One word from thee when morning shakes her pinions,
And scatters freshness from the forest trees;
When smiling nature gives to all her minions

The smile she wears herself-and no one grieves;
One word from thee, to mingle with the voices

Of chirping birds, and bees of rapturous hum,-
One word in that low accent which rejoices

My inmost heart,-and let that word be, "Come!"

The night, the long dark night, has found me waking;
Wooing in vain my throbbing brain to sleep;
And just as the unwearied spell was breaking,

And my thoughts launched upon the dreaming deep,
A gentle murmur in my ear hath broken,

As if a well-known voice had called me home;
And then I knew thy sainted lips had spoken,
And yet they did not bid my spirit, "Come."

I am not what thy gentle breast first found me;
The alternate tears and smiles are gone;
And now one-half the earthly friends around me
Would rather crush my hopes than cheer me on!
The sigh is all that apathy hath left me

Of feeling's language, and that sigh is dumb
When I look on the gladness time bereft me,
Or wait and wait to hear the whisper, "Come!"
Lowell, Sept. 12, 1841.

CHANGES AND REVOLUTIONS.

Through inadvertence we have omitted to state that the Lowell Advertiser" and "Patriot" have changed hands, and that Mr. N. P. Banks, a young man of shining talent and great promise, has be come proprietor and editor of the same. The names of the papers have been changed for those of Lowell Democrat" and "Middlesex Democrat." As evidence of Mr. Banks' abilities we would state that the Democrat has already revolutionized the state of Maine and elected John Fairfield its Governor. In Vermont there has been a like revolution, and the Democrats have carried that State by an overwhelming majority. Marcus Morton has been elected Governor of Massachusetts-in the prospective! And, would you believe it? the influence of the "Democrat" is felt in the far West, and Indiana has followed in the same train,-so powerful is he of the "Democrat." To all this

should be added-"The Dutch have taken Holland!" In honor of all these events our city has sounded and resounded with the report of cannon from early dawn till close of eve, and "Dracut Navy-yard" has seen wakeful times, such as have not before been known there since the last New Hampshire election; and all by reason of the influence of the famous Lowell Democrat.-Literary Souvenir, editorial.

THANKSGIVING.

What child of New England does not hail with joy the return of this religious festival? What emotions thrill the heart as he meets at the paternal home kindred and friends; as he feels the grasp of an aged father's hand; sees the tearful eye of a care-worn, tender-hearted mother; and hears the innocent prattle of the child of the third generation! Here assemble the playmates of his early childhood, the companions of his youth, the friends of his riper years. He lives over again the period of his cradle days and his wayward youth. His heart swells at each scene; his eye beams at the renewal of the past; and he becomes, indeed, a thing of other years!

Who does not love this festival? It was wise in the Pilgrim Fathers to institute it, and wise in their sons to cherish it. Let it be perpetuated to the end of time; held sacred to the purpose for which it was designed; and never be degenerated into an impious revel. It serves as a band, which no vicissitudes of life can sunder, to bind the wandering New Englander to his native land. He may visit the sunny isles of the South, or explore the frozen regions of the North,-he may muse in the classic regions of Greece, or wander among the ruins of the Seven-hilled Queen; he may bear the messages of mercy to the lands of pagan darkness; or pay homage at the courts of kings; yet, when he hails the annual return of this day,

his foot is on his native heath, and his name is McGregor." Or, he may enter the wilds of the West, and there, single-handed, fell the forest and make a home in the wilderness, and rear around his domestic hearth loves of his own; still, when Thanksgiving day comes, his soul pines for the kindred and friends he has left behind.

Not only does this festival bind the New Englander to his native land, but it is a source of comfort and consolation when other means may fail. He may be a wanderer and friendless; he may feel the pinchings of want; even the sirocco blasts of slander may wither his soul; but when Thanksgiving comes he lives over the scenes of early life and is revived. The precepts of his youth, with the hope of again seeing the paternal home. awaken new energies and nerve him to the contest until he finally triumphs.

Who can tell that many a wild youth has not been saved from ruin by the return of this day; when all his early impressions are revived and the admonitions of a tender mother have come up in living characters before his eyes to warn him from the paths of vice!

We need to observe this day. The benevolent hand of God has been upon us. He has healed us when sick. consoled us when afflicted, prospered us when in adversity. He has surrounded us with friends and blessings. He has given us the Book of Life and the consolations of the Gospel, with the blessed assurance of an immortality beyond the grave. Who then would not spend at least one day in the year recounting the unnumbered blessings he has enjoyed, and return thanksgiving and praise to Him who has bestowed them?—Editor Literary Souvenir.

From the Literary Souvenir.

FRIENDSHIP.

BY A. B. F. HILDRETH.

The rose will droop when wintry blasts prevail,
And perish, stricken by the chilling gale;
But on that gale, though lost its summer bloom,
Is borne on balmy wings its soft perfume.

So friendship, sacred bond, one radiant gleam
That cheers our sojourn on this earthly frame,
When reckless hands dissolve its flowery chain,
Too often never may revive again.

Perhaps the memory of the days gone by

In some fond breast may wake an anxious sigh;
The wish, that gentle touch had grasped the tie,
That linked two bosoms in firm amity.

While pride, that soul of man from angels sprung,
Which recreant those from heavenly splendors flung,
Unbending spirit, teaches to disdain

Submission to the one who breaks the chain.

The dawn of youth, the hope of better days,
May fire the soul and tune the poet's lays;

Faded and gone--what pleasure can remain

To cheer his passage through this world of pain?

Youth's first affections vanish and decay;

Life's brightest dreams on fleeting pinions stray;
And thou, fond man! where is thy joyous hour? [flower!
Lone 'mid thy visioned bliss thou stand'st a blighted

From the Literary Souvenir.

LITERARY PURSUITS.

The life of the most successful writer has rarely been other than that of toil and privation; and here we cannot but notice a singularly absurd popular fancy, that genius and industry are incompatible. The one is inherent in the other. A mind so constituted has a restlessness in its powers which causes activity. Take our most eminent writers, and how much actual labor must have been bestowed on their glorious offerings of their country and their fame!

What a godlike thing is fame! Think what it is to be the solace of a thousand lonely hours-to cheer the weary hours of sickness-to fling a charm even around nature. How many are there to whom, in long after years, your name will come, like a note of music, who will love and honor you because you have awakened within them thoughts and feelings which stir the loftiest dreams and the sweetest pulses of their nature.

True, the poet's life is one of want and suffering, too often, and even mortification-a mortification too that comes forcibly home-but far be it from us to say that it has not its own exceeding great reward. It may be late in coming, but the claim on universal sympathy is at last allowed. The future, glorious and calm, brightens over the grave; and, for the present, the golden world of imagination is around it. Not an emotion of your own beating heart, but is recorded in music.-Editorial.

From the Hartford (Ct.) Literary Harvester.

STATE OF MORALS IN SOCIETY.

BY A. B. F. HILDRETH.

The state of morals in any community should interest every one. He who feels no desire to know their condition, whether they are progressing or are on the retrograde, has strong reason to doubt his own attachment to the cause of virtue. The friends of morality will watch over it and carefully observe its movements; and they ever rejoice when its march is onward. Such persons have reason to rejoice at the present time. True, the many evils that pervade society, which have become rooted and grounded" in the habits of the people, are not yet wholly eradicated. Vice, in its various forms, is still in our midst. The inebriates are sometimes met by the wayside, and