and he staggered backwards, but did not fall. In a moment Sybrandt rallied himself, and evading a second blow, closed with the now exhausted and dying wretch, whom he dashed to the ground with furious indignation. The agony of death came upon him, but did not quench his ruling passion of revenge. With convulsive agony he repeatedly buried his knife up to the hilt in the earth, and his last breath expired in a blow.

THE OLD MAN'S CAROUSAL.

RINK! drink! to whom shall we drink?

DE

To a friend or a mistress? Come, let me think!
To those who are absent, or those who are here?
To the dead that we loved, or the living still dear?
Alas! when I look, I find none of the last!
The present is barren,-let's drink to the past!

Come! here's to the girl with a voice sweet and low,
The eye all of fire and the bosom of snow,
Who erewhile, in the days of my youth that are fled,
Once slept on my bosom, and pillowed my head!
Would you know where to find such a delicate prize?
Go seek in yon church-yard, for there she lies.

And here's to the friend, the one friend of my youth,
With a head full of genius, a heart full of truth,
Who travelled with me in the sunshine of life,
And stood by my side in its peace and its strife!
Would you know where to seek for a blessing so rare ?
Go drag the lone sea, you may find him there.

And here's to a brace of twin cherubs of mine,

With hearts like their mother's, as pure as this wine,

Who came but to see the first act of the play,

Grew tired of the scene, and then both went away.

Would you know where this brace of bright cherubs have hied?

Go seek them in heaven, for there they abide.

A bumper, my boys! to a gray-headed pair,

Who watched o'er my childhood with tenderest care,
God bless them, and keep them, and may they look down,
On the head of their son, without tear, sigh, or frown!
Would you know whom I drink to go seek 'mid the dead,
You will find both their names on the stone at their head.

And here's-but, alas! the good wine is no more,
The bottle is emptied of all its bright store;

Like those we have toasted, its spirit is fled,
And nothing is left of the light that it shed.

Then, a bumper of tears, boys! the banquet here ends.
With a health to our dead, since we've no living friends.

Francis Scott Key.

BORN in Frederick Co., Md., 1779. DIED in Washington, D. C., 1843.

THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER.

[Written after the bombardment of Fort McHenry, 1814.-Text slightly revised by comparison with the Fac-simile of a copy made by the Author in 1840.]

SAY, can you see, by the dawn's early light,

What so proudly we hail'd at the twilight's last gleaming—

Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the clouds of the fight,

O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming!

And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air,

Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there;

O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave?

On that shore dimly seen through the mists of the deep,
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,
What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep,
As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses ?
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,
In full glory reflected now shines on the stream;
"Tis the star-spangled banner; O long may it wave
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave!

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore

That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion

A home and a country should leave us no more?

Their blood has wash'd out their foul footsteps' pollution.
No refuge could save the hireling and slave

From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave;
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.

O! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand

Between their loved homes and the war's desolation!
Blest with victory and peace, may the heav'n-rescued land
Praise the power that hath made and preserved us a nation.
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,

And this be our motto-" In God is our trust :"

And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave

O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.

Joseph Tinker Buckingham.

BORN in Windham, Conn., 1779. DIED in Cambridge, Mass., 1861.

AN EDITOR OF THE LAST CENTURY.

[Specimens of Newspaper Literature. 1850.]

HAVE a vivid recollection of Dennie's personal appearance, in 1796, when I began my apprenticeship in the printing-office of David Carlisle. In person, he was rather below than above the middling height, and was of a slender frame. He was particularly attentive to his dress, which, when he appeared in the street, on a pleasant day, approached the highest notch of the fashion. I remember, one delightful morning in May, he came into the office, dressed in a pea-green coat, white vest, nankeen small-clothes, white silk stockings, and shoes, or pumps, fastened with silver buckles, which covered at least half the foot from the instep to the toe. His small-clothes were tied at the knees, with ribbon of the same color, in double bows, the ends reaching down to the ankles. He had just emerged from the barber's shop. His hair, in front, was well loaded with pomatum, frizzled, or craped, and powdered; the ear-locks had undergone the same process; behind, his natural hair was augmented by the addition of a large queue (called, vulgarly, the false tail), which, enrolled in some yards of black ribbon, reached half-way down his back. Thus accommodated, the Lay Preacher stands before my mind's eye, as life-like and sprightly as if it were but yesterday that I saw the reality.

Among his familiar acquaintance, and in the company of literary men, Dennie must have been a delightful and fascinating companion. In the printing-office, his conversation with the apprentices was pleasant and instructive. His deportment towards them was marked with great urbanity and gentleness. Being the youngest apprentice,-in vulgar phrase, the printer's devil,—it was my lot to call upon him for copy, and carry the proof to him. Thus, for seven or eight months, my intercourse with him was almost daily, and was as familiar as propriety would sanction between an editor and an apprentice. I never saw him otherwise than in good-humor.

Dennie wrote with great rapidity, and generally postponed his task till he was called upon for copy. It was frequently necessary to go to his office, and it was not uncommon to find him in bed at a late hour in the morning. His copy was often given out in small portions, a paragraph or two at a time; sometimes it was written in the printing-office, while the compositor was waiting to put it in type. One of the best of