Peterson," he said, in a lively tone, as he entered. Good evening, Mr. Harvey! How do you find yourself?" "O, very well. I thought I would just drop in to say that I would like to see you to-morrow morning, pretty early. I have had an offer for my farm to-day; and I feel half inclined to take it. But, as you and I have had some talk about an exchange, I thought we had better settle that matter, yea or nay, so that there could be no hard feelings afterward. "How much gold have you sown under the "Ah, indeed! you 've had an offer! Who old chestnut tree?" from?" "Mr. Edgar." "What is he willing to give?" "He offers forty dollars." "Does he, indeed. Then take my advice and let him have it." But, Mr. Peterson, I thought you would like to exchange farms with me," said Harvey, with a sudden look of disappointment. .. Oh, no. I have no such desire." Harvey started to his feet, in confusion, looked his interlocutor in the face with a burning cheek for nearly a minute, and then turning away, glided from the house. To this day, he cannot bear the steady glance of his neighbor's eye. Peterson still retains his fine farm, and makes the best crops in the neighborhood. He is completely cured of money digging, preferring much more to drive the plough, than handle the spade or pick But you certainly spoke of it a few days ago." axe. For Arthur's Magazine. CALANTHA. H (See Plate.) ER lip hath forgotten its And a sign of sadness is Where the light of laugh ter hath dwelt till now; And music, sweet music, hath lost its spellEven the lute she loved so well. Gentle Calantha! thy downcast gaze Let the warmth of thy spirit in love outshine; The sunshine falleth more rich, more fair. Meek-eyed Calantha! thy dreamy grace Peaceful as thoughts of an infant's sleep, Lady Calantha! the streams rejoice And the valleys echo the well-loved voice, H. M. For Arthur's Magazine. THE POETRY OF ELIZA COOK. LIZA EY H. D. C. COOK'S, ing together, apparently, the rudest materials poetry is, for and weaving them into the most beautiful texbeauty of thought tures of thought, while she manifests, at the and expression, same time, that truth and generous warmth of unsurpassed, per- feeling which always appeals to the heart. haps, by that of any female writer in the present day. This has caused her productions to be universally read and admired both in England and our own country. In her writings, we see none of that unnatural effort to rise into the abstract and intangible, so apparent in not a few of our modern poets, who have become stricken with the mania of transcendentalism. Her themes are selected from real life, and she beautifies them with a graceful ease, and illustrates them with a force of language that captivates the reader from the moment of his first introduction to her. She takes the most familiar things, and gives them a life and beauty not apparent to the common observer. She wakens up old memories that have slumbered long, and revives thoughts and feelings that make us forget the real present in the long buried and almost forgotten past. The Old Arm Chair," has touched many a heart with sympathetic sorrow, and her "Harvest Song," proclaiming the golden abundance of nature, has increased still more the joy of even the rudest husbandman, while reaping the reward of honest toil. She thus addresses herself to the hearts of her readers, by selecting subjects which are familiar and congenial to them, and though these are often taken from amongst the commonest objects, she makes them beautiful from the garland of poesy she entwines around them. One of her greatest merits consists in collect The following extracts from the Old Farin Gate" will illustrate our meaning: "'T was here, where the miller's son paced to and fro, When the moon was above and the glow-worms below; While the moments grew long and his heart-throbs grew quick. Why, why did he linger so restlessly there, He loved, oh! he loved, and had promised to wait "'T was here where the urchins would gather to In the shadows of twilight or sunny mid day stand. |