pretty extensively in all sketches of rural scenery, and may, therefore, be considered as picturesque objects; but I think that on canvas they take to themselves beauties which they do not possess in actual life. I do not object to see them at a distance, quietly grazing in a meadow by the brink of a winding stream, and all that sort of thing, provided the distance is very great, and a strong fence intervenes. For I would have you know, that I am a delicate young lady of nervous temperament and keen sensibilities, and have a mortal dread of cows. I am not used to the customs of country life, which place this animal on a level with domestic pets, and when my brother asked me to pat the side of one of these great, coa.r.s.e brutes, I screamed at the mere idea. For I should be extremely unwilling to provoke one of them, because I have been told that, when heated with pa.s.sion, as these beasts often are, it sometimes happens that the powder-horns on top of their heads explode, and spread ruin and desolation around. People here bestow a vast deal too much consideration on these unpleasant animals, for they are often seen--that is, those of them that are troubled with weak eyes--walking along the streets with boards over their faces, as a protection from the rays of the sun. I don't believe that is the real reason of the thing, though my brother a.s.sures me that it is. I think, myself, that it is intended as a keen satire upon those young ladies who wear veils in the streets; but I never will yield my point. I _will_ wear my veil, so long as I have a complexion worth protecting, and so long as there are gentlemen worth cutting. The Brighton Bridge Battery is a delightful promenade on a warm summer's day, it is _so_ shady; but it is closed, I may say, every Wednesday and Thursday, to accommodate these detestable pets of the public. It seems, as my brother informs me, that the drovers, from humane considerations, are in the habit of driving their cattle over to Brighton, (when the weather is pleasant,) and back again on the next day, in order that their health may be improved by the sea-air which blows up Charles River. Now I think that when the cow takes precedence of the lady, and usurps, to the utter exclusion of the latter, the most delightful promenade in Cambridge, it is time the city authorities should look to it; and so I told my brother. He considered for a moment, and then advised me not to bear it any longer, but to go upon Brighton Bridge, _in spite_ of the cows, and a.s.sert my independence. I followed his advice, as I always do, and, on one fine afternoon, took advantage of the pleasant weather to indulge in a solitary walk in that direction. As I was sauntering along on the wooden sidewalk, gazing at the n.o.ble ships which lay moored by their gaff-topsails to the abutments of the bridge, and viewing the honest sailors as they promenaded up and down the string-ladders at the command of their captains, my fears were aroused by a distant commotion. I hastily turned and looked over the railing into the street. A whole drove of infuriated cows, urged on by two fiendish boys and a savage dog, was rapidly approaching me from the Cambridge side. What should I do? I was too much fatigued to run, and I had never learned to swim. My plans were hastily formed. Flinging my red silk visite and sky-blue parasolette into the water, lest the gay colors should still more enrage the wild animals, I jumped over the outside railing towards the river, and hung by one arm over the angry flood during a moment of speechless agony! On they came, with lightning speed, in a whirlwind of dust. A rapid succession of earthquakes--bellowings--groans,--and all was over. I was safe. On inspection of the footmarks, I felt quite sure that some of them must have approached within ten yards of me, and only two railings had intervened between me and their fury.

An honest tar from one of the men-of-war employed in unloading coal at Willard's Wharf took the captain's gig, and made for my parasol and visite as they floated away, and returned them with the very unintelligible remark, that I'd "better not clear the wreck next time unless it blew more of a breeze."

THE HOME-BEACON.

By Elkton wood, where gurgling flood Impels the foamy mill, Where quarries loom, in solemn gloom, A mansion crowns the hill.

A pharos true, light ever new Streams through its friendly pane, To guide and greet benighted feet Which thread the winding lane.

Lofty and lone, that light has shone, Alike o'er green or snow, Since first a pair their nest built there, Two hundred years ago.

Now, as we walk, with pleasant talk To cheer the dismal way, That light shall tell of marriage-bell, Of moon and merry sleigh.

The ancient home to which we come These scenes revealed one night; As the beacon true, so old, yet new, Flung wide its cheery light.

Go back threescore long years, or more: Old Time the latch shall lift, And, from his urn, once more return The home of love and thrift.

A n.o.ble sire, with nerves of wire, Warm heart, and open hand,-- A worthy dame, nor shrewd, nor tame,-- Lead forth the phantom band;

Three girls, three boys, with fun and noise, Next gather round the hearth; Reenter, then, dear friends, again All full of life and mirth.

"My pretty nuns, 't is late! My sons, Bring out the 'Sliding Car.'

For one fair bride, you all must ride The snows both fast and far."

First darts away the bridegroom gay, Nor waits the well-aimed jest: To shed and stall they follow, all, To speed their sire's behest.

In full array, the s.p.a.cious sleigh Glides through the pillared gate: Each prancing steed, straining to lead, Draws no unwilling mate.

Full moon and bright loops up the night Above the starry sky.

Runner and heel, well shod with steel, Cut sharply as they fly.

Along they go, o'er sparkling snow, Shrill bells to song oft ringing; By oak and birch, to Gladstone church A bridal party bringing.

On time-worn walls the moonbeam falls, And silvers o'er the spire, While diamond-pane and giddy vane Repeat the heavenly fire.

From lofty tower to maiden's bower, And wide o'er hill and dell, Of earthly heaven, to mortals given, Sweet chimes the marriage-bell.

With open book, and solemn look, All robed in priestly lawn, The Rector stands,--but counts the sands, Right willing to be gone!

(The evening mail and nut-brown ale, His pipe and rocking-chair, Are waiting long, while the bridal throng Still lingers unaware.)

An ancient gloom fills all the room, And dims the lamps above, Though wall and aisle in verdure smile, Through wreath and Christmas grove.

By branching pines and graceful vines, Slow glides the youthful pair To the altar green, with brow serene, And kneel together there.

Soft breathes the vow, responsive now, In calm but earnest tone.

The wedding-ring, strange, mystic thing!

Fast binds the twain in one.

The solemn word no longer heard, With chastened steps and slow, And heart in heart, no more to part, To "Home, sweet Home," they go.

Fresh now, again, o'er snowy main, The winged steeds return: On roughening rock, with shriek and shock, The flashing runners burn.

O'er cradling drift, secure though swift,-- Now smooth, now rough, the track,-- The furious sleigh devours the way, As lash and harness crack.

Through furs and wool, the air, so cool, Is felt or feared no more; Though gay the steeds with icy beads, And their flanks are frosted o'er.

A fitful light, scarce yet in sight, Gleams through the opening wood: Ah! now they come to their hill-side home, In merry, merry mood.

Four lovely girls, a string of pearls, Are found in place of three: Four daughters fair are gathered there Around the Christmas-tree.

As roars the fire, their loving sire A warmer welcome deals; And, stooping low, on one fair brow His heart's adoption seals.

A dearer bliss, a mother's kiss, Awaits the blushing bride: One look above! then smiles of love Express her joy and pride.

Once more good cheer removes the tear, Returns the joyous smile; Soon laughter, poured around the board, Rings through the s.p.a.cious pile.

While dance and song employ them long, Steals in the cold, gray dawn!

Back to your urn, ye phantoms, turn, And vanish o'er the lawn.

Stern, though in tears, with Fatal shears, Time scattered all those pearls!

They fell, unstrung, old graves among; O'er all the snow-wreath curls!

Yet shines that light from lattice bright, Wide o'er the gra.s.s, or snow; Still all the room its rays illume, As when, so long ago,

Its arrowy star recalled the car Then winding round the wood, And lime-rock gray threw back the ray Across the rapid flood.

Though cold each form, their _love_, still warm, From hearth and lattice glows: Hearts kind and dear yet linger here, And bid us to repose.

The skies are dark! No moonbeams mark Or wall, or traveller's way: O'er rock and wood thick storm-clouds brood, And doubts our steps delay.

No beacon-light yet cheers the night: How gloomy grows the hour!

Ah! there it shines, in lance-like lines, Sharp through the misty shower.

Shine on, fair star, through storms, afar!

Still bless the nightly way!

Always the same, a vestal flame, Love shall maintain thy ray.