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Sweetly, oh! sweetly, the morning breaks,

With roseate streaks,
Like the first faint blush on a maiden's cheeks ;
Seem'd as that mild and clear blue sky
Smiled upon all things far and nigh,
On all-save the wretch condemn'd to die.
Alack! that ever so fair a Sun
As that which its course has now begun,
Should rise on such a scene of misery!
Should gild with rays so light and free
That dismal, dark-frowning Gallows-tree!

And hark !-a sound comes, big with fate;
The clock from St. Sepulchre's tower strikes-Eight-
List to that low funereal bell :
It is tolling, alas! a living man's knell !--
And see!-from forth that opening door
They come-He steps that threshold o'er
Who never stall tread upon threshold more!
-God!'tis a fearsome thing to see
That pale wan man's mute agony,
The glare of that wild, despairing eye,
Now bent on the crowd, now turn’d to the sky,
As though 'twere scanning, in doubt and in fear,
The path of the Spirit's unknown career;
Those pinion'd arms, those hands that ne'er
Shall be listed again, -not even in prayer;

That heaving chest !-- Enough–tis done!
The bolt has fallen !-the spirit is gone-
For weal or for woe is known but to One!
-Oh! 'twas a fearsome sight l-Ah me!
A deed to shudder at,-not to see.
Again that clock!'tis time, 'tis time!
The hour is past;-with its earliest chime
The chord is severed, the lifeless clay
By “dungeon villains” is borne away:
Nine!'twas the last concluding stroke!
And then-my Lord Tomnoddy awoke!
And Tregooze and Sir Carnaby Jenks arose,'
And Captain MFuze, with the black on his nose:
And they stared at each other, as much as to say

“Hollo! Hollo!

What was to be done?- The man was dead!
Nought could be done--nought could be said;
So-my Lord Tomnoddy went home to bed!

he grew.

THE BIRTHDAY OF WASHINGTON.-Rufus Choate. The birthday of the “Father of his Country!" May it ever be freshly remembered by American hearts! May it ever re-awaken in them a filial veneration for his memory; ever rekindle the fires of patriotic regard for the country wliich he loved so well, to which he gave his youthful vigor and his youthful energy, during the perilous period of the early Indian warfare; to which he devoted his life in the maturity of his powers, in the field; to which again he offered the counsels of his wisdom and his experience, as president of the convention that framed our Constitution; which he guided and directed while in the chair of state, and for which the last prayer of his earthly supplication was offered úr, when it came the moment for him so well, and so grandly, and so calmly, to die. He was the first man of the time in which

His memory is first and most sacred in our love, and ever hereafter, till the last drop of blood shall frecze in the last American heart, his name shall be a spell of power and of might.

Yes, gentlemen, there is one personal, one vast felicity, which no man can share with him. It was the daily beauty, and towering and matchless glory of his life which enabled him to create his country, and at the same time, secure an undying love and regard from the whole American people.

The first in the hearts of his countrymen !'' Yes, first ! He has our first and most fervent love. Undoubtedly there were brave and wise and good men, before his day, in every colony. But the American nation, as a nation, I do not reckon to have begun before 1774. And the first love of that Young America was Washington. The first word she lisped was his name. Her earliest breath spoke it. It still is her proud ejaculation, and it will be the last gasp of her expiring lifei Yes; others of our great men have been appreciated-many admired by all ;-but him we love; him we all love. About and around him we call up no dissentient and discordant and dissatisfied elements no sectional prejudice nor bias-no party, no creed, no dogma of politics. None of these shall assail him. Yes, when the storm of battle blows darkest and rages highest, the memory of Washington shall nerve every American arm, and cheer every American heart. It shall relume that Promethean fire, that sublime flame of

patriotism, that devoted love of country which his words have connuended, which his example has consecrated :

“Where may the wearied eye repose,

When gazing on the great;
Where neither guilty glory glows

Nor despicable state?
Yes-one-the first, the last, the best,
The Cincinnatus of the West,

Whom Envy dared not hate,
Bequeathed tlie name of Washington,
To make man blush there was but one."

BRIDGE OF SIGHS.-T. Hood.

ONE more Unfortunate,

Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,

Gone to her death!
Take her up tenderly,

Lift her with care ;-
Fashion'd so slenderly,

Young, and so fairi
Look at her garments,
Clinging like cerements;

Whilst the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing;

Take her up instantly,
Loving, not loathing. -
Touch her not scornfully
Think of her mournfully,

Gently and humanly;
Not of the stains of her,
All that remains of her

Now, is pure womanly.
Make no deep scrutiny

Loop up her tresses

Escaped from the comb,
Her fair auburn tresses;
Whilst wondernient guesses

Where was her home?
Who was her father?
Who was her mother?
Had she a sister?
Had she a brother?

Or was there a dearer one

Still, and a nearer one
Yet, than all other?
Alas! for the rarity

Of Christian charity
Under the sun!
Oh! it was pitiful!

Near a whole city full,
Home she had none.
Sisterly, brotherly,
Fatherly, motherly,

Feelings were changed;
Love, by harsh evidence,

Thrown from its eminence
Even God's providence
· Seeming estranged.
Where the lamps quiver

So far in the river,
With many a light

From window and casement,
From garret to basement,

She stood, with amazement,
Houseless by night.
The bleak winds of March

Dlade her tremble and shiver ; But not the dark arch,

Or the black flowing river:
Mad from life's history,
Glad to death's mystery

Take her up tenderly,

List her with care;
Fashion'd so slenderly,

Young, and so fair!
Ere her limbs frigidly

Stiffen so rigidly,
Decently,-kindly, -

Smooth and compose them;

And her eyes, close them,
Staring so blindly!
Dreadfully staring

Through muddy impurity,
As when with the daring
Last look of despairing

Fixed on futurity.
Perishing gloomily,

Spurred by contumely,
Cold inhumanity,

Burning insanity,
Into her rest, -

Cross her hands humbly,

As if praying dumbly,
Over her breast !

Owning her weakness,
Her evil behaviour,

And leaving with meckness,
Her sins to her Saviour!

THE WOOD OF CHANCELLORSVILLE

By Delia R. German.
THE ripe red berries of the wintergreen

Lure me to pause a while
In this deep, tangled wood. I stop and lean
Down where these wild flowers smile,

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