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 ced m any one number of column the excess w hargeda a ommo rates All advertisements this office publications without tn number of insertions being specified will be continued until forbid and charged accordingly continue at least six months they will be charged the Odna tates of advertising.

 From the Boston Pearl.

 M0RNING-A LAMENT.

 BY ALBERT PIKE. The dew steeps the heart of the fiower,- And the green, bending rays of the grass; And there with unseen shower, The mist and the odor mass: The sensitive plant of the bosom Is quivering, and shrinking and pale- No dew of keen joy on it's blossom Through it's leaves rush the storm winds and vail The fast stream that runs from the mountain Is wreathlng it's white brow with mist And its edge, like the brim of a fountain With flowers and grass is kissed: But the waves of the hearts crimson river Rush on, uncrowned with light: - No flowers of joyance quiver Over its echoing light. The sunlight is cradled in leaves And rocked by the unseen wind; While the sea of greenness heaves With gentle voice and kind: No sunshine sleeps on the heart Soothing the depths of the soul; But moan after moan doth start And out of its darkness roll Morns purple and crimson torrent Upon the mountain pours, But still amid the current The snowlght rains it's showers. The fire of Genius blazes, And will blaze to the death; But the eye of sorrow gazes Within his fiery breath. The eagle sits on his aerie- A golden haze around him cTinps- On a pyramid white and drearv, Tanning the with his wingss The eagle Ambition pemaneth, Tanning the icy heart; His wild eye never waneth Till the fire of life depart. The thrush on his nest is breeding. His slow wings winaow the air: And sea of music Is flooding The yerdurous forest there No pleasant song Is ringing Through the hearts solitudes No bird of peace is ciinging Anear its echoing flood. The influence of the morning Is sweet, with its unseen rans To the heart t IS but warning That eve will come again: The heart alf glory, Fill boyhood withered aways Its course IS the story Of an eyanescent day. The Spirit of Morning burneth On his altar orient; But the gIooms that the nurneta At night will be unpent: The Spirit of Life IS fantiBg Beneath the gloom of death; Like moonlight on painting, Existence hngereth A shadow is the souI Like shadow the sea, Though the songs of glory roll In deep sublimty: Like current of pale moonlight, In the light of dimming lamp, Such is the shadow-half dm-half bright, Which wo on the soul doth stamp Pale Death is bending The worn and wasted heart; He cons 1t lover Afecton's golden chart: The creeping light of sorrow Illumes the wasted scroll; T will be closed, and the lamp be out tomorrow-- The arrow Is near the goal.

 From the German.

 HARVEST SONG.

 Autumn winds are signing;

 Summer glories dying

 Harvest time is nigh:

 Cooler breezes quivering,

 Through the pine groves shvering,

 Sweep the troubled sky.