FOURTH OF JULY ORATION.

FELLOW-CITIZENS:-This is the ever adorable, commemorable, and patriotic Fourth of July. This am the day upon which the American Eagle first chawed up its iron cage, and, with a Yankee Doodle scream, pounced upon its affrighted tyrants and tore up their despotic habiliments into a thousand giblets.

This, fellow-citizens, am the Fourth of July-a day worthy to be the first day of the year, and a day which will be emblazoned by our latest posterity, when all other days have sunk into oblivious non compos mentis.

This, fellow-citizens, am the day when our ancestral progenitors unanimously fought, bled, and died, in order that we and our children's children might cut their own vine and fig tree without being molested or daring to make any one afraid.

This am the Fourth of July, fellow-citizens, and who is there that can sit supinely downward on this prognostic anniversary, and not revert their mental reminesences to the great epochs of the Revolution-to the blood bespangled plains of Bunker Hill, Monmouth, Yorktown, and follow the heroic heroes of those times through trackless snows, and blood-stained deserts, to the eternal mansions of free trade and sailor's rights; and the adoreable enjoyments of the privelidges and prerogatives, which fall like heavenly dew upon every American citizen, from the forests of Maine to the everglades of Florida; and from the fisheries of the Atlantic coast to the yellow banks of California, where the jingling of the golden boulders mixes up with the screams of the catamount, and the mountain goat leaps from rock to rock-and--and where-andand I thank you, fellow-citizens, for your considerable attention.

THE PICKET GUARD.-Mrs. Howland.

"ALL quiet along the Potomac," they say,

Except now and then a stray picket

Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro,
By a rifleman off in the thicket.

'Tis nothing-a private or two, now and then,
Will not count in the news of the battle;

Not an officer lost-only one of the men,
Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle."

All quiet along the Potomac to-night,

Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming;
Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon,
Or the light of the watchfires are gleaming.
A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night-wind
Through the forest-leaves softly is creeping;
While stars up above, with their glittering eyes,
Keep guard-for the army is sleeping.

There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread,
As he tramps from the rock to the fountain,
And thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed
Far away in the cot on the mountain.
His musket falls slack-his face, dark and grim,
Grows gentle with memories tender,

As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep →
For their mother-may Heaven defend her!

The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then,
That night, when the love yet unspoken
Leaped up to his lips-when low-murmured vows
Were pledged to be ever unbroken.

Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes,
He dashes off tears that are welling,

And gathers his gun closer up to its place
As if to keep down the heart-swelling.

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree-
The footstep is lagging and weary;

Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of 'gh
Toward the shades of the forest so dreary.
Hark! was it night-wind that rustled the leaves?
Was it moonlight so wondrous y flashing?
It looked like a rille-"Ah! Mary, good-by !"
And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing.

All quiet along the Potomac to-night,
No sound save the rush of the river;

While soft falls the dew on the face of te dead
The picket's off duty forever.

OVER THE RIVER.-N. A. W. Priest.

OVER the river they beckon to me,

Loved ones who crossed to the other side; The gleam of their snowy robes I see,

But their voices are drowned by the rushing tide. There's one with ringlets of sunny gold,

And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue;
He crossed in the twilight gray and cold,

And the pale mist hid him from mortal view.
We saw not the angels that met him there-
The gate of the city we could not see;
Over the river, over the river,

My brother stands, waiting to welcome me.

Over the river the boatman pale

Carried another, the household pet;
Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale-
Darling Minnie! I see her yet!

She closed on her bosom her dimpled hands,
And fearlessly entered the phantom bark;
We watched it glide from the silver sands,

And all our sunshine grew strangely dark.
We know she is safe on the further side,
Where all the ransomed and angels be;
Over the river, the mystic river,

My childhood's idol is waiting for me.

For none return from those quiet shores,
Who cross with the boatman cold and pale;

We hear the dip of the golden oars,

And catch a glimpse of the snowy sail;

And lo! they have passed from our yearning hearts-They cross the stream and are gone for aye.

We may not sunder the vail apart

That hides from our vision the gates of day; We only know that their barks no more

Sail with us o'er life's stormy sea;

Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore,
They watch, and beckon, and wait for me.

And I sit and think when the sunset's gold
Is flashing on river, and hill, and shore,
I shall one day stand by the waters cold

And list to the sound of the boatman's oar.
I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail;
I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand;

I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale
To the better shore of the spirit-land.
I shall know the loved who have gone before,
And joyfully sweet will the meeting be,
When over the river, the peaceful river,
The angel of death shall carry me.

SPARTACUS TO THE ROMAN ENVOYS IN ETRURIA.

ENVOYS of Rome, the poor camp of Spartacus is too much honored by your presence. And does Rome stoop to parley with the escaped gladiator, with the rebel ruffian, for whom heretofore no slight has been too scornful? You have come, with steel in your right hand, and with gold in your left. What heed we give the former, ask Cossinius; ask Claudius; ask Varinius; ask the bones of your legions that fertilize the Lucanian plains. And for your goldwould ye know what we do with that-go ask the laborer, the trodden poor, the helpless and the hopeless, on our route; ask all whom Roman tyranny had crushed, or Roman avarice plundered. Ye have seen me before; but ye did not then shun my glance as now. Ye have seen me in the arena, when I was Rome's pet ruffian, daily smeared with blood of men or beasts. One day-shall I forget it ever?-ye were present —I had fought long and well.~ Exhausted as I was, your munerator, your lord of the games, bethought him, it were an equal match to set against me a new man, younger and lighter than I, but fresh and valiant. With Thracian sword and buckler, forth he came, a beautiful defiance on his brow! Bloody and brief the fight. "He has it !" cried the People; "habet ! habet !" But still he lowered not his arm, until, at length, I held him, gashed and fainting, in my power. I looked around upon the Podium, where sat your Senators and men of State, to catch the signal of release, of mercy. But not a thumb was reversed. To crown your sport, the vanquished man must die! Obedient brute that I was, I was about to slay him, when a few hurried words--rather a welcome to death than a plea for life told me he was a Thracian. I stood transfixed. The arena vanished. I was in Thrace, upon my native hills! The sword dropped from my hands. I raised the dying youth tenderly in my arms. O, the magnanimity of Rome! Your haughty leaders, entageð

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at being cheated of their death-show, hissed their disappointment, and shouted, "Kill!" I heeded them as I would heed the howl of wolves. Kill him?—They might better have asked the mother to kill the babe, smiling in her face. Ah! he was already wounded unto death; and, amid the angry yells of the spectators, he died. That night I was scourged for disobedience. I shall not forget it. Should memory fail, there are scars here to quicken it.

Well; do not grow impatient. Some hours after, finding myself, with seventy fellow-gladiators, alone in the amphi theatre, the laboring thought broke forth in words. I saidI know not what. I only know that when I ceased, my comrades looked each other in the face-and then burs! forth the simultaneous cry-"Lead on! lead on, O Sparta. cus!" Forth we rushed-seized what rude weapons Chance threw in our way, and to the mountains speeded. There, day by day, our little band increased. Disdainful Rome sent after us a handful of her troops, with a scourge for the slave Spartacus. Their weapons soon were ours. an army; and down from old Vesuvius we poured, and She sent slew three thousand. Now it was Spartacus the dreaded rebel! A larger army, headed by the Prætor, was sent, and routed; then another still. bered that fierce cry, riving my heart, and calling me to And always I remem"kill!" In three pitched battles, have I not obeyed it? And now affrighted Rome sends her two Consuls, and puts forth all her strength by land and sea, as if a Pyrrhus or a Hannibal were on her borders!

Envoys of Rome! To Lentulus and Gellius bear this message: "Their graves are measured!" Look on that narrow stream, a silver thread, high on the mountain's side! Slenderly it winds, but soon is swelled by others meeting it, until a torrent, terrible and strong, it sweeps to the abyss, where all is ruin. So Spartacus comes on! So swells his force-small and despised at first, but now resistless! On, on to Rome we come! The gladiators come! Let Opulence tremble in all his palaces! Let Oppression shudder to think the oppressed may have their turn! Let Cruelty turn pale at thought of redder hands than his ! O! we shall not forget Rome's many lessons. She shall not find her training was all wasted upon indocile pupils. Now begone! Prepare the Eternal City for our games!