TO MONTAGUE,

AT THIRTY-THREE.

BY CHARLES SPRAGUE.

NO, L'immt forget, a

It claims, at least, a hallowed hour.

A sparkling cup, an honest lay,

Sacred to Friendship's soothing power.

'Tis not all ice, this heart of mine,

One throb is warm and youthful still; That throb, dear MONTAGUE, is thine, Nor age nor grief that throb can chill.

How often sung, and yet how sweet
To dwell upon the days of old!
Our guiltless pleasures to repeat,

Ere in the world our hearts grew cold!

Fond memory wakes! each pulse beats high; Like some sweet tale past joys come o'er,

The years of ruin backward fly,

And I am young and gay once more.

Friend of my soul! in this poor verse
Let one untutored tribute live;
Here let my tongue my love rehearse;
'Tis all, alas! I have to give

L

O, if from time's wide-yawning grave
There's aught of mine that I could free,
One line from dull oblivion save,

'T would be the line that tells of thee.

Though to the busy world unknown
Each noble act that shrinks from fame,
Goodness its favorite son shall own,

And orphan lips shall bless his name.

Thou 'rt the small stream, that silent goes,
By earth's cold, plodding crowd unseen, –
Yet, all unnoticed though it flows,

Its banks are clothed in living green.

We met in that bright, sunny time,
When every scene was fresh around,
And youth's warm hour and manhood's prime
Have blessed the tie that boyhood bound.

Though oft of valued friends bereft,
I bend, submissive, to the doom;
For thou, the best, the best, art left,

To cheer my journey to the tomb.

And now, the dear ones of our race

Have come to live our pleasures o'er;

A lovely troop, to fill our place,

And weep for us when we're no more.

Ever, O ever may they keep

The holy chain of friendship bright, Till, rich in all that's good, they sleep

With us through death's long, dreamless night.

THE MAN-HUNTER.

BY BARRY CORNWALL.

T can scarcely be more than eighteen months that

ago,

two Englishmen met together unexpectedly at the little town or city of Dessau. The elder was a grave person, in no way remarkable; but the younger forced observation upon him. He was a tall, gaunt, bony figure, presenting the relics of a formidable man, but seemingly worn with travel and oppressed by weighty thoughts. He must once have been handsome; and he was even now imposing. But poverty and toil are sad enemies to human beauty; and he had endured both. Nevertheless, the black and ragged elf-locks which fell about his face could not quite conceal its noble proportions; and, although his cheek was ghastly and macerated, (perhaps by famine,) there was a wild, deep-seated splendor glowing in his eye, such as we are apt to ascribe to the poet when his frenzy is full upon him, or to the madman when he dreams of vengeance.

The usual salutations of friends passed between them, and they conversed for a short time on indifferent subjects; the elder, as he spoke, scrutinizing the condition of his acquaintance, and the other glancing about from time to time, with restless, watchful eyes, as though he feared some one might escape his observation, or else might detect himself. The name of the elder of these men was Denbigh: that of the younger has not reached me. We will call him

Gordon. It was the curiosity of the first-mentioned that, after a reasonable period, broke out into inquiry. (They were just entering the public room of the Black Eagle at Dessau.)

"But what has brought you here?" said he. "I left you plodding at a merchant's desk, with barely the means of living. Though a friend, you would never let me please myself by lending you money; nor would you be my companion down the Rhine, some three years ago. You professed to hate travelling. Yet I find you here, a traveller evidently, with few comforts. Come, be plain with me. Tell me, - what has brought you hither? Or rather what has withered and wasted you, and made your hair so gray? You are grown quite an old man."

"Ay," replied Gordon; "I am old, as you say, old enough. Winter is upon me, on my head, on my heart; both are frozen up. Do you wish to know what brought me here? Well, you have a right to know; and you shall be told. You shall hear a tale."

"A true one?" inquired Denbigh, smilingly.

"True!" echoed the other; "ay, as true as hell, as dark, as damnable, but peace, peace!" said he, checking himself for a moment, and then proceeding in a hoarse, whispering, vehement voice, "all that in time. We must begin quietly, quietly. Come, let us drink some wine, and you shall see presently what a calm historian I am."

Wine, together with some more solid refreshments, were accordingly ordered. Gordon did not taste the latter, but swallowed a draught or two of the bold liquid, which seemed to still his nerves like an opiate. He composed himself, and indeed appeared disposed to forget that there was such a thing as trouble in the world, until the impatience of his friend (which vented itself in the shape of various leading questions) induced him to summon up his recollections. He compressed his lips together for a mo

ment, and drew a short, deep breath, through his inflated nostrils; but otherwise there was no preface or introduction to his story, which commenced nearly, if not precisely, in the following words :

"About three years ago, a young girl was brought to one of those charitable institutions in the neighborhood of London, where the wretched (the sinful and the destitute) find refuge and consolation. She was, you may believe me, beautiful; so beautiful, so delicate, and, as I have said, so young, that she extorted a burst of pity and admiration from people long inured to look upon calamity.

"She was attended by her mother, a widow. This woman differed from her child; not merely in age or feature. She was, in comparison, masculine; her face was stern; her frame strong and enduring; she looked as though hunger and shame had been busy with her, - as though she had survived the loss of all things, and passed the extreme limits of human woe. Once for I knew her-she would have disdained to ask even for pity. O, what she must have borne, in body, in mind, before she could have brought herself to become a suppliant there! Yet there she was, she, and her youngest born in her hand, beggars. She presented her child to the patronesses of the institution; and, with an unbroken voice, prayed them to take her in for refuge.

"The common questions were asked, the who, the whence, the wherefore, &c. Even something more than common curiosity displayed itself in the inquiries, and all was answered with an unflinching spirit. The mother's story was sad enough. Let us hope that such things are rare in England. She was the widow of a military man, an officer of courage and conduct, who died in battle. If we could live upon laurels, his family need not have starved. But the laurel is a poisonous tree. It is gay and shining, and undecaying; but whoso tasteth it dies! No matter now.