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and West, neither of their other candidates can indulge even the faint hope which his sanguine temperament may yet possibly reserve to him. We have spoken of them as a party, yet they appear scarcely entitled to the name, avowing no distinctive principles nor distinctive measures. They are a mere Opposition, which is nothing else than mere faction. Their single cry is, as we recently observed it stated in one of their papers, “turn out the rogues !evading and avoiding all the distinct issues on large principles on which the Democratic party found their party organization, and which, uniformly cherished, proclaimed and pledged, constitute the political character of the Administration. Now, we put it to the good sense of the candid of our opponents—can even the slightest chance of success attend efforts so avowedly prompted by the sole motive of an unholy ambition for power and place, against an Administration already so securely established in the confidence and affections of the great Democratic Party of the country, and to the patriotism, moderation, discretion and integrity of whose chief they have themselves found themselves forced, at the close of the late session, to render so signal and unanimous a testimony?


How bright the scenes of boyhood's days

On manhood's memory remain!
Aye, like the nurse's cradle lays,

They live 'mid sorrow, want, and pain.
And as some object o'er the rest

Across the vision brighter steals,
A chord is woke in memory's breast

That every later sorrow heals ;
And though a wanderer from the spot,
'Mid waving groves and blushing flowers

father's cheerful cot,
As lovely as in childhood's hours ;
When, soul enlivening, rose the sound,

At golden eve and purple dawn,
Of rosy children sporting round

The old oak tree that graced the lawn.

I see my

The verdant mead where cowslips bloomed

The stile before the forest way-
The pond where oft the bittern boomed,

When twilight spread her mantle grey-
The river where the silver trout

Leaped up to catch the gilded flyThe mossy mill whose turn-about

Sent the dark waters foaming byThe Indian's grave upon the hill,

O'er which the fragrant wild rose blush'dThe forest shade, so cool and still,

Where 'mid the moss the fountain gush'dThe haunted ruin on the plain

The sylvan dell where slept the fawnThe village church with humble fane

The old oak tree that graced the lawn. There is a love that lights the soul,

That lives when all things else decay, It hovers o'er the sparkling bowl,

And turns the maniac's ire away; It lives amid the polar gloom,

It brightly gleams in distant isles, It hangs above the loved one's tomb,

And lights the cheek of grief with smiles,It is the love of boyhood's home,

Where newborn fancy breathed the air, Where, ere the foot began to roam,

The young ear heard a mother's prayer.
The din of war, the song of love,

A life upon the stormy main,
These, these may teach our feet to rove,

Till weary life is on the wane-
Still dearly then we hail the sound,

At golden eve and purple dawn, of rosy children sporting round

The old oak tree that graced the lawn!

J. E. D.



["One extract, only, we are tempted to make. It is the last sentence of the Work thus

sealed up for fifty-two years. And we give it not merely for the striking and interesting anecdote which it contains, but to share with the thousands who will now see it for the first time the exultation that must come home to every bosom, in the feeling that the prophetic emblem of Franklin has been so completely verified in an amount of national greatness, prosperity, happiness, and honor without a stain, never reached, nor even approached by any human community in the same space

of time. May the sun that rose on that day never go down! “Whilst the last members were signing, Doctor Franklin, looking towards the Pre

sident's chair, at the back of which a rising sun happened to be painted, observed to a few members near him, that painters found it difficult to distinguish in their art a rising from a setting sun. "' I have,' said he, often and often, in the course of the session, and the vicissitudes

of my hopes and fears as to its issue, looked at that sun behind the President, without being able to tell whether it was rising or setting. But now, at length, I have the happiness to know that it is a rising, and not a setting sun.'"-Democratic Review, March, 1839. Article on the Madison Papers.)

'Twas at the hour of summer eve,

The day its brightest death-smile gave,
When they, the mightiest to achieve,

Their signets to our charter gave,
A noble band in yonder hall,
Obedient to their country's call.

Behind the chair where sage debate

Was well controlled by Washington,
Appeared, as if hung out by fate,

A pictured image of the Sun-
That emblem, would it set or shine?
Wbat patriots's eye could then divine !

And he, the sage, at whose command

The forked lightnings left their play,
Was there, and traced with steady hand

A name that ne'er shall pass away :
And when the glorious task was done,
Said proudly—“'tis a rising sun !"

Yes, now the gloomy hour was o'er,

And this was Freedom's brightest day;
Hope lighted up all hearts once more,

And fears like phantoms passed away ;
A gentle spirit hovered there,

With silence deep as that of prayer.
VOL. V. NO. XVI.--APRIL, 1839.

Aye, 'twas a rising sun that peered

Above those purple pictured hills,
A sun whose ray of splendor cheered

The freemen by their distant rills :
A sun whose beams shall never set,
Though nations shall their names forget.

Earth's latest age shall feel its ray,

And millions warm beneath its smiles;
On mountain's peak its gleam shall play,

And gladden the remotest isles;
The fetter'd serf shall feel its power,
While Kings turn pale, and Tyrants cower.

As when amid chaotic night,

When earth came rolling, void of form,
Jehovah said, " let there be light,"

And light came streaming from the storm:
So streamed the ray from yonder sun,
When Freedom's title-deed was done.

"Tis here-'tis there-it fills the world,

Though strangely rising from the West;
Fierce lightnings from its face are hurled,

To scathe the Tyrant's gleaming crest:
And tho'it rose o'er hills of blood,

The Magi blessed its dazzling flood.



An interesting ride, enlivened only by a distant view of the smaller Alps, conducted us from Lyons to Pont Beauvoisin. Through this village flows the Guir, a small river which is here the boundary between France and Savoy. You step as it were from one country into the other. Our carriage being detained a long time by those natural enemies of the traveller, the douaniers, or custom-house officers, my companion and myself determined to proceed on foot until we should be overtaken. In the heyday of youth and spirits, and thirsting with a curiosity which nothing could slake, we could not restrain our eagerness upon entering this celebrated region. The Alps our highway, and Italy our goal, this was more than the finition of a school boy's dream. All this

-a realized romance
Had opened on our eager glance;'
What present bliss !—what golden views!

What stores for years to come! We had scarcely walked half an hour when we found ourselves among the outer range of Alps, and a scene of equal novelty and grandeur presented itself to the admiring vision. Lofty and precipitous mountains, skirted with craggy rocks and overhanging firs, rose in silent majesty around, while at their feet the foaming Guir, as if indignant at the narrow limits of its channel, dashed along with tumultuous haste. Now lost under an arch of impending rocks, it seemed to sink into the bowels of the earth, then emerging suddenly from its subterranean prison, it again dashed along with clamorous precipitance. Numerous cascades tumbled from cliff to cliff, and when viewed from a distance seemed to streak the sides of the hills as with silver bands. The road itself was an object of wonder. It wound along the sides of the mountain, in which it had been hewn with vast labor, forming a kind of a terrace, the edge of which was protected by a stone parapet. From this ledge, the summit seemed to tower to the very skies, while the dizzy sight gazed with a feeling approaching to terror upon the abyss which frowned a thousand feet below. There was no sign of habitation, no voice was heard save that of the torrent. Never having visited a mountainous region, the spectacle was as novel as it was imposing, and awakened emotions of solemnity and admiration. We had just been traversing the monotonous plains of France, and the transition was great to the stupendous scenes which now suddenly environed us. It has been said that among the mountains we are nearer to God, and their first impression upon me, certainly partook of the religious sublime. By degrees the grander features of the scene subsided, and we emerged at length into a valley beyond which arose mountains of still greater altitude. Descending into the intervening vale, we passed through several villages, inhabited by a hardy race, who force from the stubborn soil, by sheer dint of labor, the frugal pittance which it reluctantly yields. Entering several cottages, I was shocked by the picture of squalid poverty which they presented, and saw little to envy in the condition of these hardy mountaineers, save the blessings of health and cheerfulness. The people of our favored country, where fertile land is found in superfluous abundance, have little idea of the straits to which older and less fortunate regions are reduced.

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