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THE POLISH BOY.
Whence como those shricks so will and shrill,
That cut, like blades of steel, the air, Causing the creeping blood to chill
With the sharp cadence of despair? Again they come, as if a heart
Were cleft in twain by one quick blow, And every string had voice apart
To utter its peculiar woe. Whence came they? from yon temple, where An altar, raised for private prayer, Now forms the warrior's marble bed W29 Warsaw's gallant armies led. The lim funcrcal tapers throw A holy lustre o'er his brow, And burnish with their rays of liglit The mass of curls that gather bright Above tlie laughty brow and eye of a young boy that's kneeling by.
What hand is that, whose icy press
Clings to the dead with deatli's own grasp But meets no answering caress?
No tlırilling fingers seek its clasp. It is the hand of ber whose cry
Rang wildly, late, upon the air,
Outstretched upon the altar there.
Then, with pale cheek and flashing eye,
“Peace, woman, peace?" the leader cried,
But the brare child is roused at lengti,
And, breaking from the Russian's hold, He stands, a giant in the strength
Or his young spirit, fierce and bold.
So blue, and yet so bright,
So brilliant is its light.
I wept upon his marble brow,
He drew aside his broidered vest,
A moment, and the funeral light
-Great God, I thank thee! Mother, I
IDEAS THE LIFE OF A PEOPLE.
The leaders of our Revolution were men of whom the simple truth is the highest praise. Of every condition in life, they were singularly sagacious, sober, and thoughtful. Lord Chatham spoke only the truth when he said to Franklin, of the men who composed the first colonial Congress: “ The Congress is the most honorable assenbly of statesmen since those of the ancient Greeks and Romans in the most virtuous times." Given to grave reflection, they were neither dreamers nor visionaries, and they were much too carnest to be rhetoricians. It is a curious fact, that they were generally men of so calm a temper that they lived to extreme age. With the exception of Patrick Henry and Samuel Adams, they were most of them profound scholars, and studied the history of mankind that they might know men. They were so familiar with the lives and thoughts of the wisest and best minds of the past that a classic aroma hangs about their writings and their speech; and they were profoundly convinced of what statesmen always know, and the adroitest mere politicians never perceive,-that ideas are the life of a people; that the conscience, not the pocket, is the real citadel of a nation, and that when you have debauched and demoralized that conscience by teaching that there are no natural rights, and that therefore there is no moral right or wrong in political action, you have poisoned the wells and rotted the crops in the ground.
The three greatest living statesmen of England knew this also. Edmund Burke knew it, and Charles James Fox, and William Pitt, Earl of Chatham. But they did not speak for the King, or Parliament, or the English nation. Lord Gower spoke for them when he said in Parliament: “Let the Americans talk about their natural and divine rights; their rights as men and citizens; their rights from God and nature! I am for enforcing these measures." My lord was contemptuous, and the King hired the Hessians, but the truth remained true. The Fathers saw the scarlet soldiers swarming over the sea, but more steadily they saw that national progress had been secure only in the degree that the political system had conformed to natural justice. They knew the coming wreck of property and trade, but they knew more surely that Rome was never so rich as when she was dying, and, on the other hand, the Netherlands, never so powerful as when they were poorest. Farther away, they read the names of Assyria, Greece, Egypt. They had art, opulence, splendor. Corn enough grew in the valley of the Nile. The Syrian sword was as sharp as any. They were merchant princes, and the clouds in the sky were rivalled by their sails upon the sea. They were soldiers, and their frown frightened the world.
"Soul, take thine ease," those empires said, languid with excess of luxury and life. Yes: but you remember the king who had built his grandest palace, and was to оссиру
upon the morrow; but when the morrow came the pala ce was a pile of ruins. “ Woe is me!” cried the King, who is guilty of this crime?" "There is no crime," replied the sage at his side; “but the moriar was made of sand and water only, and the builders forgot to put in the lime.” So fell the old empires, because the governors forgot to put justice into their governments.
George IV. Curtis.
THE ROMANCE OF NICK VAN STANN.
I cannot vouch my tale is true,