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forest has fallen before her hardy sons; the yelling savage nas been tamed, and the Lion of England driven from her shores. Her government is superior to any in the world, and her country suffers not in comparison with any on the globe. The gardens of America are richly diversified with hills and dales, mountains and valleys, where Spring walks to strew the earth with flowers, romantic and beautifully sublime. Here are beautiful rivers, smoothly gliding through green meadows or pastoral elegance, where the shepherd hums to his fair one the song of liberty. Here, sparkling fountains roll down the flowery mountain side, and spread a thousand rainbows to the setting sun. Here, the roar of the headlong cataract is heard dashing its foaming billows down the rocks, like the crash of clouds, and stunning the ear with its clamors more tremendous than the roar of wh irlwinds and storm.
It was in these scenes of poetry and romance that the Indian hunter once stood and gazed at his image. It was in these scenes that he heard the Great Spirit in the tempest, and saw him in the clouds. It was on the banks of the lonely stream that he bowed down in adoration before the sinking sun. Alas! it was here that he read his doom in the evening skies, and dropped a tear upon his country's tomb. But the council-fire has been extinguished, and the war-dance no longer echoes along the hills. In those beautiful scenes of poetry, the Indian lover no longer bows down and wooes his dusky mate. They have retired before the march of mind, as the shades of night before the brilliant luminary of day.
Liberty has walked forth in her sky-blue cap to charm mankind, and the rays of science and philosophy are shed abroad in the land. The day is rapidly approaching when the glory and grandeur of Greece will be revived in the western world; when America, thrice happy America, shall be denominated the land of science and of song! The idea is irresistible, that this land will yet be illuminated by a lamp of learning not inferior to those which shone on Greece and Rome. Another Homer may arise in the West, to sing the fame of his country, and immortalize himself; and our history may ere long be as romantic as that of Greece and Rome.
There is a tide in human affairs, and there is a tide of empire. It flows in rivers of prosperity until it is full; but when it ebbs, it ebbs forever. It would seem to the contemplative mind, as if there is a certain height to which republics shall aspire, and then be hurled into midnight darkness. The march of mind seems to attain a certain extent, and t hen return again to barbarism. The sun of science sets on one shore to rise in a happier clime. But, my country, ere thou shalt lay prostrate beneath the foot of tyranny and ignorance, this hand shall have mouldered into dust, and these eyes, which have seen thy glory, closed forever! The warlike sons of Indian glory sleep in their country's tomb, but that fate is not decreed to those who now tread where the wigwam stood and the council-fire blazed. American 6[lory has but just dawned.
THE CHINESE DINNER.
A fact which occurred during Lord Macartney's embassy to China.
The feast prepared, the splendor round
Allowed the eye no rest;
Appeared to greet the guest.
No idle tongue, no converse light,
The solemn silence broke,
No word of Chinese spoke.
Now here, now there, he picked a bit
Of what he could not name;
They made him sick, the same.
Ching-Tau, his host, pressed on each dish,
With polished Chinese grace;
At every ugly face.
At last he swore he'd eat no more,
(Twas written in his looks!)
Sends both the meat and cooks I"
But covers changed, he brightened up,
When close before him, what he saw
Still cautious grown, and to be sure,
His brain he set to rack;
And, pointing, cried " Quack, quack t"
The Chinese gravely shook his head,
Next made a reverent bow,
By uttering, " Bow, wow, wow!"
FOUR LIVES.—Garnet B. Freeman.
We sat in the light of the dying day—
Watching the sunset flush, then fade
Watching the bars of purple and gold
Harold was tall, and dark, and proud:
His cheek was bronzed by the Indian sun;
And on his bosom there gleamed a star—
For he was a soldier, and this was a prize
John was a soldier too, but he fought
Under a banner of spotless white;
The leader he followed, the Prince of Light. His sword was the Word of the Living God,
His armor a faith that was strong and bright.
Allie was something—I do not know what—
A haughty tyrant as ever was seen;
But John loved her best of us all, I ween.
I told you we loved her, and Harold sued first,
His grand old castle beside the Rhine,
His heart, that was pure as a man's coukl be—
But Allie said " No," and Harold went out
Like t hat of an eagle wounded t hat soars
And he fell on a foreign field one day
John asked her next, and she answered the same,
But we saw hitn no more till he stood on the deck
Now, tropical vines tangle over his grave,
I would not speak. What was / that should dare
I only looked down on my palsied limbs,
I almost cursed God that he gave me a form
Then Allie came in her quiet way,
And knelt with her arms crossed over my knee, While I smoothed the mass of her. golden hair,
And said, " She can never be aught to me." So we sat there in silence, and both looked out
At the troubled waves of the storm-tossed sea.
Then, I do not know how, but she caught my hand,
Passionate kisses, while broken words
And tears rolled over her crimsoned cheeks,
I could scarcely believe when I understood
What it really was that the action meant; Then I tenderly gathered her up in my arms,
Where she sobbed like the storm when its strength is
While I said, with a reverent awe in the words,
That was years ago. Now Allie is dead;
She lies on the hill where that white cross stands; And Harold and John rest far away,
With an ocean between them, in foreign lands; And I'm waiting, impatient, the welcome day,
When over the River we'll all join hands.
A NAME IN THE SAND.—H. F. Gould.
Alone I walked the ocean strand;
My name—the year—the day.
And washed my lines away.
And so, methonght, 'twill shortly be
Will sweep across the place
To leave no track nor trace.
And yet, with Him who counts the sands,
Inscribed against my name,
For glory or for shame.
THE TEACHER'S DREAM.—W. H. V Enarle.
The wear)' teacher sat alone
While twilight gathered on:
The boys and girls were gone.
The weary teacher sat alone,
Unnerved and pale was he;
In sad soliloquy:
"Another round, another round
Of labor thrown away, Another chain of toil and pain
Dragged through a tedious day.