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Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume,
Like torn branch from death's leafless tree,
In sorrow's pomp and pageantry,

The heartless luxury of the tomb.
But she remembers thee as one
Long loved, and for a season gone;
For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed,
Her marble wrought, her music breathed.
For thee she rings the birthday bells,
Of thee her babe's first lisping tells;
For thine her evening prayer is said
At palace couch and cottage bed.
Her soldier, closing with the foe,
Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow;
His plighted maiden, when she fears
For him, the joy of her young years,
Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears.

And she, the mother of thy boys,
Though in her eye and faded cheek
Is read the grief she will not speak,

The memory of her buried joys,—
And even she who gave thee birth,—
Will, by her pilgrim-circled hearth,

Talk of thy doom without a sigh;
For thou art freedom's now, and fame's,-
One of the few, the immortal names
That were not born to die.

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.

ARISTOCRACY.

I. The gentleman who has so copiously declaimed against all declamation, has pointed his artillery against the rich and great. We are told that in every country there is a natural aristocracy, and that this aristocracy consists of the rich and the great. Nay, the gentleman goes further, and ranks in this class of men the wise, the learned, and those eminent for their talents or great virtues. Does a man possess the confidence of his fellow-citizens for having done them

important services? He is an aristocrat. Has he great integrity? He is an aristocrat. Indeed, to determine that one is an aristocrat, we need only to be assured that he is a man of merit. But I hope we may have such. So sensible am I of that gentleman's talents, integrity and virtue, that we might at once hail him the first of the nobles, the very prince of the Senate.

2. But whom, in the name of common sense, would the gentleman have to represent us? Not the rich, for they are sheer aristocrats. Not the learned, the wise, the virtuous; for they are all aristocrats. Whom then? Why, those who are not virtuous; those who are not wise; those who are not learned; these are the men to whom alone we can trust our liberties! He says further, we ought not to choose aristocrats because the people will not have confidence in them. That is to say, the people will not have confidence in those who best deserve and most possess their confidence. He would have his government composed of other classes of men. Where will he find them? Why, he must go forth into the highways and pick up the rogue and the robber. He must go to the hedges and the ditches, and bring in the poor, the blind and the lame. As the gentleman has thus settled the definition of aristocracy, I trust that no man will think it a term of reproach, for who among us would not be wise? who would not be virtuous? who would not be above want? The truth is, in these republican governments we know no such ideal distinctions. We are all equally aristocrats. Offices, emoluments, honors, the roads to preferment and to wealth, are alike open to all.

ROBERT R. LIVINGSTON.

GO FEEL WHAT I HAVE FELT.

[Written by a young lady who was told that she was a monomaniac in her hatred of alcoholic liquors. This piece belongs to the impassioned, poetic style, and should be delivered in an earnest, grand and lofty tone, using the expulsive form of the orotund quality of voice.]

Go, feel what I have felt,

Go bear what I have borne;

Sink 'neath a blow a father dealt,
And the cold, proud world's scorn.
Thus struggle on from year to year,
Thy sole relief, the scalding tear.

Go, weep as I have wept

O'er a loved father's fall.

See every cherished promise swept, Youth's sweetness turned to gall; Hope's faded flowers strewed all the way That led me up to woman's day.

Go, kneel as I have knelt

Implore, beseech, and pray, Strive the besotted heart to melt,

The downward course to stay;

Be cast with bitter curse aside,

Thy prayers burlesqued, thy tears defied.

Go, stand where I have stood,

And see the strong man bow,

With gnashing teeth, lips bathed in blood,
And cold and livid brow;

Go, catch his wandering glance, and see
There mirrored his soul's misery.

Go, hear what I have heard,-
The sobs of sad despair,

As memory's feeling fount hath stirred,
And its revealings there

Have told him what he might have been
Had he the drunkard's fate foreseen.

Go to my mother's side,

And her crushed spirit cheer; Thine own deep anguish hide,

Wipe from her cheek the tear;

Mark her dimmed eye, her furrowed brow.
The gray that streaks her dark hair now,
The toil-worn frame, the trembling limb,
And trace the ruin back to him
Whose plighted faith, in early youth,
Promised eternal love and truth,
But who, forsworn, hath yielded up
This promise to the deadly cup,

And led her down from love and light,
From all that made her pathway bright,
And chained her there 'mid want and strife,
That lowly thing,-a drunkard's wife!
And stamped on childhood's brow, so mild,
That withering blight,-a drunkard's child!

Go hear, and see, and feel, and know

All that my soul hath felt and known,
Then look within the wine-cup's glow;
See if its brightness can atone;
Think if its flavor you would try,
If all proclaimed,-'Tis drink and die!

Tell me I hate the bowl,—
Hate is a feeble word; 1
I loathe, abhor,-my very soul
By strong disgust is stirred
Whene'er I see, or hear, or tell

Of the DARK BEVERAGE OF HELL!

ANONYMOUS.

GOLDEN HAIR.

Golden Hair sat on her grandfather's knee;
Dear little Golden Hair, tired was she,
All the day busy as busy could be.

Up in the morning as soon as 'twas light,
Out with the birds and the butterflies bright,
Flitting about till the coming of night.

Grandfather toyed with the curls on her head;
"What has my baby been doing," he said,
"Since she arose with the sun from her bed?"

"Pitty much," answered the sweet little one; "I cannot tell, so much things have I done; Played with my dolly, and feeded my 'bun,'

"And then I jumped with my little jump-rope, And I made out of some water and soap Bootiful worlds, mamma's castles of hope.

"Then I have readed in my picture-book,

And Bella and I, we went to look

For the smooth little stones by the side of the brook.

"And then I comed home and eated my tea,
And I climbed up on grandpapa's knee,
And I jes as tired as tired can be."

Lower and lower the little head pressed,
Until it had dropped upon grandpapa's breast;
Dear little Golden Hair, sweet be thy rest!

We are but children; things that we do
Are as sports of a babe to the Infinite view,
That marks all our weakness, and pities it too.

God grant that when night overshadows our way,
And we shall be called to account for our day,
He shall find us as guileless as Golden Hair's lay.

And O, when aweary, may we be so blest,
And sink like the innocent child to our rest,
And feel ourselves clasped to the Infinite breast!

ANONYMOUS.

THE CAPTAIN'S DAUGHTER.

We were crowded in the cabin;
Not a soul would dare to sleep;

It was midnight on the waters,
And a storm was on the deep.

'Tis a fearful thing in winter
To be shattered by the blast,

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