Thou who hast crowned my youth with hope, my early days with glee, Give me the eagle's fearless wing-the dove's to mount to thee! "I lose my foolish hold on life, its passions and its tearsHow brief the golden ecstacies of its young, careless years! I give my heart to earth no more-the grave may clasp me now The winds, whose tones I loved, may play in the dim cypress bough; The birds, the streams are eloquent, yet I shall pass away, And in the light of heaven shake off this cumbrous load of clay; I shall join the lost and loved of earth, and meet each kindred breast, 'Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.'" THE RECOLLECTIONS OF THE PEOPLE. [From the French of Beranger.] BY THEODORE S. FAY. THEY'LL talk of him, and of his glory, The cottage hearth, at eve, around; Fifty years hence no other story Shall 'neath the lowly thatch resound. Then shall the villagers repair To some gray ancient dame, 160 THE RECOLLECTIONS OF THE PEOPLE. And bid her long-past times declare, And tell his deeds, his fame. My children, through this very region He climbed on foot the very hill I trembled at his sight all o'er ! Cheerful he said, " My dear, good day!" ። Ay, said 'good day' once more." Next year at Paris, too, one morning, And every body blest the day And prayed for him and his; How happily he took his way, And smiled in all a father's bliss, For heaven a son bestowed !" "A happy day for you was this, Good mother!" then they say: "When thus you saw him on the road, In Notre Dame to kneel and pray, A good heart sure it showed." "Alas! ere long, invading strangers Brought death and ruin in our land! I heard a knocking at the door- A few true followers, no more, Stood worn and weary at his side. Where I am sitting now he sat— 'Oh what a war is this!' he cried. 'Oh what a war!" "Mother, how's that? Did he, then, sit in that same chair?" "My children, yes!—he rested there !" "I'm hungry," then he said, “and gladly He dried it by this fire. His head, He walked and cried, 'Be of good cheer! And better times, be sure, are near!' He went, and I have ever kept "And me!"-" and me!" the listeners cry"Good mother, keep it carefully !” "Ah, it is safe! but where is he? Crowned by the pope, our father good, In a lone island of the sea The hero died. Long time we stood Firm in belief he was not dead, And some by sea, and some by land- THE HUSBAND TO HIS WIFE, ON HER BIRTH-DAY. BY JOHN INMAN. NAY, ask me not, my dearest! why silent I remain- strain. The joy that fills my heart, in the love I bear to thee, Are all too bright and blessed to be manacled in song. As hope springs in the captive's breast with the hour that sets him free. I hail its happy dawning, with a love like that which fills thrills. I bless it and its memories, and the blessing which I give, VERSES TO THE MEMORY OF COL. WOOD OF THE UNITED STATES' ARMY, WHO FELL AT THE SORTIE OF ERIE. BY THE LATE GEN. J. MORTON. WHAT though on foeman's land he fell, No stone the sacred spot to tell, Yet where the noble Hudson's waves Who knew his worth-his spotless truth, |