The mother watches them with foreboding, though she knows not why. In a little while the threatened storm sets in. Night comes, and with it comes the father from his daily toil; There's a treasure hidden in his hat, A plaything for his young ones. -he has found A dormouse nest; the living ball coiled round And graver Lizzy's quieter surprise, When he should yield, by guess, and kiss, and prayer, No little faces greet him as wont at the threshold; and to his hurried question, "Are they come ?" 'twas "no." To throw his tools down, hastily unhook The old cracked lantern from its dusty nook, And, while he lit it, speak a cheering word That almost choked him, and was scarcely heard, To where a fearful foresight led him on. A neighbor goes with him, and the faithful dog follows the children's tracks. "Hold the light Low down, he's making for the water. Hark! I know that whine; the old dog's found them, Mark;" So speaking, breathlessly he hurried on Toward the old crazy foot-bridge. It was gone! And all his dull, contracted light could show, Was the black void, and dark swollen stream below. "O dear!" 66 And a low sob came faintly on the ear, Mocked by the sobbing gust. Down, quick as thought, My babes, my lambkins!" was the father's cry; One little voice made answer, "Here am I;" 'Twas Lizzy's. There she crouched, with face as white, More ghastly, by the flickering lantern light, Than sheeted corpse; the pale blue lips drawn tight, Wide parted, showing all the pearly teeth, * They lifted her from out her watery bed; And one small hand; the mother's shawl was tied, That caught and pinned her to the river's bed; "She might have lived, Struggling like Lizzy," was the thought that rived Mother, indeed, indeed I kept fast hold And tied the shawl quite close,-she can't be cold; And it's so dark and cold! Oh dear! oh dear!- THE PARTING HOUR. There's something in "the parting hour " Yet kindred, comrades, lovers, friends, Are fated all to part; But this I've scen,-and many a pang Has pressed it on my mind,— The one who goes is happier Than those he leaves behind. No matter what the journey be, Adventures dangerous, far To the wild deep, or bleak frontier, Still something cheers the heart that dares, And they who go are happier Than those they leave behind. The bride goes to the bridegroom's home What comfort can she find But this, the gone is happier Than the one she leaves behind? Have you a trusty comrade dear,- If he who goes is happier Than you he leaves behind. God wills it so, and so it is: The pilgrims on their way, Though weak and worn, more cheerful are And when, at last, poor man, subdued, May he not still be happier far Edward Pollock. ADAMS AND JEFFERSON. As Adams and Jefferson, I have said, are no more. human beings, indeed, they are no more. They are no more, as in 1776, bold and fearless advocates of independence; no more, as on subsequent periods, the head of the government; no more, as we have recently seen them, aged and venerable objects of admiration and regard. They are no more. They are dead. But how little is there of the great and good which can die! To their country they yet live, and live forever. They live in all that perpetuates the remembrance of men on earth; in the recorded proofs of their own great actions, in the offspring of their intellect, in the deep engraved lines of public gratitude, and in the respect and homage of mankind. They live in their example; and they live, emphatically, and will live, in the influence which their lives and efforts, their principles and opinions, now exercise, and will continue to exercise, on the affairs of men, not only in their own country, but throughout the civilized world. A superior and commanding human intellect, a truly great man, when Heaven vouchsafes so rare a gift,—is not a temporary flame, burning bright for a while, and then expiring, giving place to returning darkness. It is rather a spark of fervent heat, as well as radiant light, with power to enkindle the common mass of human mind; so that, when it glimmers in its own decay, and finally goes out in death, no night follows; but it leaves the world all light, all on fire, from the potent contact of its own spirit. Bacon died; but the human understanding, roused by the touch of his miraculous wand to a perception of the true philosophy and the just mode of inquiring after truth, has kept on its course successfully and gloriously. Newton died; yet the courses of the spheres are still known, and they yet move on, in the orbits which he saw and described for them, in the infinity of space. No two men now live,-perhaps it may be doubted whether any two men have ever lived in one age,—who, more than those we now commemorate, have impressed their own sentiments, in regard to politics and government, on mankind; infused their own opinions more deeply into the opinions of others; or given a more lasting direction to the current of human thought. Their work doth not perish with them. The tree which they assisted to plant will flourish, although they water it and protect it no longer; for it has struck its roots deep; it has sent them to the very centre; no storm, not of force to burst the orb, can overturn it; its branches spread wide; they stretch their protecting arms broader and broader, and its top is destined to reach the heavens. We are not deceived. There is no delusion here. No age will come, in which the American revolution will appear less than it is,-one of the greatest events in human history. No age will come, in which it will cease to be seen and felt, on either continent, that a mighty step, a great advance, not only in American affairs, but in human affairs, was made on the 4th of July, 1776. And no age will come, we trust, so ignorant, or so unjust, as not to see and acknowledge the efficient agency of these we now honor, in producing that momentous Daniel Webster. event. THE FRENCHMAN AND THE FLEA POWDER. A Frenchman once,-so runs a certain ditty,- And teach his neighbor, rough John Bull, to dance. |