And in thy looks again I trace The light of her who gave thee birth; She who endowed thy form and face With glory which is not of Earth. And as I gaze upon her now, My heart sends up a prayer for thee, That thou may'st wear upon thy brow The light which now she beams on me. And thou wilt wear that love and light For thou'rt the bud to such a flower:-- Oh fair the day, how blest and bright, Which finds thee in thy native bower! AN INDIAN-SUMMER RAMBLE. BY ALFRED B. STREET. It was now the middle of October. White frosts had for some time been spreading their sheets of pearl over the gardens and fields, but the autumn rainbows in the forests were wanting. At last, however, the stern black frost came and wrought its customary magic. For about a week there was a gorgeous pageantry exhibited, "beautiful, exceedingly." But one morning I awoke, and found that the mist had made a common domain both of earth and sky. Every thing was merged into a gray dimness. I could just discern the tops of trees a few feet off, and here and there a chimney. There was a small bit of fence visible, bordering "our lane," and I could with difficulty see a glimmering portion of the village street. Some gigantic cloud appeared to have run against something in the heavens and dropped down amongst us. There were various outlines a few rods off, belonging to objects we scarce knew what. Horses pushed out of the fog with the most sudden effect, followed by their wagons, and disappeared again in the opposite fleecy barrier; pedestrians were first seen like spectres, then their whole shapes were exhibited, and finally they melted slowly away again, whilst old Shadbolt's cow, grazing along the grassy margin of the street, loomed up through the vapor almost as large as an elephant. About noon the scene became clearer, so that the outline of the village houses, and even the checkered splendors of the neighboring woods could be seen; so much of Nate's sign, "Hammond's sto--" became visible, and even Hamble's great red stage-coach was exhibited, thrusting its tongue out as if in scorn of the weather.