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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.

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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;
The wealth of" Ormus and the Ind"

Appeared to greet the guest.

No idle tongue, no converse light,

The solemn silence broke,
Because 'tis famed our Englishman

No word of Chinese spoke.

Now here, now there, he picked a bit

Of what he could not name;
And all he knew was, that in fact,

They made him sick, the same.

Ching-Tau, his host, pressed on each dish,

With polished Chinese grace;
And much Ching thought he relished them,

At every ugly face.

At last he swore he'd eat no more,

(Twas written in his looks!)
"For zounds," said he, " the devil here,

Sends both the meat and cooks I"

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But covers changed, he brightened up,
And thought himself in luck,

When close before him, what he saw
Seemed something like a duck.

Still cautious grown, and to be sure,

His brain he set to rack;
At length he turned to one behind,

And, pointing, cried " Quack, quack t"

The Chinese gravely shook his head,

Next made a reverent bow,
And then expressed what dish it was,

By uttering, " Bow, wow, wow!"

FOUR LIVES.—Garnet B. Freeman.

We sat in the light of the dying day—
Harold, Johnnie, Allie, and I—

Watching the sunset flush, then fade
From over the earth and sky;

Watching the bars of purple and gold
Grow deeper,—-then pale, then die.

Harold was tall, and dark, and proud:

His cheek was bronzed by the Indian sun;

And on his bosom there gleamed a star—
The jeweled badge that his sword had won—

For he was a soldier, and this was a prize
From the hand of his king for service done.

John was a soldier too, but he fought

Under a banner of spotless white;
His Legion of Honor, the sign of the Cross;

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 fairy—baby—woman—queen—
A pleading child that crept mto your heart—

A haughty tyrant as ever was seen;
And we all three loved her, and loved her well,

But John loved her best of us all, I ween.

I told you we loved her, and Harold sued first,
Kneeling to offer his knightly name,

His grand old castle beside the Rhine,
His unsullied honor, his hard-earned fame,

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His heart, that was pure as a man's coukl be—
All that pride could ask, or that love could claim.

But Allie said " No," and Harold went out
With a look of pain in his fierce, dark eye,

Like t hat of an eagle wounded t hat soars
Away to its eyrie on the cliff to die;

And he fell on a foreign field one day
When legions grew white at the battle-cry.

John asked her next, and she answered the same,
And he blessed her, and kissed her, and turned away;

But we saw hitn no more till he stood on the deck
Of a boat that lay rocked like a bird on the bay.

Now, tropical vines tangle over his grave,
And ocean-waves moan round his clay.

I would not speak. What was / that should dare
To rush where the angels had feared to tread?

I only looked down on my palsied limbs,
And bitterly wished in my heart I was dead.

I almost cursed God that he gave me a form
No woman living could love, or wed.

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,
And 'twas covered with kisses again and again,

Passionate kisses, while broken words
Burst from her lips as from one in pain,

And tears rolled over her crimsoned cheeks,
Like the short-lived torrents of April rain.

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
spent;

While I said, with a reverent awe in the words,
"What have I done that this blessing is sent?"

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.

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A NAME IN THE SAND.—H. F. Gould.

Alone I walked the ocean strand;
A pearly shell was in my hand;
I stooped and wrote upon the sand

My name—the year—the day.
As onward from the spot I passed,
One lingering look behind I cast—
A wave came rolling, high and fast,

And washed my lines away.

And so, methonght, 'twill shortly be
With every mark on earth from me;
A wave of dark oblivion's sea

Will sweep across the place
Where I have trod the sandy shore
Of time,—and been, to be no more;—
Of me, my name, the name I bore,

To leave no track nor trace.

And yet, with Him who counts the sands,
And holds the waters in His hands,
I know a lasting record stands

Inscribed against my name,
Of all this mortal part has wrought,
Of all this thinking soul has thought,—
And from these fleeting moments caught,—-

For glory or for shame.

THE TEACHER'S DREAM.—W. H. V Enarle.

The wear)' teacher sat alone

While twilight gathered on:
And not a sound was heard around,—

The boys and girls were gone.

The weary teacher sat alone,

Unnerved and pale was he;
Bowed 'neath a yoke of care, he spoke

In sad soliloquy:

"Another round, another round

Of labor thrown away, Another chain of toil and pain

Dragged through a tedious day.

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