Sweetly, oh! sweetly, the morning breaks, Like the first faint blush on a maiden's cheeks; On all-save the wretch condemn'd to die. As that which its course has now begun, And hark!-a sound comes, big with fate; It is tolling, alas! a living man's knell!- Here's a rum Go! Why, Captain!-my Lord!-Here's the devil to pay! We've missed all the fun! Why they'll laugh at and quiz us all over the town, What was to be done?-'twas perfectly plain What was to be done?-The man was dead! THE BIRTHDAY OF WASHINGTON.-Rufus Choate. THE birthday of the "Father of his Country!" May it ever be freshly remembered by American hearts! May it ever re-awaken in them a filial veneration for his memory; ever rekindle the fires of patriotic regard for the country which he loved so well, to which he gave his youthful vigor and his youthful energy, during the perilous period of the early Indian warfare; to which he devoted his life in the maturity of his powers, in the field; to which again he offered the counsels of his wisdom and his experience, as president of the convention that framed our Constitution; which he guided and directed while in the chair of state, and for which the last prayer of his earthly supplication was offered up, when it came the moment for him so well, and so grandly, and so calmly, to die. He was the first man of the time in which he grew. His memory is first and most sacred in our love, and ever hereafter, till the last drop of blood shall freeze in the last American heart, his name shall be a spell of power and of might. Yes, gentlemen, there is one personal, one vast felicity, which no man can share with him. It was the daily beauty, and towering and matchless glory of his life which enabled him to create his country, and at the same time, secure an undying love and regard from the whole American people. "The first in the hearts of his countrymen!" Yes, first! He has our first and most fervent love. Undoubtedly there were brave and wise and good men, before his day, in every colony. But the American nation, as a nation, I do not reckon to have begun before 1774. And the first love of that Young America was Washington. The first word she lisped was his name. Her earliest breath spoke it. It still is her proud ejaculation; and it will be the last gasp of her expiring life! Yes; others of our great men have been appreciated-many admired by all;-but him we love; him we all love. About and around him we call up no dissentient and discordant and dissatisfied elements-no sectional prejudice nor bias-no party, no creed, no dogma of politics. None of these shall assail him. Yes; when the storm of battle blows darkest and rages highest, the memory of Washington shall nerve every American arm, and cheer every American heart. It shall relume that Promethean fire, that sublime flame of patriotism, that devoted love of country which his words have commended, which his example has consecrated: แ "Where may the wearied eye repose, Whom Envy dared not hate, BRIDGE OF SIGHS.-T. Hood. ONE more Unfortunate, Take her up tenderly, Look at her garments, Whilst the wave constantly Drips from her clothing; Touch her not scornfully Now, is pure womanly. Make no deep scrutiny Rash and undutiful; Past all dishonor, Death has left on her Only the beautiful. Still, for all slips of hers,— Loop up her tresses Escaped from the comb, Her fair auburn tresses; Whilst wonderment guesses Where was her home? Who was her father? Had she a brother? Or was there a dearer one Still, and a nearer one Yet, than all other? Alas! for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun! Oh! it was pitiful! Near a whole city full, Home she had none. Sisterly, brotherly, Fatherly, motherly, Feelings were changed; Love, by harsh evidence, Even God's providence Seeming estranged. Where the lamps quiver From window and casement, Houseless by night. The bleak winds of March Made her tremble and shiver; But not the dark arch, Or the black flowing river: Mad from life's history, In she plunged boldly, The rough river ran,― Then, if you can! Take her up tenderly, Smooth and compose them; Dreadfully staring Through muddy impurity, Perishing gloomily, Cross her hands humbly, Owning her weakness, And leaving with meekness, THE WOOD OF CHANCELLORSVILLE, By Delia R. German. THE ripe red berries of the wintergreen Lure me to pause a while In this deep, tangled wood. I stop and lean Down where these wild flowers smile, And rest me in this shade; for many a mile, Through lane and dusty street, I've walked with weary, weary feet; And now I tarry 'mid this woodland scene, 'Mong ferns and mosses sweet. Here all around me blows The pale primrose. I wonder if the gentle blossom knows The feeling at my heart-the solemn grief So whelming and so deep That it disdains relief, And will not let me weep. |