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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,
When the dead warrior met her eye

Outstretched upon the altar there.
With pallid lip and stony brow
She murmurs forth her anguish now.
But hark! the tramp of heavy feet
Is lieard along the bloody street;
Nearer and nearer yet they come,

Then, with pale cheek and flashing eye,
Shouted with fearful energy,
“ Back, ruflians, back! nor dare to tread
Too near the body of my dead;
Nor touch the living boy; I stand
Between him and your lawless band.
Take me, and bind these arms, these hands,
With Russia's heaviest iron bands,
And drag me to Siberia's wild
To perish, if 'twill save my child !”

“Peace, woman, peace?" the leader cried,
Tearing the pale boy from lier side,
And in his russian grasp le bore
Ilis victim to the temple door.
“One moment!” shirieked the mother; “onel
Will land or gold redeem my son?
Take heritage, take name, take all,
But leave him free from Russian thrall!
Take these !! and her white arms and hands
She stripped of rings and diamond bands,
And tore from braids of long black hair
The gems that gleamed like starlight there;
Her cross of blazing rubies, last,
Down at the Russian's feet she cast.
He stooped to seize the glittering store;-
Up springing from the marble floor,
The mother, with a cry of joy,
Snatched to her leaping heart the boy.
But no! the Russian's iron grasp
Again undid the mother's clasp.
Forward she fell, with one long cry
Of more than mortal agony.

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.
Proudly he towers; his flashing cye,

So blue, and yet so bright,
Seems kindled from the eternal sky,

So brilliant is its light.
IIis curling lips and crimson checks
Foretell the thought before he speaks;
With a full voice of proud command
He turned upon the wondering band :
"Ye hold me not! 10! no, nor can;
This hour has made the boy a man
I knelt before my slaughtered sire,
Nor felt one throb of vengeful ire.

I wept upon his marble brow,
Yes, wept! I was a child; but now
My noble mother, on her knee,
Hath done the work of years for me!”

He drew aside his broidered vest,
And there, like slumbering serpent's crest,
The jewelled laft of poniard bright
Glittered a moment on the sight.
“Ha! start ye back? Fool! coward! knave!
Think ye my noble father's glaive
Would drink the life-blood of a slave?
The pearls that on the handle flame
Would blush to rubies in their shame;
The blade would quiver in thy breast
Ashamed of such ignoble rest.
No! thus I rend the tyrant's chain,
And fling him back a boy's disdain!”

A moment, and the funeral light
Flashed on tlic jewelled weapon bright;
Another, and his young heart's blood
Leaped to the floor, a crimson flood.
Quick to his mother's side lie sprang,
And on the air his clear voice rang:
“Up, mother, up! I'm free! I'm free!
The choice was death or slavery.
Up, mother, up! Look on thy son!
His freedom is forever won;
And now he waits one holy kiss
To bear his father home in bliss,
One last embrace, one blessing,--one!
To prove thou knowest, approvost thy son.
What! silent yet? Canst thou not feel
Mly warm blood o'er thy heart congeal?
Speak, mother, speak! lift up thy head!
Whatsilent still? Then art thou dead!

-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

it

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,
Nor say, indeed, 'tis wholly new;
But true or false, or new or old,
I think you'll find it fairly told.
A Frenchman, who had ne'er beforo
Set foot upon a foreign shore,
Weary of home, resolved to go
And see what Holland had to show.
He didn't know a word of Dutch,
But that could hardly grieve him much;
He thought, as Frenchimen always do,
That all the world could “parley-roo."
At length our eager tourist stands
Within the famous Netherlands,

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