kiss! Ask yourselves how this gracious reception of our petition comports with those warlike preparations which cover our waters and darken our land. Are fleets and armies necessary to a work of love and reconciliation? Have we shown ourselves so unwilling to be reconciled, that force must be called in to win back our love?

Let us not deceive ourselves, sir. These are the implements of war and subjugation,-the last arguments to which kings resort. I ask gentlemen, sir, what means this martial array, if its purpose be not to force us to submission? Can gentlemen assign any other pos sible motive for it? Has Great Britain any enemy in this quarter of the world, to call for all this accumulation of navies and armies? No, sir, she has none. They are meant for us; they can be meant for no other. They are sent over to bind and rivet upon us those chains which the British ministry have been so long forging. And what have we to oppose to them?-Shall we try argument? Sir, we have been trying that, for the last ten years. Have we anything new to offer upon the subject? Nothing. We have held the subject up in every light of which it is capable; but it has been all in vain.

Shall we resort to entreaty and humble supplication? What terms shall we find which have not already been exhausted? Let us not, I beseech you, sir, deceive ourselves longer. Sir, we have done every thing that could be done, to avert the storm which is now coming on. We have petitioned, we have remonstrated, we have supplicated, we have prostrated ourselves before the throne, and have implored its interposition to arrest the tyrannical hands of the Ministry and Parliament. Our petitions have been slighted, our remonstrances have produced additional violence and insult, our supplications have been disregarded, and we have been spurned, with contempt, from the foot of the throne.

In vain, after these things, may we indulge the fond hope of peace and reconciliation. There is no longer

any room for hope. If we wish to be free, if we mean to preserve inviolate those inestimable privileges for which we have been so long contending, if we mean not basely to abandon the noble struggle in which we have been so long engaged, and which we have pledged ourselves never to abandon until the glorious object of our contest shall he obtained,-we must fight; I repeat it, sir, we must fight! An appeal to arms, and to the God of Hosts, is all that is left us!

They tell us, sir, that we are weak,-unable to cope with so formidable an adversary. But when shall we be stronger? Will it be the next week, or the next year? Will it be when we are totally disarmed, and when a British guard shall be stationed in every house? Shall we gather strength by irresolution and inaction? Shall we acquire the means of effectual resistance by lying supinely on our backs, and hugging the delusive phantom of hope, until our enemies shall have bound us hand and foot? Sir, we are not weak, if we make a proper use of those means which the God of nature hath placed in our power.

Three millions of people, armed in the holy cause of liberty, and in such a country as that which we possess, are invincible by any force which our enemy can send against us. Besides, sir, we shall not fight our battles alone. There is a just God who presides over the destinies of nations, and who will raise up friends to fight our battles for us. The battle, sir, is not to the strong alone; it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave. Besides, sir, we have no election. If we were base enough to desire it, it is now too late to retire from the contest. There is no retreat but in submission and slavery! Our chains are forged! Their clanking may be heard on the plains of Boston! The war is inevitable; and let it come! I repeat it, sir, let it come!

It is in vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen may cry: Peace, peace!-but there is no peace.

The war is actually begun! The next gale that sweeps from the North will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms! Our brethren are already in the field! Why stand we here idle! What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take, but as for me, give me liberty, or give me death!

MR. JONATHAN BANGS.-A. B. COLE.

Mr. Jonathan Bangs was an honest old man;
With a mere mite of nothing, this world he began;
And he held his own ever-except Polly Ann,
His untenable wife.

Mr. Jonathan Bangs could always surpass

Those who didn't beat him (in long noses and “gas");
He could see his own picture, by fronting the glass,
As handsome as life.

Mr. Jonathan Bangs was a great man, no doubt;
One would think him a hero, on seeing him out;
But at home, Polly Ann led him round by the snout
Until it was sore.

Mr. Jonathan Bangs was a wonder to men;

He had cows in the barn-lot, and pigs in the pen;
On some straw in the barn sat an old speckled hen
Near the great front door.

Mr. Jonathan Bangs-how strange it may seem-
As he slept on his couch had a most frightful dream:
He thought the old house-cat had stolen the cream
From off the last pan.

Mr. Jonathan Bangs arose the next morn;

He was mad and he looked like a creature forlorn.
He glanced all around him. The pigs squealed for corn,
The cows bawled for bran.

Mr. Jonathan Bangs stood with eyes flashing fire;
Soon along came the cat, with no thought of his ire;
With tail pointing skyward, just like a church spire,
She approached the old man.

Mr. Jonathan Bangs-ah! weak man and frail!
He let loose his wrath, seized the cat by the tail,
And poor puss, in defence, raised a terrible wail,
And scratched Jonathan.

Mr. Jonathan Bangs couldn't stand all of that:
Calling up all his powers, he "banged" the gray cat
'Gainst the plank garden fence, Bangs himself falling flat.
Out came Mrs. Bangs.

Mr. Jonathan Bangs, scared at what he had done-
More indeed at the sight of his dearly loved one-
Set out for the barn on a rather brisk run.
And my tale of this banging is now fully done.
Fare-you-well, Father Bangs.

A CHRISTMAS BLESSING.

Years ago, while Christmas carols echoed all adown the street,

In their home a lonely couple sat, their evening meal to eat; "What's thy sorrow?" asked the good man of his wife, who

silent wept;

"Mourning am I for our Rachel." To her side he softly crept;

Talked they long, till call for service to the cottage swift was

sent;

Loth to leave his wife so lonely, sadly forth old Jerry went. Past the windows brightly lighted, all aglow with Christmas

cheer,

Meeting parents hasting homeward with their gifts for children dear;

Pausing where his aid was needed, heard a child-voice singing low

All about the Christ-child, coming to our earth so long ago. ""Tis an orphan," said the porter; "much she wanders sad

and lone;

Homeless child! I fain would take her, but I scarce can feed my own."

Jerry at his work was musing, thinking of his dear lost child, When he caught the sweet words ringing, "Peace on earth

and mercy mild.”

Surely 'twas a time for mercy. Quick to think and act, he

said,

"To my home I'll take the singer; she shall no more beg for bread."

As the midnight bells were ringing out upon the frosty air, Jerry reached the little cottage with his Christmas gift so

rare.

When the good wife heard the story,-"We can't do too great a thing,"

Said she, softly, "since God gave us his own Son to be our King!"

Then a heavenly guest was with them, for when warm hearts, beating true,

Open to take in the lost ones, Jesus Christ will enter too.

THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET.-SAMUEL WOODWORTH.
How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,
When fond recollection presents them to view!
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood,
And every loved spot which my infancy knew;
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it,
The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell;
The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it,

And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well.
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well.
That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure;

For often, at noon, when returned from the field,
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,

The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing!
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell;
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing,
And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well;
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well.

How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it,
As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips!
Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips.
And now, far removed from the loved situation,
The tear of regret will intrusively swell,
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,

And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well;
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well.