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The air is cool, and it darkens,

And calmly flows the Rhine,
The mountain peaks are sparkling

In the sunny evening-shine.

And yonder sits a maiden,

The fairest of the fair;
With gold is her garment glittering,

And she combs her golden hair :

With a golden comb she combs it;

And a wild song singeth she,
That melts the heart with a wondrous

And powerful melody.

The boatman feels his bosom

With a nameless longing move;
He sees not the gulfs before him,

His gaze is fixed above,

Till over boat and boatman

The Rhine's deep waters run;
And this, with her magic singing,

The Lore-lei has done!- Heine.

OH! WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL

BE PROUD?

OHI
H! why should the spirit of mortal be proud ?

Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,
He passeth from life to his rest in the grave.

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,
Be scattered around, and together be laid;
And the young and the old, and the low and the high,
Shall moulder to dust, and together shall lie.

The infant a mother attended and loved;
The mother that infant's affection who proved;
The husband, that mother and infant who blest,
Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest.

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 brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn,
The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave,
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.

The peasant, whose lot was to sow and to reap;
The herdsman, who climbed with his goats up the steep;
The beggar, who wandered in search of his bread,
Have faded away like the grass that we tread.

The saint, who enjoyed the communion of Heaven;
The sinner, who dared to remain unforgiven;
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.

So the multitude goes, like the flower or the weed
That withers away to let others succeed;

So the multitude comes, even those we behold,
To repeat every tale that has often been told.

For we are the same our fathers have been;
We see the same sights our fathers have seen;
We drink the same stream, we view the same sun,
And run the same course our fathers have run.

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;
They scorned — but the heart of the haughty is cold;
They grieved - but no wail from their slumber will

come; They joyed—but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.

They died - ay, they died; — we things that are now,
That walked on the turf that lies over their brow,
And make in their dwellings a transient abode,
Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road.

Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,
Are mingled together in sunshine and rain;
And the smile and the tear, the song and the dirge,
Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.

'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.

AN

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;

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