Where Henry's life hangs balanced in its might,
Breathe gently o'er this old, fond, doting man,
Who seems to cherish me among his thoughts,
As if I was the son of his old age,

The son of that fine thought so prodigal.

O God, put in his heart his thought, and make
Him heir to that repose thou metest me.
Ye sovereign powers that do control the world,
And inner life of man's most intricate heart,
Be with the noble Chester; may his age
Yield brighter blossoms than his early years,
For he was torn by passion, was so worn,
So wearied in the strife of fickle hearts,
He shed his precious pearls before the swine.
And, God of love, to me render thyself,
So that I may more fairly, fully give,
To all who move within this ring of sky,
Whatever life I draw from thy great power.
Still let me see among the woods and streams.
The gentle measures of unfaltering trust,
And through the autumn rains, the peeping eyes
Of the spring's loveliest flowers, and may no guile
Embosom one faint thought in its cold arms.
So would I live, so die, content in all.

SCENE III.

Mary's Room. Midnight.

MARY, (alone.) I cannot sleep, my brain is all on fire,
I cannot weep, my tears have formed in ice,
They lie within these hollow orbs congealed,
And flame and ice are quiet, side by side.

[Goes to the window.
Yes! there the stars stand gently shining down,
The trees wave softly in the midnight air;
How still it is, how sweetly smells the air.
O stars, would I could blot you out, and fix
Where ye are fixed, my aching eyes;
Ye burn for ever, and are calm as night.

I would I were a tree, a stone, a worm;

I would I were some thing that might be crushed;
A pebble by the sea under the waves,

A mote of dust within the streaming sun,

Or that some dull remorse would fasten firm
Within this rim of bone, this mind's warder.
Come, come to me ye hags of secret woe,
That hide in the hearts of the adulterous false,
Has hell not one pang left for me to feel?
I rave; 't is useless, 't is pretended rage;
I am as calm as this vast hollow sphere,
In which I sit, as in a woman's form.
I am no woman, they are merry things,
That smile, and laugh, and dream away despair.
What am I? 'Tis a month, a month has gone,
Since I stood by the lake with Henry Gray,
A month! a little month, thrice ten short days,
And I have lived and looked. Who goes? 't is Chester,

I must,

- he shall come in.

[She speaks from the window. Chester enters.

CHES. You keep late hours, my gentle Mary.

MARY. Do not speak so. There is no Mary here.

Hush! (Holds up her finger.) I cannot bear your voice;

't is agony

To me to hear a voice, my own is dumb.

Say, thou art an old man, thou hast lived long,
I mark it in thy tottering gait, thy hair,

Thy red, bleared eyes, thy miserable form,
Say, in thy youthful days, thou art a man,
I know it, but still men are God's creatures,
Say, tell me, old man Chester, did thine eyes
Ever forget to weep, all closed and dry?

-

Say, quick, here, here, where the heart beats, didst feel
A weight, as if thy cords of life would snap,
As if the volume of the blood had met,

As if all life in fell conspiracy

Had met to press thy fainting spirit out?

Say, say, speak quickly; hush! hush! no, not yet,
Thou canst not, thou art Chester's ghost, he's dead,
I saw him, 't was a month ago, in his grave,
Farewell, sweet ghost, farewell, let's bid adieu.

[Chester goes out, weeping.

"T is well that I am visited by spirits.

If 't were not so, I should believe me mad,
But all the mad are poor deluded things,
While I am sound in mind. 'T is one o'clock,
I must undress, for I keep early hours.

SCENE IV.

The Wood. - HENRY AND MURRAY.

HEN. I cannot think you mean it; 't is some dream
Of your excited fancy. You are easily
Excited. You saw a nodding aspen,
For what should Mary's figure here?
MUR. It was her figure, I am persuaded.

They tell strange tales, they say she has gone mad,
That something's crazed her brain.

HEN. Is that the story? I have been mad myself.
Sometimes I feel that madness were a good,
To be elated in a wondrous trance,
And pass existence in a buoyant dream;
It were a serious learning. I do see
The figure that you speak of, 't is Mary.

MUR. I'll leave you then together. (Enter Mary.)
HEN. (To Mary.) You have the way alone; I was your guide
Some weeks ago, to the blue, glimmering lake.

I trust these scenes greet happily your eyes.
MARY. They are most sweet to me; let us go back
And trace that path again. I think 't was here
We turned, where this green sylvan church
Of pine hems in a meadow and some hills.

HEN. Among these pines they find the crow's rough nest,
A lofty cradle for the dusky brood.

MARY. This is the point I think we stood upon.

I would I knew what mountains rise beyond,
Hast ever gone there?

HEN. Ah! ye still, pointing spires of native rock,
That, in the amphitheatre of God,

Most proudly mark your duty to the sky,
Lift, as of old, ye did my heart above.
Excuse me, maiden, for my hurried thought.
'T is an old learning of the hills; the bell!
Ah! might the porter sometimes sleep the hour.
[Exit Henry.

The Sun is setting.

MARY. 'T is all revealed, I am no more deceived,
That voice, that form, the memory of that scene!
I love thee, love thee, Henry; I am mad,
My brain is all on fire, my heart a flame,
You mountains rest upon my weary mind;
The lake lies beating in my broken heart.

That bell that summoned him to the dark cell,
Where now in innocence he tells his beads,
Shall summon me beyond this weary world.
I long to be released; I will not stay,
There is no hope, no vow, no prayer, no God,
All, all have fled me, for I love, love one,
Who cannot love me, and my heart has broke.
Ye mountains, where my Henry breathed at peace,
Thou lake, on whose calm depths he calmly looked,
And setting sun, and winds, and skies, and woods,
Protect my weary body from the tomb;
As I have lived to look on you with him,
O let my thoughts still haunt you as of old,
Nor let me taste of heaven, while on the earth,
My Henry's form holds its accustomed place.

[Stabs herself.

INTERIOR OR HIDDEN LIFE.*

PROFESSOR UPHAM, who for about seventeen years has sedulously occupied the chair of moral philosophy at Bowdoin College, in this volume, presents an additional proof of the spontaneous love which entitles him to that office, as well as of his sincere regard for the well being of all mankind. The basis of his work is the position that the human soul, every human being, may be holy. Strange proof of occasional default that men should ever think otherwise!

As might naturally be expected, however, from the author's occupation, his work manifests more precision in style, than most productions on similar subjects in former

Principles of the Interior or Hidden Life, designed particularly for the consideration of those who are seeking assurance of faith and perfect love. By THOMAS C. UPHAM; Boston: D. S. King; 1843. 12mo. pp. 464.

times, which the professor has evidently read with a feeling even deeper than that of an admiring taste. There is, nevertheless, a gravity and a serene humble tone spread over the whole book, which justifies us in placing it on the same shelf with the works of Madame Guion, Fenelon, and others whom the author ardently loves. Those sentiments, principles, and experiences, which a gay and fretful world is glad to swamp in the deluge of frivolous occupations, the learned professor has endeavored to revive and embody forth in language so simple and plain, that none can fence their selfish idleness behind the usual epithet of "mystic.” Scarcely a chapter in the two and forty, into which the work is divided, but might be quoted as proof of the simplest method in which such sentiments can be uttered. We cannot say he has the familiar, household eloquence of William Law, nor has he perhaps drunk from the like depths of the drainless well of spiritual being, but he is undoubtedly always sincere to the revelation within him, and perhaps better calculated than such earlier authors to address his cotemporaries. As a specimen of the style, and as a key to the whole work, which we have not space now to analyse fully, we submit the following extract from the first chapter, entitled "Some Marks or Traits of the Hidden Life."

"There is a modification or form of religious experience which may conveniently, and probably with a considerable degree of propriety, be denominated the Interior or Hidden Life. When a person first becomes distinctly conscious of his sinfulness, and in connection with this experience, exercises faith in Christ as a Saviour from sin, there is no doubt, however feeble these early exercises may be, that he has truly entered upon a new life. But this new life, although it is in its element different from that of the world, is only in its beginning. It embraces undoubtedly the true principle of a restored and renovated existence, which in due time will expand into heights and depths of knowledge and of feeling; but it is now only in a state of incipiency, maintaining and oftentimes but feebly maintaining a war with the anterior or natural life, and being nothing more at present than the early rays and dawnings of the brighter day that is coming.

"It is not so with what may conveniently be denominated