"Rise! germ of Powhattan," he cries, "it is meet
That mercy should conquer in thee,

My own bird of beauty! thy wing was too fleet,
Thy glance is an arrow-thy voice is too sweet!
Rise up for the white man is free."

Now harmless the death-weapon drops on the ground,
From the grasp of the chieftain's strong hand,
He has lifted his child, and the victim unbound,
While the sounds of strange gladness are passing around,
Where the plumed, painted savages stand.

The soul of a princess, indeed, was enshrined
In her whom the forest ground trod;
And since, by the faith of the christian refined,
She has given her brow at the font to be signed,
"Rebecca, a daughter of God!"

EULOGIUM UPON FEMALE AUTHORS.

In one of the Noctes in Blackwood's Magazine, the Ettrick Shepherd pronounces the following beautiful eulogium : "Oh, sirs! what a glorious galaxy of female genius and virtue have we to gaze on with adoration pure and unreproved in our own native hemisphere. There-that is the large and lustrous star of Joanna Baillie-and there the star of Hamilton-and Edgeworth-and Grant-and Austen-and Tighe -and Mitford-and Hemans! beautiful and beloved in all the relations of Christian life, these are the women, Mr. North, maids, wives, or widows, whom the religious spirit of the protestant land will venerate as long as the holy fires of a pure faith burn upon their altars. These are the ladies, Mr. Tickler, and thank God we have many like them, although less conspicuous, who, to guard from insult of look or whisper, or touch, what man, English, Scotch, or Irish, but would meet his death? and why? because the union of genius and purity is a soul-uplifting sight, and ratifies the great bond of nature, by which we are made heirs of the immortal sky."

FLOWERS.

BY MRS. SIGOURNEY.

I'll tell the a story, sweet
Here under this shady tree,

If thou'lt keep it safe in thy faithful breast,
I'll whisper the whole to thee.

I had a lover, once,

In my early, sunny hours,
A fair and fanciful youth was he,
And he told his love in flowers!

I remember its waking sigh,

We roam'd in a verdant spot,
And he cull'd for me a cluster bright
Of the purple Forget-me-not.

But I was a giddy girl,

So I toss'd it soon away,

And gather'd the dandelion buds,

And the wild grape's gadding spray.

He mark'd their blended hues,

With a sad and reproachful eye,

For one was the symbol of thoughtless mirth,
And one of coquetry.

Yet he would not be baffled thus,
So he brought for my crystal vase,
The rose geranium's tender bloom,
And the blushing hawthorn's grace.

And a brilliant and fresh bouquet,
Of the moss rose buds he bore,-
Whose eloquent brows with dew drops pearl'd,
Were rich in the heart's deep lore.

I could not refuse the gift,

Though I knew the spell it wove,

But I gave him back a snow white bud,
'Too young, too young to love.'

L. 35. 1.

с

Then he proffer'd a myrtle wreath
With damask roses fair,

And took the liberty,-only think,
To arrange it in my hair.

And he prest in my yielding hand,
The everlasting pea,

Whose questioning lips of perfume breathed,
"Wilt thou go, wilt thou go with me?"

Yet we were but children, still,

And our love though it seemed so sweet,
Was well express'd by the types it chose,
For it pass'd away as fleet.

Though he brought the laurus leaf,
That changes but to die,
And the amaranth, and the evergreen,
Yet what did they signify?

Oft o'er his vaunted love,
Suspicious mood had power,

So I put a French marigold in his hat,
That gaudy jealous flower.

But the rootless passion shrank
Like Jonah's gourd away,

Till the shivering ice-plant best might mark
The grades of its chill decay.

And he sail'd o'er the faithless sea,
To a brighter clime than ours,-
So it faded, that fond and fickle love,
Like its alphabet of flowers.

Hartford, Connecticut.

EFFECTS OF TRANSLATION.

Cato's soliliquy has been translated from the French into Dutch. The line

"It must be so; Plato, thou reasonest well."

on being restored to its native language reads literally"Just so, Mynheer Plato, you're quite right."