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With melancholy brow. From a low cloud
That o'er the horizon hovered, came the threat
Of distant muttered thunder. Broken waves
Heaved up their sharp white helmets o'er the expanse
Of ocean, which in brooding stillness lay
Like some vindictive king, who meditates
On hoarded wrongs, or wakes the wrathful war.
The ship's bell tolled! and lo! a youthful form
Which oft had boldly dared the slippery shrouds
At midnight's watch, was as a burden laid
Down at his comrade's feet. Mournful they gazed
Upon his sunken cheek, and some there were,
Who in that bitter hour remembered well
The parting blessing of his hoary sire,

And the big tears that o'er his mother's cheek
Went coursing down, when his beloved voice
Breathed its farewell. But one who nearest stood
To that pale, shrouded corse, remembered more;
Of a white cottage with its shaven lawn,
And blossomed hedge, and of a fair haired girl
Who, at her lattice veiled with woodbine, watched
His last, far step, and then turned back to weep.
And close that comrade in his faithful breast
Hid a bright chestnut lock, which the dead youth
Had severed with a cold and trembling hand
In life's extremity, and bade him bear,
With broken words of love's last eloquence,
To his blest Mary. Now that chosen friend
Bowed low his sun-bronzed face, and like a child,
Sobbed in deep sorrow.

But there came a tone,
Clear as the breaking moon o'er stormy seas,
'I am the resurrection.' Every heart

Suppressed its grief, and every eye was raised.
There stood the chaplain-his uncovered brow
Unmarked by earthly passion, while his voice,
Rich as the balm from plants of Paradise,
Poured the Eternal's message o'er the souls
Of dying men. It was a holy hour!
There lay the wreck of youthful beauty-here
Bent mourning manhood, while supporting faith
Cast her strong anchor 'neath the troubled wave.
There was a plunge!-The riven sea complained
Death from his briny bosom took her own.

The awful fountains of the deep did lift
Their subterranean portals, and he went
Down to the floor of Ocean, mid the beds
Of brave and beautiful ones. Yet to my soul
In all the funeral pomp, the guise of wo,
The monumental grandeur, with which earth
Indulgeth her dead sons, was nought so sad,
Sublime, or sorrowful, as the mute sea
Opening her mouth to whelm that sailor youth.


New England's Dead.-Mc LEllan.

'I shall enter on no encomium upon Massachusetts; she needs none. There she 1s; behold her, and judge for yourselves.-There is her history. The world know it by heart. The past, at least, is secure. There is Boston, and Concord, and Lexington, and Bunker Hill; and there they will remain forever. The bones of her sons, falling in the great struggle for independence, now lie mingled with the soil of every state, from New England to Georgia; and there they will remain forever.' Webster's Speech.

NEW ENGLAND'S DEAD! New England's dead!
On every hill they lie;

On every field of strife, made red

By bloody victory.

Each valley, where the battle poured

Its red and awful tide,

Beheld the brave New England sword
With slaughter deeply dyed.
Their bones are on the northern hill,
And on the southern plain,
By brook and river, lake and rill,

And by the roaring main.

The land is holy where they fought,
And holy where they fell;

For by their blood that land was bought,
The land they loved so well.

Then glory to that valiant band,
The honored saviors of the land!
O, few and weak their numbers were—
A handful of brave men;

But to their God they gave their prayer,
And rushed to battle then

The God of battles heard their cry,
And sent to them the victory.

They left the ploughshare in the mould,
Their flocks and herds without a fold,
The sickle in the unshorn grain,
The corn, half-garnered, on the plain,
And mustered, in their simple dress,
For wrongs to seek a stern redress,
To right those wrongs, come weal, come wo,
To perish, or o'ercome their foe.

And where are ye, O fearless men?
And where are ye to-day?

I call:-the hills reply again
That ye have passed away;

That on old Bunker's lonely height,

In Trenton, and in Monmouth ground,
The grass grows green, the harvest bright,
Above each soldier's mound.

The bugle's wild and warlike blast
Shall muster them no more;
An army now might thunder past,
And they heed not its roar.

The starry flag, 'neath which they fought,
In many a bloody day,

From their old graves shall rouse them not
For they have passed away.


Napoleon Dying.-MACARTHY.

YES! bury me deep in the infinite sea,
Let my heart have a limitless grave;
For my spirit in life was as fierce and free
As the course of the tempest-wave.

As far from the stretch of all earthly control
Were the fathomless depths of my mind;
And the ebbs and flows of my single soul
Were as tides to the rest of mankind.

Then my briny pall shall engirdle the world,
As in life did the voice of my fame;

And each mutinous billow that's sky-ward curled
Shall seem to reecho my name.

That name shall be storied in annals of crime

In the uttermost corners of earth;

Now breathed as a curse-now a spell-word sublime,
In the glorified land of my birth.

Ay! plunge my dark heart in the infinite sea;
It would burst from a narrower tomb;

Shall less than an ocean his sepulchre be
Whose mandate to millions was doom?


Hymn of the Moravian Nuns at the Consecration of Pulaski's Banner.—Longfellow.

The standard of count Pulaski, the noble Pole who fell in the attack upon Savannah, during the American Revolution, was of crimson silk, embroidered by the Moravian nuns of Bethlehem in Pennsylvania.

WHEN the dying flame of day
Through the chancel shot its ray,
Far the glimmering tapers shed
Faint light on the cowled head,
And the censer burning swung,
Where before the altar hung

That proud banner, which, with prayer,
Had been consecrated there;

And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard the while,
Sung low in the dim mysterious aisle.

Take thy banner. May it wave
Proudly o'er the good and brave,
When the battle's distant wail
Breaks the Sabbath of our vale,—
When the clarion's music thrills
To the hearts of these lone hills,-
When the spear in conflict shakes,
And the strong lance shivering breaks.

Take thy banner;-and, beneath
The war-cloud's encircling wreath,
Guard it-till our homes are free-
Guard it-God will prosper thee!
In the dark and trying hour,
In the breaking forth of power,
In the rush of steeds and men,
His right hand will shield thee then.

Take thy banner. But when night
Closes round the ghastly fight,
If the vanquished warrior bow,
Spare him;-by our holy vow,
By our prayers and many tears,
By the mercy that endears,

Spare him-he our love hath shared-
Spare him as thou wouldst be spared.

Take thy banner;-and if e'er

Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier,
And the muffled drum should beat
To the tread of mournful feet,
Then this crimson flag shall be
Martial cloak and shroud for thee.

And the warrior took that banner proud,
And it was his martial cloak and shroud.


Imlac's Description of a Poet.-JOHNSON.

'BEING now resolved to be a poet, I saw every thing with a new purpose; my sphere of attention was suddenly magnified: no kind of knowledge was to be overlooked. I ranged mountains and deserts for images and resemblances, and pictured upon my mind every tree of the forest and flower of the valley. I observed with equal care the crags of the rock and the pinnacles of the palace. Sometimes I wandered along the mazes of the rivulet, and sometimes watched the changes of the summer clouds.

To a poet nothing can be useless. Whatever is beautiful, and whatever is dreadful, must be familiar to his imag

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