DANIEL C. COLESWORTHY.

AGE, 44 YEARS.

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D. C. COLESWORTHY, is a native of Portland, where he resided for nearly forty years. He was born on the fourteenth day of July, 1810, and at the age of fourteen, entered the office of the Christian Mirror, as an apprentice to the printing business. Like many other young men of talent, ambition, and perseverance, he educated himself, and graduated from the printing office with distinguished honor to the craft. In 1830 he commenced the publication of a “Youth's Paper' at Portland, and continued it until 1835. After a lapse of five years he started the ‘Portland Tribune,' a literary weekly, to which John Neal, William Cutter, Mrs. E. Oakes Smith, S. B. Beckett, and others, were contributors. While editing this journal Mr. Colesworthy became known by his brother typos from Maine to Georgia, and his articles were copied more than those of any editor in the country. They were characterized by simplicity, earnestness, and bore the sign of truth and virtue in every line. Elihu Burritt, the learned Blacksmith, in an article upon Mr. Colesworthy's literary productions, writes thus :

*No one of our acquaintance has contributed to the great circulating medium of the press, more terse, pleasant, cheering-up articles for the young. just launching out upon the uucertain sea of life, and for those who, like Peter, were well-nigh sinking beneath its surges. Not a paper, from Maine to Missouri, comes to our hands, which does not contain one of his beautiful articles, of energetic brevity and robust humor and humanity. Who can tell how many thousands of faltering hearts and trembling, pendent hands have been strung to new hope and effort by his cheering words. The bright-eyed genius of his poetry looks hope-ward and heaven-ward, beckoning the orphan, the

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heart-broken and the homeless to a home and a heaven in the heart of God and humanity ; wreathing every lowering cloud with a rainbow of promise, unveiling an angel's wing in every rift of the scowling tempest.'

He has written numerous little poems full of tenderness and overflowing with simplicity and grace, which have found a welcome in every heart possessed of the finer feelings of our nature. Who can read the following beautiful litt le gem of his, and not feel that it has brought home a lesson of truth to his heart, one that he has never be

a fore heeded, because it did not come to him, as now, clothed in a smiling sunbeam of thought that melted its way into the coldness of his heart's chambers,

A little word in kindness spoken,

A motion or a tear,
Has often healed the heart that's broken,

And made a friend sincere.

A word-a look-has crushed to earth

Full many a budding flower,
Which, had a smile but owned its birth,

Would bless life's darkest hour.

Then deem it not an idle thing,

A pleasant word to speak;
The face you wear, the thoughts you bring,

A heart may heal or break.

Mr. Colesworthy has been engaged in the book business for the past twenty years, fifteen of which were passed in Portland, the remainder in the city of Boston, to which he removed in 1819, and where he still resides, devoting his time almost entirely to mercantile pursuits.

One word of comfort speak to him

Whose brow is dark with care; One smile for her whose eyes are dim

By sickness or despair.

One look of kind compassion give

One motion or a sigh;
One breath to bid the dying live —

One prayer to God on high.

What joy one moment may impart,

If it is spent aright! One moment saves the broken heart

And puts despair to flight.

All can bestow most precious gifts — The weak, the low, the

poor; The feeling heart from sorrow lifts

To Heaven's wide-open door.

DON'T KILL THIE BIRDS.

Don't kill the birds the little birds

That sing about your door,
Soon as the joyous spring has come,

And chilling storms are o'er,
The little birds, how sweet they sing !

o, let them joyous live; And never seek to take the life

Which you can never give.

Don't kill the birds the little birds

That play among the trees ; ”Twould make the earth a cheerless place,

Should we dispense with these.
The little birds, how fond they play!

Do not disturb their sport;
But let them warble forth their songs,

Till winter cuts them short.

Don't kill the birds the happy birds

That bless the field and grove ;
So innocent to look upon,

They claim our warmest love.
The happy birds — the tuneful birds,

How pleasant 'tis to see ;
No spct can be a cheerless place

Where'er their presence be.