Thou lovely miniature of Nature’s painting! Thy beauty mingles care with my delight. These colors are to grow: not like the fainting, Soft, dying hues, that mark the eve’s twilight— But evermore renewed, as if the dawn, With its deep rosy tinge, instead of fading, Ran hand in hand with the bright dewy morn, The sky by sunlight with all colors shading. These colors are to grow, from where, an infant, Thou sleepest cradled by thy mother’s side, On through thy childhood’s beauty, every instant, To maiden loveliness—thy mother’s pride. And she will guide the pencil, hers the art To deepen Nature’s lineaments, or alter: To image Heaven or Earth upon the heart— What if her love should err, her pencil falter! O! ’tis a sacred, sweet and fearful duty To train these earth-born spirits for the skies! To keep this household flower green in its beauty, Till it in Paradise transplanted rise. May He, who took the nurslings in his arms, Keep thee and thine, his richest grace revealing, Hid, as his Pilgrims, from the world’s alarms, Where quiet brooks in pastures green are stealing! * * * * * WILL NOBODY MARRY ME? A COMIC SONG. BY GEORGE P. MORRIS. Heigh-ho! for a husband!—heigh-ho! There’s danger in longer delay!— Shall I never again have a beau? Will nobody marry me, pray? I begin to feel strange, I declare! With beauty my prospects will fade!— I’d give myself up to despair If I thought I should die an old maid! I once cut the beaux in a huff!— I thought it a sin and a shame That no one had spirit enough To ask me to alter my name! So I turned up my nose at the short, And rolled up my eyes at the tall; But then I just did it in sport, And now I’ve no lover at all! These men are the plague of my life!— ’Tis hard from so many to choose!— Should one of them wish for a wife, Could I have the heart to refuse? I don’t know—for none have proposed! Oh, dear me!—I’m frightened, I vow! Good gracious!—whoever supposed That I should be single till now? * * * * * TROPICAL BIRDS. BY PARK BENJAMIN.