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The air is cool, and it darkens,
And calmly flows the Rhine,
In the sunny evening-shine.
And yonder sits a maiden,
The fairest of the fair;
And she combs her golden hair :
With a golden comb she combs it;
And a wild song singeth she,
And powerful melody.
The boatman feels his bosom
With a nameless longing move;
His gaze is fixed above,
Till over boat and boatman
The Rhine's deep waters run;
The Lore-lei has done!- Heine.
OH! WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL
Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,
The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,
The infant a mother attended and loved;
The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose
eye, Shone beauty and pleasure,- her triumphs are by; And the memory of those who loved her and praised, Are alike from the minds of the living erased.
The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne,
The peasant, whose lot was to sow and to reap;
The saint, who enjoyed the communion of Heaven;
So the multitude goes, like the flower or the weed
So the multitude comes, even those we behold,
For we are the same our fathers have been;
The thoughts we are thinking, our fathers would think; From the death we are shrinking, our fathers would
shrink; To the life we are clinging, they also would cling; But it speeds from us all like a bird on the wing.
They loved — but the story we cannot unfold;
come; They joyed—but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.
They died - ay, they died; — we things that are now,
Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,
'Tis the wink of an eye-'t is the draught of a breathFrom the blossom of health to the paleness of death, From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud : Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud ?
CÆSAR'S PAUSE UPON THE RUBICON.
N advocate of Cæsar's character, speaking of his
benevolent disposition, and of the reluctance with which he entered into the civil war, observes: “How long did he pause upon the brink of the Rubicon?” How came he to the brink of that river? How dared he cross it? Shall private men respect the boundaries of private property, and shall a man pay no respect to the boundaries of his country's rights? How dared he cross that river? Oh! but he paused upon the brink! He should have perished on the brink, ere he crossed it! Why did he pause? Why does a man's heart palpitate when he is on the point of committing an unlawful deed? Why does the very murderer his victim sleeping before him, and his glaring eye taking measure of the blow --strike wide of the mortal part? Because of conscience! 'T was that made Cæsar pause upon the brink of the Rubicon. Compassion ! what compassion ? The compassion of an assassin, that feels a momentary shudder as his weapon begins to cut!
Cæsar paused upon the brink of the Rubicon ! What was the Rubicon? The boundary of Cæsar's province. From what did it separate his province? From his country. Was that country a desert? No; it was cultivated and fertile; rich and populous! Its sons were men of genius, spirit, and generosity! Its daughters were lovely, susceptible, and chaste! Friendship was its inhabitant! Liberty was its inhabitant! All bounded by the stream of the Rubicon! What was Cæsar that stood upon the brink of that stream ? A traitor, bringing war and pestilence into the heart of that country! No wonder that he paused! No
wonder if, in his imagination, wrought upon by his conscience, he had beheld blood instead of water, and heard groans instead of murmurs. No wonder if some Gorgon horror had turned him into stone upon the spot. But, no! he cried, “The die is cast!" He plunged!- he crossed !--and Rome was free no more.
7. S. Knowles.
HOME AND COUNTRY.
THERE is a land of every land the pride,
Beloved by Heaven, o'er all the world beside; Where brighter suns dispense serener light, And milder moons emparadise the night; A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth, Time-tutor'd age, and love-exalted youth; The wandering mariner, whose eye explores The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores, Views not a realm so bountiful and fair, Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air; In every clime the magnet of his soul, Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole; For in this land of Heaven's peculiar grace, The heritage of nature's noblest race, There is a spot of earth supremely blest. A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest, Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride, While in his soften'd looks benignly blend The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend. Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife, Strews with fresh flowers the narrow way of life;