there will remain one pound as sweet and perfect sugar as that which is gotten out of the cane; part of which sugar has been for many years constantly sent to Rouen in Normandy to be refined."EVELYN.

"In America the Sugar Maple grows as tall as the Oak. Its wood is extremely inflammable, and is preferred on that account by hunters and surveyors for fire-wood. Its small branches are so impregnated with sugar, as to afford support to the cattle, horses, and sheep of the first settlers during the winter, before they are able to cultivate forage for that purpose. Its ashes afford a great quantity of potash. It is not injured by tapping; on the contrary, the oftener it is tapped, the more syrup is obtained from it. A single tree not only survived, but flourished, after forty-two tappings in the same number of years-this is further demonstrated by the superior excellence of those trees which have been perforated in a hundred places, by a small woodpecker which feeds upon the sap. A tree of an ordinary size yields in a good season from twenty to thirty gallons of sap, from which are made from five to six pounds of sugar. The perforation in the tree is made with an axe or an auger. The auger is introduced about three quarters of an inch, and in an ascending direction, and afterwards deepened gradually to the extent of two inches. A spout, made of the Elder or other wood, is introduced about half an inch into this wound, projecting some inches from the tree, and troughs of wood are placed under the spout to receive the sap, whence it is conveyed to the boiler. This sap flows for about six weeks in the early spring. During the remaining summer months, a thin liquor is yielded, not fit for distillation, but supplying a very pleasant drink."-DR. RUSH.

The Sugar Maple is not the same species as that of our hedges.

"The Common Maple may best be produced from the seeds contained in the folliacles or keys, as they are called. It is also propagated by layers and suckers."-EVELYN.

HYMNS AND POETICAL RECREATIONS.

THE ADVICE.

WHAT'S forming in the womb of Fate?

Why art thou so concern'd to know?

Dost think 'twou'd be advantage to thy state?

But wiser Heaven does not think it so.

With thy content thou would'st this knowledge buy;

No part of life thou'dst pleasant find;

For dread of what thou seest behind,

Thou would'st but taste of the enlight'ning fruit and die.

Well, then, has Heaven events to come,
Hid with the blackest veil of night;

But still in vain, if we forestal our doom,

And with prophetick fears ourselves affright: Grand folly! whether thus 'twill be or no,

We know not; and yet silly man

Learns of his evils what he can,

And stabs himself with grief, lest fate should miss the blow.

Be wise, and let it be thy care

To manage well the present hour,

Call home thy ranging thoughts and fix them here;
This only mind, this only's in thy power:

The rest no settled, steady course maintain;
Like rivers, which now gently slide

Within their bounds, now with full tide

O'erflow, that houses, cattle, trees resist in vain.

'Tis he that's happy, he alone

Lives free and pleasant, that can say

With every period of the setting sun,

I've lived, and ran my race like him to-day;

To-morrow let the angry Heavens frown,

Or smile with influence more kind,

On God depends what's yet behind,

But sure what I have seiz'd already's all my own.

AN OLD AUTHOR.

ON READING A LINE OF LORD BYRON'S,
"I want no Paradise but Rest."

WHERE wilt thou find it? Thou hast journey'd far,
And thou hast paus'd to ask at many a door,
And question'd many a traveller by the way,
If they could tell thee where her mansion lay.
When the full cup was sparkling to the brim
With pleasure's promise, and its golden rim
With eager liking to thy lip was press'd-
'Twas joy, 'twas mirth-'twas any thing but rest.
The wild expectance, giddy on its height-
The agitating hope, the snatch'd delight—
O they were like yon sea-surge, breaking ever,
Gay, brilliant, beautiful--but resting never.

And when that all was over, and no more
The fig-tree blossom'd or the olive bore-
When the rich fruit no more was in the vine,
And joy had not wherewith to fill again-
And baffled hope had nothing more to plight-
And sorrow could not find a bud to blight—
Firm as the scath'd oak when no tempest shakes it—
Still as the lute-string when no finger wakes it-
Thy spirit, startled at the wide, wide waste,
Had fain bade back again its sorrows past;
And, weary of its emptiness, confess'd

There may be stillness, where there is not rest.
Thou'st tried upon the hard, hard world to rest it-
But colder grew the pillow as you press'd it,
Thou'st dream'd of many things that spake thee fair-
But still they were not what they said they were;
Ever at distance something seem'd to shine-
But it glitter'd only while it was not thine.
Half sleeping and half waking—half aware
The things you tried to grasp at were not there-
And yet pursuing them with anxious zeal,
As if you had not known them shadows all-
Persuaded even while you hurried on

That soon as you awak'd they would be gone.
Sometimes, perhaps, in deeper slumber wrapt,
Unconscious for a moment that you slept,
You dream'd that you indeed had touch'd the good
So long, so far, so eagerly pursued;
Believing it the bliss it seem'd to be-

And was-except in durability.

But then the sudden sounds, the feverish starts
With which the sleep of earthly bliss departs!
The brain-disorder'd patient, doom'd to lie
One hour enwrapt in some wild ecstacy,
The next, with stifled and convulsive breath,
Rudely reminded he is sick to death,
As well may talk of rest, as he who tries
To rest him on this false world's promises-
Banter'd, befool'd and cheated at his best--
And even in his slumbers not at rest.

Rest was the opiate balsam that the flowers
Of Innocence let drop in Eden's bowers—
And never fear or sorrow might dispel
The peace of him who slumber'd where it fell.
One only plant those honied blossoms bare-
Man parted thence, and going, left it there.

In vain has knowledge look'd for it-in vain
Has wisdom sought to find that plant again—
Through many a flowery path and meadow fair,
Has sought it sorrowing-for it is not there.
It grows not in the sunshine or the shade-
Nor on the mountain height, nor in the glade-
And man must ask the opiate drop in vain,
Till he return to Paradise again.

THE WINTER BEECII.

Ir is faded, that tree that was fresh on the mountain,
And fallen the leaf that was green on the spray;
The cold breath of winter has gone through its branches,
And stripped off its garment of summer so gay.

Unwillingly staying, there hangs on it lightly

A brown, shriven leaf, but its colour is flown; It stays there in sadness, and sighs in the breezes, As restless to go where its fellows are gone.

Is it dead then, that tree that was fresh on the mountain, When late I went by it and saw it so fair?

Will the leaf not return with its light hanging mantle, To cover that bosom so barren, so bare?

The leaf will come back to the stem where it withered,
The warmth will return to those branches so cold;
And the tree that is faded be fresh on the mountain,
As gay and as green as I saw it of old.

But when shall the peace of the bosom return,
That sorrow has banished and sadness has reft?
And when shall the spirit be rid of the coldness,
A long-cherished hope at its going has left?

The blight of affection-Ah! who shall repair it,
And bring back the dead that have left us alone?
Has sorrow its spring-time, to see the returning

Of things that are altered and things that are gone?

Ah! never, O never!-The world's faithless promise
Once stripp'd of its guising, lies naked for ever;
The dead leaf may linger awhile on its branches,
But the hues of its beauty return to it never.
VOL. V.

G

Arise then, poor child of affliction, and take thee

Of flowers that not on this cold world have blown;
They pass not, they change not-they never will leave thee
To say in thy sadness, "My summer is gone."

But one spring awaits thee-its coming renews not
The things that are alter'd, the things that are lost;
But, true to its promise, 'twill leave thee a summer
Eternal in bliss, when the spring-time is past.

EXTRAITS.

Le

THEODULPHE, évêque d'Orléans, fut, sous le règne de Louis le-Débonnaire, condamné injustement à une prison perpétuelle. Il y composa le cantique Gloria, laus et honor tibi, Christe redemptor, et le chanta le dimanche des rameaux au moment où le prince (qui pouvait l'entendre) passait processionnellement. chant inattendu d'une belle voix, une mélodie nouvelle, pure, simple, souchante, et les paroles saintes du cantique, émurent profondément le cœur du prince, et le portèrent à la clémence. Il fit aussitôt briser les fers de Théodulphe.

FABLE.

UN jeune homme priait sous un bannier, au bord de la mer. O Brama! disait-il, tu es tout-puissant, tu es bon; rends-moi heureux! Brama exauça sa prière: un flot jeta à ses pieds un coquillage entrouvert, et il entendit une voix faible qui lui dit : Choisis; ce coquillage te rendra heureux. Le jeune homme ouvrit le coquillage qui renfermait une perle des plus précieuses; mais sans y réfléchir, il la jeta sur le rivage, car la variété des nuances du coquillage avait attiré toute son attention. Un autre jeune homme trouva la perle, la ramassa et en acheta le trône des Indes, car elle étoit d'une valeur inappréciable.

PRINTED BY BAKER AND SON, SOUTHAMPTON.