busy scuffle I was engaged in. I can safely say, that during the whole of this period of delightful anxieties, I never once imagined myself sick; I had no more heart-beatings and heartburnings -no tremblings, trepidations, and cold perspirations -nor was I once ridden by my old enemy, the nightmare. When the cares of the day were past, I could sit down and enjoy the refreshment of ease; and it was delightful, after the keen encounters of skill, sagacity, and bargaining, which occupied the day, to open my heart among those I could trust with my soul, and rely upon with the faith of a martyr. By degrees, owing to the good management of my merry partner, and something to my own care and attention, fortune began to smile upon us, and our acquisitions gradually grew to exceed all our wants. Every year now, adds to the means of educating my children well, and leaving them a competence when I shall be no more. In short, my tale is at an end, and its moral completed. I am now happy in my wife-happy in my children; who, I am determined, shall never pine, if I can help it, in the enjoyment of perfect ease. I have excellent health; am almost as gay as my merry partner and friend; and have no fear except that of getting so rich that I shall be tempted to retire from business , before I am old enough to enjoy a life of ease.
THE LOOSE FEATHER.
'Tis wandering down through pathless air,
A lonely thing in a boundless space,
That has lost its way, and knows not where
To find a home or a resting place.
The fearless breast, where late 'twas worn,
Has met the arrow the foeman hurl'd,
The venturous wing, by which ' twas borne
Through clouds, must soon in death be furl'd!
Poor timorous thing! when it felt the dart
Where it peaceful lay, it trembled and fled;
Nor staid till the blood of the eagle's heart,
To moisten and sully its down, was shed.
And now, as in careless sport 'tis tost
Above the stream by the whiffling wind,
In the next swift wave twill be curl'd and lost,
Nor leave one trace of itself behind.
So fly the joys that warm the breast
Were they, in their downy lightness, grew;
When their only home, and their native rest,
The shaft of sorrow is passing through.
And naught shall again the wounded heart
And its vanish'd peace e'er bring together;
But sunder'd once, they must sink apart,
Like the stricken bird and her falling feather.
