Ex. LIV.-THE BELL OF THE ATLANTIC.*

TOLL, toll, toll,

MRS. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.

Thou Bell by billows swung;

And, night and day, thy warning words
Repeat with mournful tongue!
Toll for the queenly boat,

Wrecked on yon rocky shore;
Sea-weed is in her palace halls,
She rides the surge no more!

Toll for the master bold,

The high-souled and the brave,
Who ruled her like a thing of life,

Amid the crested wave!

Toll for the hardy crew,

Sons of the storm and blast,
Who long the tyrant ocean dared;
But it vanquished them at last!

Toll for the man of God,

Whose hallowed voice of prayer
Rose calm above the stifled groan
Of that intense despair!
How precious were those tones
On that sad verge of life,

Amid the fierce and freezing storm,
And the mountain billows' strife!

Toll for the lover lost

To the summoned bridal train!
Bright glows a picture on his breast,
Beneath the unfathomed main :—
One from her casement gazeth,
Long o'er the misty sea;

He cometh not, pale maiden,—
His heart is cold to thee!

Toll for the absent sire,

Who to his home drew near,

*It is a touching and remarkable fact, that the bell of the Atlantic supported by some portions of the wreck and the contiguous rock, continued, for days after the melancholy wreck of the vessel,-swept by heavy surges, to toll the requiem of the dead.

To bless a glad expecting group,-
Fond wife and children dear!
They heap the blazing hearth;
The festal board is spread;
But a fearful guest is at the gate :-
Room for the sheeted dead!

Toll for the loved and fair,

The whelmed beneath the tide,-
The broken harps around whose strings
The dull sea-monsters glide!
Mother and nursling sweet,

Reft from the household throng;
There's bitter weeping in the nest
Where breathed their soul of song.

Toll for the hearts that bleed
'Neath misery's furrowing trace!
Toll for the hapless orphan left
The last of all his race!
Yea, with thy heaviest knell,
From surge to rocky shore,

Toll for the living,-not the dead,
Whose mortal woes are o'er!

Toll, toll, toll,

O'er breeze and billow free,

And with thy startling lore instruct

Each rover of the sea:

Tell how o'er proudest joys

May swift destruction sweep,

And bid him build his hopes on high,-
Lone teacher of the deep!

Ex. LV.-NUMBER ONE.

HOOD.

It's very hard!-and so it is, to live in such a row,-
And witness this that every miss but me has got a beau.—
For love goes calling up and down, but here he seems to

shun;

I'm sure he has been asked enough to call at Number One!

I'm sick of all the double knocks that come to Number Four!
That Number Three, I often see a lover at the door ;—
And one in blue, at Number Two, calls daily like a dun,—
It's very hard they come so near, and not to Number One!

Miss Bell I hear has got a dear exactly to her mind,—
By sitting at the window-pane without a bit of blind;
But I go in the balcony, which she has never done,

Yet arts that thrive at Number Five do n't take at Number
One!

'Tis hard, with plenty in the street, and plenty passing by,There's nice young men at Number Ten, but only rather

shy;

And Mrs. Smith across the way has got a grown-up son, But, la! he hardly seems to know there is a Number One!

There's Mr. Nick at Number Nine, but he's intent on pelf, And though he 's pious will not love his neighbor as himself. At Number Seven there was a sale-the goods had quite a run!

And here I've got my single lot on hand at Number One!

My mother often sits at work, and talks of props and stays,
And what a comfort I shall be in her declining days:-
The very maids about the house have set me down a nun,
The sweethearts all belong to them, that call at Number One!

Once only, when the flue took fire, one Friday afternoon, Young Mr. Long came kindly in and told me not to swoon: Why can't he come again without the Phoenix and the sun ? We can not always have a flue on fire at Number One!

I am not old, I am not plain, nor awkward in my gait―
I am not crooked like the bride that went from Number
Eight:

I'm sure white satin made her look as brown as any bun—
But even beauty has no chance, I think, at Number One!

At Number Six they say Miss Rose has slain a score of hearts,

And Cupid, for her sake, has been quite prodigal of darts, The imp they show with bended bow, I wish he had a gun! But if he had, he'd never deign to shoot with Number One!

It's very hard, and so it is, to live in such a row!

And here's a ballad-singer come to aggravate my woe;
O, take away your foolish song, and tones enough to stun-
There is "Nae luck about the house," I know, at Number
One!

Ex. LVI-A PEAN FOR INDEPENDENCE.

PARK BENJAMIN.

FROM West to East, a sudden splendor breaking,
Proclaims the advent of another day

Sacred to Freedom! newer hopes awaking
In distant nations, who behold her ray.

Lighting our shores with undiminished glory,
Still undiminished in the lapse of years,
And making grander yet the oft-told story

Of all our fathers won through blood and tears.

Our brave forefathers! few of their bright number
Remain to claim our reverence and our love,
In honored graves their war-worn bodies slumber,
In blessed mansions rest their souls above.

To keep their memories is our holy duty-
To them we owe this heritage of peace,

These fair possessions, these broad realms of beauty,
To which Time lends a bounteous increase.

No tyrant's hand can rob us of dominion;
No conqueror desolate our fruitful vales;
High soars our eagle with unruffled pinion;
Bravely our banner meets opposing gales.

Here are no slaves of old-world, dead convention,
Our motto, "Freedom come to all mankind!"
No interference, but firm intervention,

When men their fellows would in fetters bind.

When kings to Freedom's spirit bid defiance,
And trample down the people like base weeds,
And join their forces in unblessed alliance,

To wage a warfare of unrighteous deeds,

Then to the nations cry we-Be strong-hearted;
Be bold and resolute, and full of trust;
The might of Freedom has not yet departed,
Nor her high altars level with the dust.

Her starry flag shall float above your legions-
Beneath its folds the doves of Peace repose;
Her power and glory shall pervade your regions,
And make your deserts blossom like the rose.
What though for long, long years of toil and strife,
Subjects and serfs your generations be,
Hope on, and struggle while there yet is life-
If not yourselves-your children shall be free.
Auspicious hour! all noble thoughts inspiring,
Well may we triumph at thy glad return—
Each mind and heart with loftier impulse firing,
Causing each breast with warmer love to burn,—
The love of country! Time cannot efface it,
Nor distance dim its Heaven-descended light-
Nor adverse fame, nor fortune e'er deface it-
It dreads no tempest, and it knows no night.

Ex. LVII-NATIONAL ANNIVERSARY.

A. H. RICE.

THE return of this joyous day has refreshed our recollections of the greatest event in American history. Impressed with grateful memories, we hailed its dawning light with emotions of irrepressible joy. Here, in the old pilgrim city, always faithful to the commemoration of patriotic events, we have sought again to penetrate the vail of the past, and gaze in fancy once more upon the patriotic fathers, arrayed in all the glowing imagery of the heroic days.

The warm blood quickened in our veins as we listened again to the untiring story of their deeds and valor, and under this last recital we have owned still a new devotion to the land of our heritage and birth. And we linger still for a few moments in this sacred temple of freedom-a temple where associations are bounded by no territorial limits, and which fade not under any lapse of years,—we still linger here