[The Publisher of the Craftsman, Rochester, (N. Y.) offered a number of Prizes for essays, tales and poetry. We copy the Poem to which the first prize was awarded.]

LEXINGTON.

[By Prosper M. Wetmore, Esq. New York.] "It was a scene of strange and thrilling interest-they stood there to oppose an autho rity which they had been taught to fear, if not to venerate. Many were armed but with their wrongs, others had caught up with haste the rude weapons of the chase; but there was determination in every look. Well did the assailants rue their assault upon that little band of patriots. Long and well shall the doings of that day be remembered. It was the opening scene of a glorious drama."

THERE was a fearful gathering scene,
On that eventful day;

And men were there who ne'er had been
The movers in a fray :

The peaceful and the silent came,

With darkling brows and flashing eyes; And breasts that bore a smothered flame, Were there for sacrifice!

No pomp of march-no proud array-
No brazen trumpet's sound-

As solemnly they took their way,

Unto that conflict ground:

Sadly, as if some tie were broken

But firm, and with a brow severe

Dark glances pass'd, and words were spoken,
As men will look and speak in fear;
Yet coursed no coward's blood
Where that lone phalanx stood,

Rock-like, but spirit-wrought

A strange, unwonted feeling crept
Within their breasts-all memories slept
Save one consuming thought,

To live a fettered slave,

Or die in freedom's grave!
Though many an arm hung weaponless,

The clenched fingers spake full well
The stern resolve, the fearlessness,

That danger could not quell;

Yet, some with hasty hand
The rust-incumbered brand,

Had snatched from its peaceful sleep,
And held it now with a grasp that told
A freeman's life should be dearly sold-

'Twas a courage stern and deep!

Proudly as conquerors come

From a field their arms have won, With bugle-blast and beat of drum

The Briton host came on, Their banners unfurled and gaily streamingTheir burnished arms in the sunlight gleaming; Fearless of foe, and of valour high, With a joyous glee they were idly dreaming Of a bloodless triumph nigh: The heavy tread of the war-horse prancingThe lightning-gleam of the sabres glancing

Broke on the ear, and flashed on the eye, As the columned foe in his strength advancing,

Pealed his war-notes to the echoing sky! 'Twas a gallant band that marshalled there, With the dragon-flag upborne in air; For England gathered then her pride,

The bravest spirits of her land; Names to heroic deeds allied,

The strong of heart and hand: They came in their panoplied might,

In the pride of their chivalrous fameThey came as the warrior comes to the fight To win him a wreath for his name: They came as the ocean-wave comes in its wrath,

When the storm-spirit frowns on the deep; They came as the mountain-wind comes in its path,

When the tempest hath roused it from sleep:

They were met as "the rock meets the wave," And dashes its fury to air;

They were met as the foe should be met by the brave, [despair! With hearts for the conflict, but not for

And many a warrior's heart was cold,

And many a noble spirit crushedWhere the crimson tide of battle rolled,

And the avenging legions rushed! Wo! for the land thou tramplest o'er,

Death-dealing fiend of war!

Thy battle-hoofs are dyed in gore,

Red havock drives thy car: Wo! for the dark and desolate,

Down crushed beneath thy treadThy frown hath been as a withering fate, To the mourning and the dead! Wo! for the pleasant cottage-home,

The love-throng at the door; Vainly they think his step will comeTheir cherished comes no more: Wo! for the broken-hearted,

The lone-one by the hearthWo! for the bliss departed,

Forever gone from earth!
Wreaths for the living conqueror!

And glory's meed for the perished!
No trophied stone may their deeds restore,
But the hero names are cherished;
They bared them to the sabre-stroke,
Nor quailed an eye when the fury broke;

They fought like men who dared to
die-

For "freedom" was their battle-cryAnd loud it rung through conflict-smoke! Up with a nation's banners! let them fly With an eagle-flight,

To the far blue sky

'Tis a glorious sight,

With hurried touch a string should break;

With practised skill the severed tie,
And rouse the world of sound once more
To all its former harmony.
Oh! versed in Music's magic art,

Yet little versed in Feeling's thrill,
Say, didst thou deem the human heart
Could thus be play'd on at thy will?
Mine with thy harshness learn'd to bear,
But thou hast rent the chords in twain,
And now thy life's long toil can ne'er

Repair the shatter'd strings again!

M. A.

Argumentative.-While an old farmer in Connecticut was flogging one of his graceless sons, a pumpkin-headed fellow about eighteen, an idea all of a sudden entered the head of young Jonathan, and he sung out—“ stop dad let's argue."

Rapid Travelling.-A traveller on a miserably lean steed, was hailed by a Yankee, who was hoeing his pumpkins by the roadside,"Hallo! friend," said the farmer, "where are you bound?" "I'm going out to settle in the western country," replied the other. "Well get off and straddle this here pumpkin-vine, it will grow and carry you faster than that-ere beast."

The Woman who went abroad.-A lady who was in the habit of spending most of her time in the society of her neighbours, happened one day to be taken suddenly ill; and sent her busband, in great haste for the physician. The husband ran a few rods, but soon returned, exclaiming, "My dear, where shall I find you when I get back?"

The colonel of a regiment of militia was in

And their fame shall never die!

When nations search their brightest page,
For deeds that gild the olden age,

And shine, the meteor lights of story-
Britain, with swelling pride shall hear
Of Cressy's field, and old Poictiers,

And deathless Agincourt;
Fair Gallia, point with a kindling eye
To the days of her belted chivalry!

And her gallant Troubadour;
Old Scotia, too, with joy shall turn
Where lives the fight of Bannockburn,

And Falkirk's field of glory!
Land of the free! though young in fame,
Earth may not boast a nobler name,
Platea's splendour is not thine-

Leuctra, nor Marathon;
Yet look where lives in glory's line,
The day of Lexington!

STANZAS.

OH! would that I could think and feel
As I have thought and felt before;
But that sweet season's pass'd away,

And life's delusions charm no more!
Oh! would that I could now renew

The sunny dreams of former years, When Hope forbade the heart to grieve, And kissed away the falling tears: When Inspiration sketch'd the scene,

And Fancy with cold Reason strove, When the young soul, with pulse unquench'd, Could burn to fame, or throb to love.

sword through his body. On inquiry he found that he had sold his sword to buy liquor.

Wet Feet.-We are often asked to speak a word of remonstrance to our ladies; who, in the present condition of the streets, "neither sea nor good dry land," are seen perambulating in prunelle shoes, in despite both of the "Journal of Health" and the suggestions of good taste. We do not like to take the place of papa or the doctor; but we can say that this enormous sacrifice to vanity does not even answer its end. There is nothing agreeable suggested to the imagination by wet shoes and soiled hose, nor by seeing a fairy foot tripping it daintily in a kennel.-Baltimore American.

THE LITERARY PORT FOLIO. It is intended that this journal shall contain such a variety of matter as may make it acceptable to ladies as well as to gentlemen; to the young as well as to the old. While we shall take care that nothing be admitted which would render the work unfit for any of these classes, we shall endeavour to procure for it sufficient ability to entitle it to the attention of all of them. To these ends we have secured an abundant supply of all foreign and domestic journals and new books-and we ask the assistance of all who are qualified to instruct or amuse the public. Upon this assistance we depend in a great degree for our hopes of success, for however the abundant stores to which we have access, may enable us to supply matter highly interesting to our readers, we think it of even more importance to give them something peculiarly adapted to the present time and circumstances; something from home.

Communications should be addressed to "E. Littell for the Literary Port Folio,"-and subscriptions will be thankfully received by E. Littell & Brother, corner of Chestnut and Seventh streets, Philadelphia. Subscriptions are also received by Thomas C. Clarke, S. W. corner of Chestnut and Seventh streets.

Wanted to solicit subscriptions for this work, a suitabiæ person. Apply to E. Littell Brother.

No. 10.

Terms.-Published every Thursday by E. Littell & Brother, corner of Chestnut and Seventh Streets, Philadelphia. It will contain four handsome engravings every year. Price Two Dollars and a Half a year, payable in advance.

Agents who procure and forward payment for four subscribers, shall receive the fifth copy for one year; and so in proportion for a larger number.

THE PRIDE OF WOODBURN.

A SIMPLE TALE.

opportunity to advance their favourite over his head, and therefore did not scruple on all special occasions afterwards to declare Robert Howell second in learning only to the Parson himself.

But it is time we should introduce our heroine, the black-eyed, rosy-cheeked, ravenhaired, Alice Twyford, more generally called the "Pride of Woodburn." She was a little turned of one-and-twenty-her person was not remarkable for any distinguishing traits of beauty, but might safely be pronounced pretty, and her whole appearance interesting. Indeed she was just such a girl as you might reasonably hope to meet with two or three (certainly not more) similar ones amongst the group of cherry-cheeked lasses at any well attended country fair. Though of a gay and lively disposition, there was none of that wild rompishness about her for which many village girls of the same age are often remarkable. Kind and affectionate to her acquaintance and friends, warm and unaffected in her attachments

NEVER did the beautiful and romantic village of Woodburn wear so gay, so animated an appearance, as on last Whit-Monday twelvemonth, on the occasion of the intended wedding of Robert Howell, the eldest son of the principal farmer in that neighbourhood, to Alice Twyford, the daughter of a poor, but honest and intelligent labourer in the village. Under any circumstances a wedding at Woodburn was as interesting an occurrence to the villagers as any thing that could happen, and was sure to create a certain degree of "Tender and deep in her excess of love," bustle and excitement, particularly amongst she seemed to have been born for domestic enthe young people, who were themselves anxiously looking forward to so happy a termina-joyments, and (if blest with the man of her tion of their respective courtships, while to the choice,) to render a cottage home a little elder ones, especially the females, it afforded earthly paradise; in short, she was a an almost inexhaustible fund of tea-table gossip, inasmuch as it brought back to their memories the by-gone days in which they them. selves had stood in the same situation as the enviable couple: but on the present occasion there was not an individual in the whole vil lage, from the oldest to the youngest, who did not feel an interest in the approaching nuptials, and who did not rejoice in the prospect of the happiness which seemed in store for the deserving pair.

If Robert Howell had possessed no other distinguishing quality than that of his being the son of the wealthiest man in the village, that circumstance alone would, perhaps, have rendered his marriage an affair of more interest to his neighbours than if he had been their equal or inferior; but the attention given to him on this occasion was not the sort of homage usually paid to riches-it was the spontaneous respect which he had won to himself by his kind and conciliating behaviour, the honesty and uprightness of his conduct, and the benevolence of his heart. He had just entered his twenty-fourth year, was tall, and exceedingly well proportioned, and his countenance was of that open, manly description, which, when possessed by one in whom is united a kind generous hearted frankness of manner, as was the case with him, seldom fails, at first sight, to excite a prepossession in his favour, and open, as if by a spell, the way to the affections of all with whom he may have intercourse. Though his education had been but of a very limited and humble character, it was far superior to that of any of his as sociates, so that, excepting the Parson and the Exciseman, he was looked up to as the greatest scholar in that part of the country; indeed, it was even doubted whether he did not take precedence of the latter, as he had been frequently known when quite a boy to puzzle him exceedingly by his arithmetical questions (which, by the bye, never stepped beyond the "Golden Rule of Three"), and on one occasion he so fairly perplexed him that he was compelled, after muddling his pericranium for some time, to acknowledge his inability to give the solution. This great achievement was soon buzzed about the village, and tended to advance considerably our hero's reputation as a scholar, and, as many of the villagers looked upon the exciseman as an intruder upon their community, they were glad of an

"Creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food,For transient sorrows, simple wiles." No wonder then that Alice Twyford had gained the appellation of the "Pride of Woodburn;" and as little wonder that she was the bride elect of Robert Howell. They had been playmates from their earliest infancy, and so warm was their attachment even during their childhood, that neither of them was ever happy apart from the other's society. As they grew up this feeling gradually ripened into one of a more tender and refined nature. They loved, and it needed no formal declaration on the part of either to satisfy the other that such was the case; the language of nature was sufficiently intelligible to both; for love being the most exalted natural feeling of which the human heart is susceptible, whenever it has fairly fixed its empire there, reigns paramount of every other emotion, and moulds and renders them subservient to its being-it therefore needs not the aid of words, of declarations, of vows, and protestations, to reveal itself to the being whose bosom cherishes a reciprocal passion; a glance of the eye, a blush, the heaving of the bosom, a sigh, a tear, the tremor of the proffered hand, all, all speak a language more clear, more cogent, more eloquent, than the most powerful combination of words. So it was with the subjects of our present story; they had long loved ardently, sincerely loved, yet neither of them ever thought of declaring their passion; and when at last Robert pressed Alice to consent to their union, he did it without confusion, and she listened to him without surprise.

There was but one person in the village who did not approve of the connexion, and that was the father of our hero; nor did his opposition arise from any fault which he had to find with the character or conduct of the girl, for slander had never dared to breathe a whisper tending to sully her reputation-it was because he thought his son might have selected for a partner one who would have brought him something towards setting up in housekeeping, and stocking a farm; or, to use his own mode of expressing it," one that would have brought some grist to the mill."

Finding that all his hints on the subject were disregarded, he had too much good sense to attempt to exercise any harsher authority,

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1830.

well knowing, that to endeavour to thwart the inclinations of a headstrong youth in an affair of this nature, would be as fruitless as an attempt to stop the flowing of the mountain torrent; he therefore considered it more prudent to give a passive assent to the match; consoling himself with the hope that, as Alice was an active, careful, managing girl, she might eventually prove a greater treasure to his son than if she had really brought him a dowry.

It was on the eve preceding Whit-Monday when the village hum had ceased, the young peasants had returned from their rambles, and the older ones had quitted their rude seats beneath the row of elms that skirts the top of the green, and retired to their respective homes, that the two lovers wandered forth to tread once more their favourite walk on the banks of the silvery Dee, to devise little projects for the regulation of their future domestic economy, and to indulge in the bright anticipations of future happiness, of which, in the plenitude of their joy, they conceived the morrow was to be but the commencement. It was a lovely eve! all Nature lay hushed in breathless silence, save the wakeful nightingale, that at intervals poured forth its plaintive melodies from the recesses of the neighbouring wood; and the gushing of the little rivulet that falls from an adjoining eminence, and mingles with the waters of the placid Dee.

Not a cloud stained the purity of the dark, blue ether, where, surrounded by myriads of minor constellations, the mild queen of night, in "full orbed glory," smiled benignantly upon the earth, and threw o'er its varied landscapes the mellowness of her own chastened radiance. The calm serenity of the evening, combined with the consciousness of his coming bliss, seemed to have infused into Robert a new soul, he was so gay, so cheerful, so enthusias tic; but on Alice it had quite a different effect; a weight oppressed her spirits, a gloomy presentiment of something, she knew not what, floated across her mind; and, while she leaned upon the arm of her lover, her eyes were bent upon the ground, and she replied to his remarks only in monosyllables. Robert could not avoid noticing her dejection, and when he asked her of the cause, she looked fondly in his face and replied-"I do not know what ails me; perhaps I am too happy just now to be merry." The time had now arrived for them to separate; it was late, and they had just reached the cottage home of Alice. The depression of her spirits seemed increasing, for when her lover bid her "good night," promising to be with her at eight o'clock the next morning, she could scarcely articulate a reply; and when he impressed a parting kiss on her trembling lips the tears gushed into her eyes, and she hastened to her humble pillow-she knew not why-sad and dejected.

At length the long-talked of day dawned; all was bustle and preparation at the cottage of old Twyford; the wedding guests began to arrive one after another, and, long before the appointed hour, there was but one person wanting to complete the party. All was gaiety and hilarity, and happy faces, and holiday finery. Alice Twyford, arrayed in a plain muslin dress of snowy whiteness, never seemed more deserving of the name of the "Pride of Woodburn" than at that moment, when surrounded by all the beauty of the village, she shone forth in the charms of unadorned loveliness the loveliest of them all.

The clock had struck eight, the breakfast was prepared, but the bridegroom had not yet arrived; another half hour elapsed, and still he did not make his appearance. Symptoms of impatience began to manifest themselves amongst the visiters; the conversation which had hitherto been general, now subsided into

almost a total silence; strange conjectures |
were formed in the minds of some of the party,
as to the cause of this delay in the arrival of
the bridegroom; and, as his father was known
to be averse to the match, they did not hesi-
tate to whisper to each other, that some
change had taken place in the sentiments of
the young lover. These whispers did not es-
cape the attentive ear of Alice Twyford, who,
from the moment that the time had elapsed at
which her lover had promised to be with her,
had gradually begun to feel more and more
uneasy at the delay; but, when she heard the
surmises advanced by those around her, a dark
thought crossed her mind; she recollected the
unaccountable dejection which had possessed
her during their walk the preceding evening,
and, regarding it as ominous of some portend-happiness had fled for ever.
ing evil, almost fainted amidst the strife of
contending emotions which agitated her bo-
som. "Could Robert mean to deceive her?"
(she mentally inquired) he, who had ever been
so kind, so affectionate, so devoted; no, no,
that was not, could not, be the cause of his
absence, and the recreant thought was instant-
ly expelled from her mind. At length it was
proposed that some of the young men of the
party should repair to his father's house, and
require an explanation of his conduct; this
project was immediately resolved upon, but,
just as they were about to leave the cottage,
the young bridegroom was observed advancing
in a quick and hurried manner towards them.
Immediately, the gaiety and hilarity of the
whole party returned; the blooming bride re-
sumed her wonted smiles, and our hero was
saluted at his entrance with the cordial gratu-
lations of the whole company.

different ceremony. Alas! what sad reflec-.
tions did that funeral scene awaken in the bo-
soms of the sorrowing assembly. Oh! it was
a sight with which the hardest heart must
have been moved, to witness the old and the
young of both sexes, standing in melancholy
dejection around the grave of the deceased,
and mourning his loss as though he had been
allied to each of them by the closest ties of af-
finity and affection.

As for poor Alice, the shock had well nigh proved too much for her constitution; she was seized with a dangerous illness, from which, at one time, there seemed but faint hopes of her recovery. She did, however, at length, in some degree, recover her health, but her spirits were broken; her every hope of earthly

Hastily apologizing for his want of punctuality, which he affirmed had been caused by his having overslept himself (would, alas, that this had been the truth;) he took a seat beside the object of his affections, and strove, by his assiduous attention to his guests, to make them forget the chagrin which his absence had occasioned. But it was evident he was labouring under some bodily ailment; the healthy glow of his countenance had given place to a sickly paleness, and though he strove to appear cheerful, it was plain that it cost him great exertions to do so. The fact was, on retiring to rest the preceding evening, he felt himself suddenly much indisposed, and he had lain all the night on his bed, tossing to and fro, unable, even for a moment, to close his eyes in slumber, and it was with great pain and difficulty, that he had accomplished the journey from his father's house to the cottage of his

bride.

The breakfast was finished, and the wedding cavalcade set out for the church. All the village was in motion; every cottage was emp tied of its inmates, which, arrayed in their holiday dresses, joined the jovial party all eager to be present at the union of the happy pair.

They had now reached the village church, and the affianced pair stood before the altar. The marriage ceremony was proceeding, and, already had the bridegroom placed the ring upon the finger of his bride, and pronounced the words With this ring, I thee wed," when suddenly he dropped her hand, and his own fell powerless on his side; a livid paleness overspread his countenance; cold drops of perspiration hung upon his forehead; a film came over his eyes; he staggered, and sank lifeless on the steps of the altar!

A shriek of despair burst from the lips of the agonized Alice; she fell senseless into the arms of one of her companions, and was borne away from the altar to her cottage home, a bride and a widow.

The deceased bridegroom was conveyed on a litter to his father's house, and in the same week was interred in Woodburn churchyard. His funeral was attended by all the villagers, who, but so short a time before, had assembled around him with light hearts, and cheerful faces, to witness him the chief actor in a far

She still lives, though but the shattered wreck of the being she so lately appeared. She has lost all taste for her former enjoy. ments; pleasure is to her a frozen fountain, and she feels, aye, bitterly feels, that

"Gone are love's wild visions, leaving Tears and weight of earth behind." Her only delight is in the daily visits which she pays to the grave of her departed lover. There she will sit for hours, gazing in silent melancholy on the mound of earth that separates her from the all of his mortal remains, while she seems to gather a mournful consolation from the consciousness that her own sojourn in this "wide wilderness of wo," will soon be terminated, and, that then, she shall be reunited to him whom she prized most upon earth, in a land where pains, and disappointments, and bereavements, are unknown, and where the hand of death cannot prevail.

Deeply do the neighbouring villagers sympathize in her sorrows. Her appearance never fails to bring back to their minds, even in their brightest moments of light-hearted gaiety, a train of sad remembrances, and while they look upon her wasted form, her pale sunken cheeks, her lustreless eyes, and the deep, the irremediable dejection imprinted upon her countenance, they can scarcely help repining at the hardness of that fate which enables sorrow and decay to march more rapidly than the "steps of time," and hurry the brightest and loveliest of earth to a premature dissolution.

The very children seem to have caught the general feeling of commiseration for the hopeless mourner, for whenever she approaches, their sports are immediately suspended, as if they were afraid that their noisy mirth would interrupt the deep thought in which she is absorbed; and, as she slowly passes by them, they almost involuntarily lisp-" poor Alice"

W. H.

DR. CHANNING-C. B. BROWN. [The following notices of American writers are selected from a late article in the Museum, copied from the Edinburgh Review.]

Or the later American writers, who, besides Dr. Channing, have acquired some reputation in England, we can only recollect Mr. Wash, ington Irving, Mr. Brown, and Mr. Cooper. To the first of these we formerly paid an ample tribute of respect; nor do we wish to retract a tittle of what we said on that occasion, or of the praise due to him for brilliancy, ease, and a faultless equability of style. Throughout his polished pages, no thought shocks by its extravagance, no word offends by vulgarity or affectation. All is gay, but guarded-heedless, but sensitive of the smallest blemish. We cannot deny it-nor can we conceal it from ourselves or the world, if we would--that he is, at the same time, deficient in nerve and originality. Almost all his sketches are like patterns taken in silk paper from our classic writers;-the traditional manners of the last age are still kept up (stuffed in glass cases) in Mr. Irving's modern version of them. The only variation is in the transposition of dates; and herein the author is chargeable with a

fond and amiable anachronism. He takes old England for granted as he finds it described in our stock books of a century ago-gives us a Sir Roger de Coverley in the year 1819, instead of the year 1709; and supposes old English hospitality and manners, relegated from the metropolis, to have taken refuge somewhere in Yorkshire, or the fens of Lincolnshire. In some sequestered spot or green sa- ́ vannah, we can conceive Mr. Irving enchanted with the style of the wits of Queen Anne; -in the bare, broad, straight, mathematical streets of his native city, his busy fancy wandered through the blind alleys and huddled zig-zag sinuosities of London, and the signs of Lothbury and East-Cheap swung and creaked in his delighted ears. The air of his own country was too poor and thin to satisfy the pantings of youthful ambition-he gasped for British popularity, he came, and found it. He was received, caressed, applauded, made giddy: the national politeness owed him some return, for he imitated, admired, deferred to us; and, if his notions were sometimes wrong, yet it was plain he thought of nothing else, and was ready to sacrifice every thing to obtain a smile or a look of approbation. It is true, he brought no new earth, no sprig of laurel gathered in the wilderness, no red bird's wing, no gleam from crystal lake or new discovered fountain (neither grace nor grandeur plucked from the bosom of this Eden state like that which belongs to cradled infancy); but he brought us rifacimentos of our own thoughts

copies of our favourite authors: we saw our self-admiration reflected in an accomplished stranger's eyes; and the lover received from his mistress, the British public, her most envied favours.

Mr. Brown, who preceded him, and was the author of several novels which made some noise in this country, was a writer of a different stamp. Instead of hesitating before a scruple, and aspiring to avoid a fault, he braved criticism, and aimed only at effect. He was an inventor, but without materials. His strength and his efforts are convulsive throes

his works are a banquet of horrors. The hint of some of them is taken from Caleb Williams and St. Leon, but infinitely exaggerated, and carried to disgust and outrage. They are full (to disease) of imagination, but it is forced, violent, and shocking. This is to be expected, we apprehend, in attempts of this kind in a country like America, where there is, generally speaking, no natural imagination. The mind must be excited by overstraining, by pulleys and levers. Mr. Brown was a man of genius, of strong passion, and active fancy; but his genius was not seconded by early habit, or by surrounding sympathy. His story and his interests are not wrought out, therefore, in the ordinary course of nature; but are, like the monster in Frankenstein, a man made by art and determined will. For instance, it may be said of him, as of Gawin Douglas, "Of Brownies and Bogilis full is his Buik." But no ghost, we will venture to say, was ever seen in North America. They do not walk in broad day; and the night of ignorance and superstition which favours their appearance, was long past before the United States lifted up their head beyond the Atlantic wave. The inspired poet's tongue must have an echo in the state of public feeling, or of involuntary belief, or it soon grows harsh or mute. In America, they are so well policied," so exempt from the knowledge of fraud or force, so free from the assaults of the flesh and the devil, that in pure hardness of belief they hoot the Beggar's Opera from the stage: with them, poverty and crime, pickpockets and highwaymen, the lock-up-house, and the gallows, are things incredible to sense! In this orderly and undramatic state of security and freedom from natural foes, Mr. Brown has provided one of his heroes with a demon to torment him, and fixed him at his back-but what is to keep him there? Not any prejudice or lurking su perstition on the part of the American reader.

'Mid fiery chariots and emblazon'd clouds!—
And He, the sanctifying Lord of life,
Through air ascended to His throne eterne:
Ever hath awe and glory, love, and hope
Divine, the gaze of rapture skyward turn'd.-
And oh! the cold may laugh, the worldly jeer,
Mocking whate'er their miserable clay
Partakes not, of the mind's diviner hue,-
Yet there are dreams of beautifying power
And passion, which a stern reality

Can never reach. Go, ask the widow'd heart
Of young affection, when she walks the night
As in a vision of departed hours,→

If all that day-charms yield can turn her love
To such a blissful heaven of memory,
As that sweet lonely star, whose angel-gaze
Like mercy looks upon her lifted eye!
Or ask the friend, in friendly sorrow left,
When oft the starry wanderers roam the skies,
What radiant solace from their smile is caught,
While Fancy sighing thinks," my friend is
there!"

Ye holy watchers, who this earth have view'd
In darkness rolling on to destiny,
'Through many an age, and yet are dimless
still,-

With no feign'd worship sing I your romance. My boyhood was Chaldean; and your beams Like rays of feeling quiver'd round my heart!— Yes, I remember me, when calm and still

My school-companions on their couches slept, With moon-light on their beautiful young brows,

Like holiness, arraying them for heaven,
Unhinder'd to my casement I would steal,
And muse, and gaze upon the midnight orbs,
Until my spirit seem'd to float the skies!

Such adoration hath not died away.
For now, when weary of the heartless stir
Around me, and the nothings which o'erwhelm
The daylight, and disease our nobler mind;-
When sadden'd by unkindness, or deceived
By finding clouds where sunshine should pre-
vail;

In such dark mood, upon those peaceful worlds
That shame us with their bright sublimity,
I gaze, and woo unheavenly fancy off

By visioning eternity.-This earth
Too great a burden on our spirit lays,
We bow before our idols, and adore

The glittering falsehood of her fading scene;
Forgetful of yon glorious sky, where, day
And night, Divinity is marching forth,
In sun and darkness, thunder or in worlds!
We know not what these heaven-illuming orbs
May be; to us, but mysteries that roll
And shine. Yet none upon them ever gazed,
Whose eye could gather beauty for the soul,
To feed on, nor within him felt a flush
Of admiration, spreading o'er the mind
Till it became a mirror of delight,
Reflecting back the glory that it hail'd.
How often have I such proud influence caught
When sick of some high festival, where smiles
Are tutor'd till the heart forget to play,
And eyes are beaming with hypocrisy,-
While the soft tongue whose angel accents
fall

In honied sweetness on the flatter'd ear,
Can play the dagger when the moment comes!
How often, tired with such delightless pomp,
I've hail'd my homeward solitary way.
Here, once again the immeasurable sky
Around me, and a starry wilderness
Open and free for spirit to expand,-
With what a worship has my soul return'd
To midnight nature—to itself, and Heaven.

A FADING SCENE.

BY ROBERT MONTGOMERY.

A FADING Scene, a fading scene,
Is this false world below;
And not a heart has ever been
That hatlı not proved it so!

The clouds are dying while we gaze
Upon them, young and warm;

And sweet flowers in the summer rays

But perish while they charm.
The trees that woo'd us as we pass'd
With many a leafy strain,
Perchance, bow wither'd by the blast
When visited again.

The music that the soul doth melt,
Like magic from the skies,
Though sweetly heard, and softly felt,
In swiftest echo flies.

Our pleasures are but fainting hues
Reflected o'er the waves,-
Our glories-they are phantom views
That lure us to our graves!
And Beauty,-see her 'mid the crowd,
A night-queen in her bloom;
To-morrow in her maiden shroud,
A martyr for the tomb!

And Love,-how frequent does it mourn
For some remember'd scene;
Or doom'd, in darkness reft or lorn,
To live on what hath been!
And friends,-alas! how few we find
That consecrate their name,
With glowing heart and gen'rous mind
To feed the hallow'd flame.

But should there be some blessed one,
However sad or lone,

Whom dearly we can look upon,

And feel that friend our own,-
The blasting wings of Fate unfold,
They bear him far away;

Or else we mourn him dead and cold,
Companion of the clay!

Oh no! there's nothing on this earth
We fashion or we feel,
But death is mingled with its birth,
And sorrow with its weal.
Then, hail the hour of glorious doom!
That wings my soul away
To regions radiant with the bloom
Of everlasting day!

THE SUMMONS.

BY MISS M. A. BROWNE.

HARK there's a summons-the bugle horn And the trumpet's note on the light wind borne

'Tis echoed back by a thousand hills,
Its voice is swept o'er the distant rills,
And shakes at that summons the river flood,
As though it felt 'twould be stain'd with blood;
For 'tis the signal to come from afar,
And join in the tumult and din of war.
Another summons-a lowly voice,
Yet it makes an innocent heart rejoice:
A red lip at that sound hath smiled-
'Tis a mother calling her only child,
Her child who was laughing the sunny hours
Away in the shadow of leaves and flowers;
And it tottereth away from its verdant screen,
To tell her all wonders its eyes have seen.

Another summons-a voice of love
As well as the last:-from a window above
That fragrant garden a bright eye beams,
Bright from the spirit's happy dreams;
There's a bridegroom calling his promised
bride,

She points to the West, where the stars still ride,

With a blush and a smile, and then to her dress,
That hath yet no gem save her loveliness.

A summons again-a voiceless one,
Yet by the mortal it calleth well known,
A written summons-written on all
The summer flowers before they fall,
Written on the fading brow and eye,
Dimm'd by the touch of mortality-
Fluttering the pulses-shortening the breath-
All feel that summons-the summons of Death.
Know ye another summons shall come-
Piercing the ear in the silent tomb,

Rolling through Heaven-sweeping o'er earth, And bidding the dead and the living stand forth?

Forget it not! ye shall hear its sound When Death your limbs in his chains hath bound;

And forget not when ye shall hear that callBy your deeds on earth ye shall stand or fall.

At the battle of Marengo, General Desaix was struck by a ball at the first charge of his division and died almost instantly. He had only time to say to the young Le Brun, his aid-de-camp, "Go, and tell the First Consul, that my only regret in dying is, that I have done nothing for posterity." Thus modest to the last was one of the bravest and best of men the French Revolution has produced. The Austrians were wont to call him the brave, the indefatigable general. The Germans, over whom it was his frequent lot to exercise the rights of conquest, reverenced him as the good Desaix. And the ferocious Arabs, subjugated not more by his valour than by his wisdom, decreed him the sublime title of the just Sultan.

The day before the battle of Marengo, in which his race of glory was thus so early ter minated, he observed, somewhat prophetically, to one of his aids-de-camp, "It is a long time since I fought in Europe. The bullets must know me again; something will happen."

When the tidings of his death was brought in the midst of the hottest of the engagement, to Napoleon by whom he was greatly beloved, he was much affected, and it was one of his earliest commands after the victory, that a splendid monument should be erected to the fallen hero, on the top of Mont St. Bernard.

Process for preserving Milk for any length of time. This process, invented by a Russian chemist named Kirkoff, consists in evaporating new milk by a very gentle fire, and very slowly, until it is reduced to a dry powder. This pow der is to be kept in bottles carefully stopped. When it is to be employed, it is only necessary to dissolve the powder in a sufficient quantity of water. According to M. Kirkoff, the milk does not lose by this process any of its peculiar flavour.

Leech Bites-Dr. Towendhart mentions a method of checking the profuse bleeding from leech bites, which is simple and effectual. The edges of the little wounds are drawn together with a fine needle and thread. The thread being drawn through the cuticle only, gives no pain, and the bleeding is at once suppressed.

Sympathetic Ink.-A weak solution of nitrate of mercury forms a good sympathetic ink on paper; the characters become black by heat.

THE LITERARY PORT FOLIO.

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