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then, sneer at what in their wisdom they call untruth-at what is false, because it has no material presence: this does not create falsity; would to Heaven that it did!

9. And yet, if there was actual, material truth, superadded to Reverie, would such objectors sympathize the more? No!-a thousand times, no; the heart that has no sympathy with thoughts and feelings that scorch the soul, is dead also-whatever its mocking tears and gestures may say-to a coffin or a grave! Let them pass, and we will come back to these cherished letters.

10. A mother who has lost a child, has, she says, shed a tear -not one, but many-over the dead boy's coldness. And another, who has not, but who trembles lest she lose, has found the words failing as she reads, and a dim, sorrow-borne mist spreading over the page. Another, yet rejoicing in all those family ties that make life a charm, has listened nervously to careful reading, until the husband is called home, and the coffin is in the house-"Stop!" she says; and a gush of tears tells the rest. Yet the cold critic will say "It was artfully done." A curse on him!-it was not art; it was nature.

11. Another, a young, fresh, healthful girl-mind, has seen. something in the love-picture-albeit so weak-of truth; and has kindly believed that it must be earnest. Ay, indeed is it, fair and generous one,-earnest as life and hope! Who, indeed, with a heart at all, that has not yet slipped away irrep'arably and forever from the shores of youth-from that fairy-land which young enthusiasm creates, and over which bright dreams hover-but knows it to be real? And so such things will be real, till hopes are dashed, and Death is come. Another, a father, has laid down the book in tears.-God bless them all! How far better this, than the cold praise of newspaper paragraphs, or the critically contrived approval of colder friends!

12. Let me gather up these letters carefully,-to be read when the heart is faint, and sick of all that there is unreal and selfish in the world. Let me tie them together, with a new, and longer bit of ribbon,-not by a love knot, that is too hardbut by an easy slipping knot, that so I may get at them the better. And now they are all together, a snug packet, and we will label them, not sentimentally (I pity the one who thinks it),

but earnestly, and in the best meaning of the term--REMEM

BRANCERS OF THE HEART.

D. G. MITCHELL

1.

52. THE SETTLER.

HIS echoing ax the settler swung

Amid the sea-like solitude,

And rushing, thundering, down were flung
The Titans' of the wood;

Loud shriek'd the eagle as he dash'd
From out his mossy nest, which crash'd
With its supporting bough,

And the first sunlight, leaping, flash'd
On the wolf's haunt below.

2. Rude was the garb, and strong the frame
Of him who plied his ceaseless toil:
To form that garb, the wild-wood game
Contributed their spoil;

The soul that warm'd that frame, disdain'd
The tinsel, gaud, and glare, that reign'd
Where men their crowds collect;
The simple fur, untrimm'd, unstain'd,
This forest-tamer deck'd.

8. The paths which wound mid gorgeous trees,
The streams whose bright lips kiss'd their flowers,
The winds that swell'd their harmonies
Through those sun-hiding bowers,
The temple vast-the green arcade,
The nestling vale, the grassy glade,
Dark cave and swampy lair;

These scenes and sounds majestic, made
His world, his pleasures, there.

'See Biographical Sketch, p. 162.-Titans, in heathen mythology, men of gigantic stature and force, said to be the sons of Coelus and Terra. The wars of the Titans against the gods are very celebrated in mythology. The name Titan is now applied to any thing gigantic, as in this line to the large trees of the wood.

4. His roof adorn'd, a pleasant spot,

Mid the black logs green glow'd the grain,
And herbs and plants the woods knew not,
Throve in the sun and rain.

The smoke-wreath curling o'er the dell,
The low-the bleat-the tinkling bell,
All made a landscape strange,
Which was the living chronicle
Of deeds that wrought the change.

5. The violet sprung at Spring's first tinge,
The rose of summer spread its glow,
The maize hung on its Autumn fringe,
Rude Winter brought his snow;
And still the settler labor'd there,
His shout and whistle woke the air,
As cheerily he plied

His garden spade, or drove his share
Along the hillock's side.

6. He mark'd the fire-storm's blazing flood
Roaring and crackling on its path,
And scorching earth, and melting wood,
Beneath its greedy wrath;

He mark'd the rapid whirlwind shoot,
Trampling the pine-tree with its foot,
And darkening thick the day

With streaming bough and sever'd root,
Hurl'd whizzing on its way.

7. His gaunt hound yell'd, his rifle flash'd,

The grim bear hush'd its savage growl,
In blood and foam the panther gnash'd
Its fangs with dying howl;
The fleet deer ceased its flying bound,
Its snarling wolf foe bit the ground,
And with its moaning cry,

The beaver sank beneath the wound,

Its pond-built Venice' by.

Pond-built Venice. The city of Venice, one of the finest in Europe,

8. Humble the lot, yet his the race,
When Liberty sent forth her cry,
Who throng'd in conflict's deadliest place,
To fight-to bleed-to die;

Who cumber'd Bunker's' height of red,
By hope, through weary years were led,
And witness'd Yorktown's2 sun

Blaze on a nation's banner spread,

A nation's freedom won.

A. B. STREET.

ALFRED B. STREET was born in Poughkeepsie, a large and beautiful town on the Hudson, on the 18th of December, 1811. His father, Gen. RANDALL S. STREET, was an officer in active service during our second war with England, and subsequently several years a representative in Congress. When the poet was about fourteen years of age his father removed to Monticello, Sullivan county, then what is called a "wild county," though extremely fertile. Its magnificent scenery, deep forests, clear streams, gorges of piled rocks and black shade, and mountains and valleys, called into life all the faculties that slumbered in the brain of the young poet. He studied law in the office of his father, and attended the courts of Sullivan county for one year after his admission to the bar; but in the winter of 1839 he removed to Albany, where he successfully practiced his profession. For several years past he has been State Librarian. The most complete edition of his poems was published in New York, in 1845. Mr. STREET is a descriptive poet, and in his peculiar department he has, perhaps, no superior in this country. He writes with apparent ease and freedom, from the impulses of his own heart, and from actual observations of life and nature

1.

WH

53. THE AMERICAN FLAG.

WHEN Freedom, from her mountain height,
Unfurl'd her standard to the air,

She tōre the ǎzure robe of night,

And set the stars of glory there!

is built on 82 small islands, separated by 150 canals, which are crossed by 360 bridges. The beaver constructs his habitation in the water, and the different parts have no communication except by water, and hence the poetical allusion.-' Bunker Hill, a height near Charlestown, Massachusetts, celebrated as the place where the first great battle was fought between the British and Americans, on the memorable 17th of June, 1775.-Yorktown, a port of entry in Virginia, celebrated as the theater of one of the most important events in American history-the final battle of the Revolutionary war, which resulted in the surrender of Lord Cornwallis to General Washington, on the 19th of October, 1781.

She mingled with its gorgeous dyes
The milky baldric of the skies,

And striped its pure, celestial white,
With streakings of the morning light;
Then from his mansion in the sun
She call'd her eagle-bearer down,
And gave into his mighty hand
The symbol of her chosen band!

2 Majestic monarch of the cloud!

Who rear'st aloft thy regal form,
To hear the tempest trumping loud,
And see the lightning lances driven,

When strive the warriors of the storm,
And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven!
Child of the sun! to thee 'tis given

To guard the banner of the free,
To hover in the sulphur smoke,
To ward away the battle-stroke,
And bid its blendings shine afar,
Like rainbows on the cloud of war-
The harbingers of victory!

8 Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly,
The sign of hope and triumph high,
When speaks the signal trumpet tone,
And the long line comes gleaming on.
Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet,
Has dimm'd the glistening bayonet,
Each soldier's eye shall brightly turn
To where thy meteor glories burn;
And as his springing steps advance,
Cătch war and vengeance from the glance
And when the cannon-mouthings loud
Heave in wild wreaths the battle-shroud,
And gory sabers rise and fall

Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall;
There shall thy meteor glances glow,

And cowering foes shall sink beneath

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