{"newspaper_name": "The Litchfield County post.", "edition": "01", "page": "p1", "byline": ""}
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1UHtOGt0IUtOfC uN LlACCHCOIS Dl,UU Commissioner S1,25 The following beautiful lines of original po- ctry were written in young ladies Album & thence transcribed for this paper.1 HOW COLD ARE THESE SKIES! How cold are these skies Hoary winter re-

 ciined

 On his snow drifts, the charms of earth's be-

 som defOrms And the fields and the groves and the heavens

 are signed To the rule and the wrath of the spirits of

 storms.

 Yet these cold skies the earth have drest| In saint-like vesture, white and warm; And spread mantle OCT her breast, To shield it from the freezing storm. So not the coldest blast, that flies Ger hOpe's young flowers, the heart shall

 chill,

 If in the storm, it Iowiy lies And waits the AlI-ruling Spirits will.

 J.P. I4itchheld, Jan. II, 1897. The following lines were written by the Hon. Henry St. George Tucker, of Virginia, on being requested to know why he had ceas- ed to court the poetic muse. Days of my youth, ye have gIided away, Hairs of my youth, ye are frosted and gray, Eyes ofmy youth, your keen sight is no more. Checks of my youth, ye are furrow'd all Der, Strength of my youth. all your vgour is gone, Thoughts of my youth, your gay visions are

 flown.

 Days Of my youth, wish not your recall, Hairs of my youth, I'm content ye should fall, Eyes of my youth, ye much evil have seen, Cheeks of my youth, bath < in tears ye have

 been,

 Thoughts of my youth, ye have led me astray, Strength of my youth why lament your de-

 cay.

 Days of my age. ye will shortly he past, Pains of my age, yet awhile ye can last, Joys ofmy age, in true wisdom delight, Eyes of my age, be Religion your light, Thoughts of my age, dread ye not the cold

 sod,

 Hopes of my age be ye fix'd on your God. These beautiful lines are from the Memori- dl. published in Boston by True and Green "Cornelia," Mrs. Hale, is called by some of the Buston papers, "and not inaptly' (says the Atbion) the Mrs. Hemans of America.

 THE LIGHT OF HOME.

 

 And thy spirit will sigh to roam, And thou must go ;-but never when there, Forget the light of home. Though pleasure may smile with ray more

 bright,

 It dazzles to lead astray; Like the meteor's flash twill deepen the night, When thou treadest thy lo:.ely way. But the hearth of home has constant flame, And pure as vestal fire; Twill burn, twill burn forever the same, For nature feeds the pyre. The sea of ambition is tempcst-tost, And thy hopes may vanish like foam But when sa,s are shiver'd and rudder lost Then look to the light of home. And there like star through the midnight

 cloud

 Thou shalt see the beacon bright, For never, till shining on thy shroud, Can be quenched its holy light. The sun of fame, aye twill gid the name, But the heart ne'er felt its ray; And fashions smiles that rich ones claim, Are but beams of wintry day. And how cold and how dim those beams

 would be,

 Should life's wretched wanderer come And my hoy. when the world is dark to thee. Then turn to the light of home.

 CORNELIA.

 A YEAR IN HUNGARY. A Tale, founded on fact, and translated from the Spanish of the Rev. Joseph Blanco White.

 "My father, who was Major in the Aus trian service, took me with him, when only six years old, to Malines. The Archbishop of that city, the Count of -, seeing me there at different times, took fancy to me, and offered to send me to Vienna, to be edu-