The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up,
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup :
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,—
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,-
"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;

While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume,
And the bride-maidens whispered, ""T were better, by far,
To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar !"

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood

near,

So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,

So light to the saddle before her he sprung :

"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow!" quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan;
Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran;
There was racing, and chasing, on Cannobie Lea,

But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see!
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

Ex. XXXV.-MEMORY.

W. G. CLARK.

'Tis sweet, to remember! I would not forego
The charm which the Past o'er the Present can throw
For all the gay visions that Fancy may weave
In her web of illusion, that shines to deceive.
We know not the future,-the past we have felt ;-
Its cherished enjoyments the bosom can melt;
Its raptures anew o'er our pulses may roll,
When thoughts of the morrow fall cold on the soul.

'Tis sweet, to remember! When storms are abroad,
We see in the rainbow, the promise of God:
The day may be darkened, but far in the West,
In vermilion and gold, sinks the sun to his rest;
With smiles like the morning he passeth away:
Thus the beams of delight on the spirit can play,
When in calm reminiscence we gather the flowers,
Which Love scattered round us in happier hours.

'Tis sweet, to remember! When friends are unkind
When their coldness and carelessness shadow the mind,
Then, to draw back the vail which envelopes a land,
Where delectable prospects in beauty expand;
To smell the green fields, the fresh waters to hear,
Whose once fairy music enchanted the ear;
To drink in the smiles that delighted us then,—
To list the fond voices of childhood again,
Oh! this the sad heart, like a reed that is bruised,
Binds up, when the banquet of hope is refused.

'Tis sweet, to remember! And naught can destroy
The balm-breathing comfort, the glory, the joy,
Which spring from that fountain, to gladden our way,
When the changeful and faithless desert or betray.

I would not forget!-though my thoughts should be dark;
O'er the ocean of life, I look back from my bark,
And see the fair Eden, where once I was blest,
A type and a promise of heavenly rest.

to us.

Ex. XXXVI.-THE DEATH OF HAMILTON.

PRESIDENT NOTT.

HAMILTON yielded to the force of an imperious custom. And yielding, he sacrificed a life in which all had an interest —and he is lost-lost to his country-lost to his family-lost For this act, because he disclaimed it, and was penitent, I forgive him. But there are those whom I can not forgive. I mean not his antagonist-over whose erring steps, if there be tears in heaven, a pious mother looks down and weeps. If he be capable of feeling, he suffers already all that humanity can suffer. Suffers, and wherever he may fly will

suffer, with the poignant recollection of taking the life of one who was too magnanimous in return to attempt his own.

Had he known this, it must have paralyzed his arm while he pointed, at so incorruptible a bosom, the instrument of death. Does he know this now, his heart, if it not be adamant, must soften-if it be not ice, it must melt. But on this article I forbear. Stained with blood as he is, if he be penitent, I forgive him—and if he be not, before these altars, where all of us appear as suppliants, I wish not to excite your vengeance, but rather, in behalf of an object rendered wretched and pitiable by crime, to wake your prayers.

*

*

* *

* Would to God I might be permitted to approach for once the late scene of death. Would to God, I could there assemble on the one side the disconsolate mother with her seven fatherless children-and on the other those who administer the justice of my country. Could I do this, I would point them to these sad objects. I would entreat them by the agonies of bereaved fondness, to listen to the widow's heartfelt groans; to mark the orphan's sighs and tears—and having done this, I would uncover the breathless corpse of Hamilton-I would lift from his gaping wound his bloody mantle-I would hold it up to heaven before them, and I would ask, in the name of God, I would ask, whether at the sight of it they felt no compunction. Ye who have hearts of pity-ye who have experienced the anguish of dissolving friendship who have wept, and still weep over the moldering ruins of departed kindred, ye can enter into this reflection.

O thou disconsolate widow! robbed, so cruelly robbed, and in so short a time, both of a husband and a son! what must be the plenitude of thy sufferings! Could we approach thee, gladly would we drop the tear of sympathy, and pour into thy bleeding bosom the balm of consolation. But how could we comfort her whom God hath not comforted! To his throne, let us lift up our voice and weep. O God! if thou art still the widow's husband, and the father of the fatherles -if, in the fullness of thy goodness, there be yet mercies in store for miserable mortals, pity, O pity this afflicted mother, and grant that her helpless orphans may find a friend, a benefactor, a father in Thee!

104

Ex. XXXVII.-THE WINDS.

W. C. BRYANT.

YE winds, ye unseen currents of the air,
Softly ye played a few brief hours ago;
Ye bore the murmuring bee; ye tossed the hair
O'er maiden cheeks, that took a fresher glow;
Ye rolled the round white cloud through depths of blue;
Ye shook from shaded flowers the lingering dew;
Before you the catalpa's blossoms flew,

Light blossoms, dropping on the grass like snow.

How are ye changed! Ye take the cataract's sound;
Ye take the whirlpool's fury and its might;
The mountain shudders as ye sweep the ground;
The valley woods lie prone beneath your flight.
The clouds before you shoot like eagles past;
The homes of men are rocking in your blast;
Ye lift the roofs like autumn leaves, and cast,
Skyward, the whirling fragments out of sight.

The

weary fowls of heaven make wing in vain,
To 'scape your wrath; ye seize and dash them dead.
Against the earth ye drive the roaring rain;

The harvest field becomes a river's bed;
And torrents tumble from the hills around;
Plains turn to lakes, and villages are drowned;
And wailing voices, midst the tempest's sound,
Rise, as the rushing waters swell and spread.

Ye dart upon the deep; and straight is heard
A wilder roar; and men grow pale, and pray:

Ye fling its floods around you, as a bird

Flings o'er his shivering plumes the fountain's spray. See! to the breaking mast the sailor clings;

Ye scoop the ocean to its briny springs,

And take the mountain billow on your wings,
And pile the wreck of navies round the bay.

Why rage ye thus ?-no strife for liberty

Has made you mad; no tyrant, strong through fear, Has chained your pinions till ye wrenched them free, And rushed into the unmeasured atmosphere:

For ye were born in freedom where ye blow;
Free o'er the mighty deep to come and go;

Earth's solemn woods were yours, her wastes of snow, Her isles where summer blossoms all the year.

ye wild winds! a mightier Power than yours In chains upon the shore of Europe lies; The sceptered throng, whose fetters he endures, Watch his mute throes with terror in their eyes; And arméd warriors all around him stand, And, as he struggles, tighten every band, And lift the heavy spear, with threatening hand, To pierce the victim, should he strive to rise.

Yet oh! when that wronged Spirit of our race,
Shall break, as soon he must, his long-worn chains,
And leap in freedom from his prison-place,

Lord of his ancient hills and fruitful plains,
Let him not rise, like these mad winds of air,
To waste the loveliness that time could spare,
To fill the earth with woe, and blot her fair
Unconscious breast with blood from human veins!

But may he like the Spring-time come abroad,
Who crumbles winter's gyves with gentle might,
When in the genial breeze, the breath of God,

Come spouting up the unsealed springs to light;
Flowers start from their dark prisons at his feet,
The woods, long dumb, awake to hymnings sweet,
And morn and eve, whose glimmerings almost meet,
Crowd back to narrow bounds the ancient night.

Ex. XXXVIII.—P AŠ SING AWAY.

MISS JEWSBURY.

I ASKED the stars in the pomp of night,
Gilding its blackness with crowns of light,
Bright with beauty, and girt with power,
Whether eternity were not their dower;
And dirge-like music stole from their spheres,
Bearing this message to mortal ears:—