The night-lamps of the firmament are unveiled, and shine down as calmly as they did on the garden of Eden. I wonder that they are not tired, and do not grow dim with long watching; the more that their watch is over such a world as this. They look down steadily on scenes of crime, and folly, and suffering; and yet their pure eyes are never seen obscured with grief, or to grow brighter through anger. Perhaps, like some noble men, they see in the mass of unclean things with which man has filled his soul the spirit of Divinity, which was breathed into it at the first, not yet wholly corrupted or cast out; and keep hoping on, that he will before long purify himself, and that they shall again shine down on the garden of Eden. We love them for this, because they love us. Like GOD, they are present to every heart that looks up toward Heaven. Like the countenance of a friend, too, they speak to us; rejoicing with a dancing ray, when we rejoice; pouring down a warm, steady flood of light, when we are full of quiet and happiness; and they have a cheering, reviving beam for the afflicted and despairing--a beam that speaks of constancy and hope. But morning approaches; the wearied powers demand repose; and it is sweet to lie down like a cradled child, and sleep with the ceaseless wash of waters, for a lullaby, and rocked by their ceaseless roll! A NEW VERSION OF AN OLD FABLE. WITH A BRAN-NEW MORAL. A LION once, by hunters pressed, He jumped out of his skin: A Donkey found it, passing by, And straightway he jumped in. He stretched his legs, he switched his tail, He grinned in triumph vain, And snugly hid a foot of ears Among the shaggy mane. At sight of him, on every side The beasts began to 'shin it;' As frightened at the lion's hide As if himself were in it. Nor sight alone contented him, But try his voice he would; And brayed as like a lion's roar As ever a jackass could. Just then upon the road he saw His master, honest man; Quoth would-be lion to himself, 'I'll scare him, if I can!' An extra flourish then he flung, Too lustily no doubt, For, shaken from their hiding-place, Lo! his long ears stuck out! His master took the timely hint, And ere the joke was done, He curried off the lion-skin, And laid the cow-skin on. MORAL. WITH empty heads in borrowed locks, Thus Dandies throng Broadway, And strut as if they were in truth The Lions of the day. And why the cow-skin follows not. Would you the reason know? Dame Nature has encased them all In calf-skin long ago. _Savannah, Georgia, 1843._ J. RHEYN PIKSOHN. THE MAIL ROBBER NUMBER THREE. TO THE EDITOR OF THE KNICKERBOCKER MAGAZINE. _Saratoga Springs, July 4, 1843._