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.
"Ah, though it cost us life and limb,"
They'll say, "our love is still the same,
And still the people love his name;
Good mother, tell of him!"

My children, through this very region
He journey'd with a train of kings,
Followed by many a gallant legion!
(How many thoughts to me it brings,
That tell of days so long gone by!)

He climbed on foot the very hill
Where, seated on the bank, was I
To see him pass. I see him still;
The small, three-coloured hat he wore,
And the surtout of gray.

I trembled at his sight all o'er !

Cheerful he said, " My dear, good day!"
Mother, he spoke to you, you say?"

። Ay, said 'good day' once more."

Next year at Paris, too, one morning,
Myself, I saw him with his court,
Princes and queens his suite adorning,
To Notre Dame he did resort;

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!
(Alone he stood and braved all dangers,
The sword in his unconquer'd hand.)
One night, (it seems but yesterday,)

I heard a knocking at the door-
It was himself upon his way,

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
I brought him country wine and bread;
The gray surtout was dripping sadly;

He dried it by this fire. His head,
He leaned against this wall, and slept-
While, as for me, I sat and wept.

He walked and cried, 'Be of good cheer!
I go to Paris, France to free,

And better times, be sure, are near!'

He went, and I have ever kept
The cup he drank from—children, see!
My greatest treasure!" "Show it me,"

"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-
But all, that he was coming, said.
And when, at length, all hope was o'er,
Than I, were few that sorrowed more !"
"Ah, mother, well we understand!
Our blessings on you; we too weep,
We will
pray for you ere we sleep!"

THE HUSBAND TO HIS WIFE,

ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

BY JOHN INMAN.

NAY, ask me not, my dearest! why silent I remain-
Not often will my feelings speak in smooth and measured

strain.

The joy that fills my heart, in the love I bear to thee,
Too deeply in that heart is shrined, by words expressed to be;
And thousand thoughts of tenderness, that in my bosom
throng,

Are all too bright and blessed to be manacled in song.
This is thy birth-day, dearest-the fairest of the year--
To many giving gladness, but to me of all most dear;
The birth-day of my happiness, which sprang to life with
thee,

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
My heart for thee, my pure one, when thy kind voice in it

thrills.

I bless it and its memories, and the blessing which I give,
Is fervent as the dying man's to him who bids him live-
But the joy I have in thee, dear love, speaks not in echoes loud,
Nor will its tranquil flowing be revealed before a crowd.

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
Its shores of lofty granite laves,
The loved associates of his youth,

Who knew his worth-his spotless truth,
Have bade the marble column rise,
To bid the world that worth to prize;
To teach the youth like him aspire,
And never-fading fame acquire;
Like him on Glory's wings to rise,
To reach, to pierce the azure skies.
And oft the Patriot there will sigh,
And Sorrow oft cloud Beauty's eye,
Whene'er fond memory brings again
The Youth who sleeps on Erie's plain.