And the earth, in plant and tree, All things love thee,—so do I! SONG OF MARGARET. There is a land where beauty cannot fade, Nor sorrow dim the eye: Where true love shall not droop nor be dismayed, And none shall ever die. Where is that land, oh where? For I would hasten there— Tell me I fain would go, For I am wearied with a heavy wo! The beautiful have left me all alone! The true, the tender, from my paths are gone! If thou dost know that land, For I am burdened with oppressive care, Where is it?-tell me where Thou that art kind and gentle-tell me where. Friend! thou must trust in Him who trod before The desolate paths of life; Must bear in meekness, as he meekly bore, Sorrow and pain and strife! Think how the Son of God Those thorny paths hath trod; Think how he longed to go, Yet tarried out for thee the appointed wo; Think of his weariness in places dim, Where no man comforted, nor cared for Him! Think of the blood-like sweat With which his brow was wet; Yet how he prayed, unaided and alone In that great agony-"Thy will be done!" Christ from his heaven of heavens will hear thy prayer! MARIA JANE JEWSBURY. WE choose to retain the name by which this gifted woman was known as an authoress, although she had changed it before her decease; but we can never think of her as Mrs. Fletcher. Miss Jewsbury was born in Warwickshire. In early youth she lost her mother, and was thenceforth called to take her place at the head of a large family. Her father, soon after her mother's death, removed to Manchester, and here, in the midst of a busy population, oppressed with ill health, and the grave cares of life, the promptings of genius still triumphed, and the young lady found time to dream dreams of literary distinction, which the energy of her mind, in a few years, converted into realities. It was at this period that she addressed a letter to Wordsworth, full of the enthusiasm of an ardent imagination: this led to a correspondence with the bard of the Excursion, which soon ripened into permanent friendship. She was also materially assisted in the development of her talents, and the circulation of her first literary efforts, by the advice and active kindness of Mr. Alaric Watts, at that time a resident in Manchester: these obligations she always gratefully acknowledged. Her first work was entitled " Phantasmagoria; or, Essays of Life and Literature," which was well received by the public. This was soon followed by "Letters to the Young," written soon after a severe illness: then followed "Lays for Leisure Hours." Her last work was her "Three Histories,"* which she allows displays much of her own character and feelings. But her best writings are to be found in the periodicals and annuals, to which she was a large and most popular contributor. In 1833, she married Mr. Fletcher, a gentleman who held an office under the London East India Company— and soon after her marriage left England with her husband for Bombay. She anticipated with eager pleasure the riches of nature and antiquity, which the gorgeous East would open before her but the buoyant and active spirit was soon to be called to another and higher existence. She died a short time after reaching India, and sleeps in that "clime of the sun, a fit resting-place for her warm and ardent heart. As the best illustration of her character and genius which we can give, we subjoin some extracts from a private letter, which she wrote to a friend † a short time before she left England:— "The passion for literary distinction consumed me from nine years old. I had no advantages-great obstacles and now, when from disgust I cannot write a line to please myself, I look back with regret to the days when facility and audacity went hand in hand; I wish in vain for the simplicity which neither dreaded criticisin nor knew fear. Intense labor has, in some measure, supplied the deficiency of early idleness and common-place instruction; intercourse with those who were *This interesting volume was republished in America, and was very popular. Her other works have not been reprinted here,— except the "Letters to the Young;" but could her Miscellaneous Writings" be collected, they would, no doubt, be highly appreciated. † Mrs. Hemans. once distant and bright as the stars, has become a thing of course; I have not been unsuccessful in my own career. But the period of timidity and sadness is now come, and with my foot upon the threshold of a new life, and a new world 'I would lay down like a tired child, Unfortunately, I was twenty-one before I became a reader, and I became a writer almost as soon: it is the ruin of all the young talent of the day, that reading and writing are simultaneous. We do not educate ourselves for literary enterprise. I would gladly burn almost every thing I ever wrote, if so be I might start now with a mind that has seen, read, thought and suffered somewhat, at least, approaching to a preparation. Alas, alas! we all sacrifice the palm-tree to obtain the temporary draught of wine! We slay the camel that would bear us through the desert, because we will not endure a momentay thirst. "I have done nothing to live. The powers which I feel, and of which I have given promise, may mature— may stamp themselves in act; but the spirit of despondency is strong upon the future exile, and I fear they never will. In the language of Keats, I feel the long grass growing o'er my heart. "In the best of every thing I have done, you will find one leading idea-Death. All thoughts, all images, all contrast of thoughts and images, are derived from living much in the valley of that shadow. My poetry, except some half dozen pieces, may be consigned to oblivion; but in all you would find the sober hue, which, to my mind's eye, blends equally with the golden glow of sunset, and the bright green of spring; and is seen equally in the temple of delight,' as is in the tomb of |