"Yet there's a deathless name!

A spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn,
And like a steadfast planet mount and burn-
And though its crown of flame
Consumed my brain to ashes as it shone,
By all the fiery stars! I'd bind it on!

'Ay-though it bid me rifle

My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst-
Though every life-strung nerve be madden'd first-
Though it should bid me stifle

The yearning in my throat for my sweet child,
And taunt its mother till my brain went wild-

"All-I would do it all

Sooner than die, like a dull worm, to rot-
Thrust foully into earth to be forgot!

O heavens-but I appall

Your heart, old man! forgive

-ha! on your lives

Let him not faint!-rack him till he revives!

"Vain-vain-give o'er! His eye

Glazes apace. He does not feel you now-
Stand back! I'll paint the death-dew on his brow!
Gods! if he do not die

But for one moment-one-till I eclipse
Conception with the scorn of those calm lips!

Shivering! Hark! he mutters
Brokenly now-that was a difficult breath---
Another? Wilt thou never come, O Death!
Look! how his temple dutters!

Is his heart still? Aha! lift up his head!
He shudders-gasps--Jove help him !-so-he's dead.”

How like a mounting devil in the heart
Rules the unrein'd ambition! Let it once

But play the monarch, and its haughty brow
Glows with a beauty that bewilders thought
And unthrones peace forever. Putting on
The very pomp of Lucifer, it turns

The heart to ashes, and with not a spring
Left in the bosom for the spirit's lip,
We look upon our splendor and forget

The thirst of which we perish! Yet hath life
Many a falser idol. There are hopes

Promising well; and love-touch'd dreams for some;

And passions, many a wild one; and fair schemes

For gold and pleasure-yet will only this
Balk not the soul-AMBITION only, gives,
Even of bitterness, a beaker full !

Friendship is but a slow-awaking dream,
Troubled at best-Love is a lamp unseen,.
Eurning to waste, or, if its light is found,
Nursed for an idle hour, then idly broken--
Gain is a groveling care, and Folly tires,
And Quiet is a hunger never fed-

And from Love's very bosom, and from Gain,
Or Folly, or a Friend, or from Repose-
From all but keen AMBITION-will the soul
Snatch the first moment of forgetfulness
To wander like a restless child away.

Oh, if there were not better hopes than these-
Were there no palm beyond a feverish fame-
If the proud wealth flung back upon the heart
Must canker in its coffers-if the links

Falsehood hath broken will unite no more—
If the deep-yearning love, that hath not found
Its like in the cold world, must waste in tears—
If truth, and fervor, and devotedness,
Finding no worthy altar, must return
And die of their own fullness-if beyond

The grave there is no heaven in whose wide air
The spirit may find room, and in the love

Of whose bright habitants the lavish heart

May spend itself—WHAT THRICE-MOCK'D FOOLS ARE WE!

DEATH-BED OF BENEDICT ARNOLD.
George Leppard.

Fifty years ago, in a rude garret, near the loneliest suburbs of the city of London, lay a dying man. He was but half dressed; though his legs were concealed in long military boots. An aged minister stood beside the rough couch. The form was that of a strong man grown old through care more than age. There was a face that you might look upon but once, and yet wear it in your memory forever.

Let us bend over the bed, and look upon that face. A bold forehead seamed by one deep wrinkle visible between the brows-long locks of dark hair, sprinkled with gray; lips firmly set, yet quivering, as though they had a life separate from the life of the man; and then, two large eyesvivid, burning, unnatural in their steady glare. Ay, thero

was something terrible in that face-something so full of annatural loneliness-unspeakable despair, that the aged minister started back in horror. But look! those strong arms are clutching at the vacant air: the death-sweat stands in drops on that bold brow-the man is dying. Throb-throb-throb-beats the death-watch in the shattered wall. "Would you die in the faith of the Christian?" faltered the preacher, as he knelt there on the damp floor. The white lips of the death-stricken man trembled, but made no sound. Then, with the strong agony of death upon him, he rose into a sitting posture. For the first time he spoke. “Christian !" he echoed in that deep tone which thrilled the preacher to the heart: "Will that faith give me back my honor? Come with me, old man, come with me, far over the waters. Ha! we are there! This is my native town. Yonder is the church in which I knelt in childhood: yonder the green on which I sported when a boy. But another flag waves yonder, in place of the flag that waved when I was a child.

"And listen, old man, were I to pass along the streets, as I passed when but a child, the very babes in their cradles would raise their tiny hands, and curse me! The graves in yonder churchyard would shrink from my footsteps; and yonder flag would rain a baptism of blood upon my head !” That was an awful death-bed. The minister had watched "the last night" with a hundred convicts in their cells, but had never beheld a scene so terrible as this. Suddenly the dying man arose he tottered along the floor. With those white fingers, whose nails were blue with the deathchill, he threw open a valise. He drew from thence a faded coat of blue, faced with silver, and the wreck of a battle-flag.

"Look ye, priest! this faded coat is spotted with my blood!" he cried, as old memories seemed stirring at his heart. "This coat I wore, when I first heard the news of Lexington: this coat I wore, when I planted the banner of the stars on Ticonderoga that bullet-hole was pierced in the fight of Quebec; and now, I am a--let me whisper it in your ear!" He hissed that single burning word into the minister's ear: "Now help me, priest! help me to put on this coat of blue; for you see"- and a ghastly smile came over his face there is no one here to wipe the cold drops from my brow: no wife: no child. I must meet Death alone; but I will meet him, as I have met him in battle, without a fear!"

And, while he stood arraying his limbs in that wormeaten coat of blue and silver, the good minister spoke to Lim of faith in Jesus. Yes, of that great faith, which pierces the clouds of human guilt, and rolls them back from the

face of God. "Faith!" echoed that strange man, who tood there, erect, with the death-chill on his brow, “Faith! Can it give me back my honor? Look ye, priest! there, over the waves, sits George Washington, telling to his comrades the pleasant story of the eight years' war: there, in his royal halls, sits George of England, bewailing, in his idiotic voice, the loss of his colonies! And here am I !--I, who was the first to raise the flag of freedcm, the first to strike a blow against that king-here am I, dying! oh, dying like a dog!"

The awe-stricken preacher started back from the look of the dying man, while throb-throb-throb-beats the death-watch, in the shattered wall. "Hush! silence along the lines there!" he muttered, in that wild, absent tone, as though speaking to the dead; "silence along the lines! not a word-not a word, on peril of your lives! Hark you, Montgomery! we will meet in the centre of the town:we will meet there in victory, or die!--Hist! silence, my men-not a whisper, as we move up those steep rocks! Now on, my boys-now on! Men of the wilderness, we will gain the town! Now up with the banner of the stars -up with the flag of freedom, though the night is dark, and the snow falls! Now! now, one more blow, and Quebec is ours!"

And look! his eye grows glassy. With that word on his lips, he stands there-ah! what a hideous picture of despair: erect, livid, ghastly: there for a moment, and then he falls-he is dead! Ah, look at that proud form, thrown cold and stiff upon the damp floor. In that glassy eye there lingers, even yet, a horrible energy-a sublimity of despair. Who is this strange man lying there alone, in this rude garret this man, who, in all his crimes, still treasured up in that blue uniform, that faded flag? Who is this being of horrible remorse-this man, whose memories seem to link something with heaven, and more with hell?

Let us look at that parchment and flag. The aged minister unrolls that faded flag; it is a blue banner gleaming with thirteen stars. He unrolls that parchment: it is a colonel's commission in the Continental army addressed to BENEDICT ARNOLD! And there, in that rude hut, while the death-watch throbbed like a heart in the shattered wall: there, unknown, unwept, in all the bitterness of desolation, lay the corse of the patriot and the traitor.

Oh that our own true Washington had been there, to sever that good right arm from the corse; and, while the dishonored body rotted into dust, to bring home that noble arm, and embalm it among the holiest memories of the past. For that right arm struck many a gallant blow

for freedom: yonder at Ticonderoga, at Quebec, Champlain, and Saratoga-that arm, yonder, beneath the snow white mountains, in the deep silence of the river of the dead, first raised into light the Banner of the Stars.

LOVE, MURDER, AND ALMOST MATRIMONY.

IN Manchester a maiden dwelt,

Her name was Phoebe Brown,

Her cheeks were red, her hair was black,

And she was considered by good judges to be by

all odds, the best looking girl in the town.

Her age was nearly seventeen,

Her eyes were sparkling bright,

A very lovely girl she was, and for a year and a half there had been a good-looking young man paying his attentions to her, by the name of Reuben White.

Now Reuben was a nice young man,

As any in the town;

And Phoebe loved him very dear,

But on account of his being obliged to work for a living, he never could make himself agreeable to Mr. and Mrs. Brown.

Her parents were resolved

Another she should wed

A rich old miser in the place;

And old Brown frequently declared, that rather than have his daughter marry Reuben White he'd knock him on the head.

But Phoebe's heart was brave and strong:

She feared no parent's frowns;

And as for Reuben White so bold,

I've heard him say more than fifty times, that

with the exception of Phoebe, he didn't care a cent for the whole race of Browns.

Now Phoebe Brown and Reuben White
Determined they would marry;

Three weeks ago last Tuesday night

They started for old Parson Webster's, with the fixed determination to be united in the holy bonds of wedlock, though it was tremendous dark, and rained like the very Old Harry.