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114   ANNA MARIA WELLS.

When falling dews the clover steep,
And birds are in their nest,
And flower-buds folded up to sleep,
And ploughmen gone to rest;

Down the rude track her feet have worn,-
There scarce the goat may go,-
Poor Rosalie, with look forlorn,
Is seen descending slow.

But when the gray morn tints the sky.
And lights that lofty peak,-
With a strange lustre in her eye,
A fever in her cheek,

Again she goes, untired, to sit
And watch the livelong day;
Nor till the star of eve is lit,
E'er turns her steps away.

Hidden, and deep, and never dry,
Or flowing, or at rest,
A living spring of hope doth lie
In every human breast.

All else may fail that soothes the heart,
All, save that fount alone;
With that and life at once we part,
For life and hope are one!


CAROLINE GILMAN.
WHO, that has ever read the Recollections of a Southern Matron, with its wise clear thought, its delicate wit, its unaffected pathos, its fresh descriptions, and its vividly-drawn characters, but loves the name of Mrs. Caroline Gilman? Not we, assuredly. We must therefore be permitted to pay a warm tribute of gratitude for that most charming book. Mrs. Gilman, formerly Miss Howard, was born in Boston, in the year 1794. She married Dr. Samuel Gilman, a minister of a Unitarian church in Charleston, S.C., in 1819; and has resided ever since in that city, where both are distinguished for their high intellec-tual attainments, and venerated for their moral excellencies. For seven years Mrs. Gilman edited a literary gazette, called The Southern Rose. Her published works are, Recollections of a New-England House-keeper; Recollections of a Southern of a Southern Matron; Tales and Ballads; Love's Progress; Letters of Eliza Wilkinson; Stories and Poems for Children; Poetry of Travelling in the United States; Oracles from the Poets; The Sibyl; and a volume of poetry now in the press, called, Verses of a Life-time. Her poems are unaffected and sprightly; in-spired by warm domestic, and pure religious feeling.

MY PIAZZA.
My piazza, my piazza! some boast their lordly halls,
Where soften'd gleams of curtain'd light on golden treasure falls,
Where pictures in ancestral rank look stately side by side,
And forms of beauty and of grace move on in living pride!

I envy not the gorgeousness that decks the crowded room,
Where vases with exotic flowers throw out their sick perfume,
With carpets where the slipper'd foot sinks soft in downy swell,
And mirror'd walls reflect the cheek where dimpled beauties dwell.
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