Bird of the sun! to thee,-to thee The monarch mount his gorgeous throne, Men shrink, and vail their dazzled eyes; Hast kingly rank as well as he; Bird of Columbia! well art thou Like thee, majestic bird! like thee, With spreading wing, untired and strong, That dares a soaring far and long, That mounts aloft, nor looks below, And will not quail though tempests blow. The admiration of the earth, In grand simplicity she stands; Like thee, the storms beheld her birth, And she was nursed by rugged hands; But, past the fierce and furious war, Her rising fame new glory brings, For kings and nobles come from far To seek the shelter of her wings. And like thee, rider of the cloud, She mounts the heavens, serene and proud, Great in a pure and noble fame, Great in her spotless champion's name, And destined in her day to be Mighty as Rome, more nobly free. My native land! my native land! By rank, by faction unbeguiled; When they, through toil and danger pressed, To gain their glorious bequest, And from each lip the caution fell To those who followed, "Guard it well." Ex. LXX.-THE SEPTEMBER GALE. I'm not a chicken; I have seen Full many a chill September, O. W. HOLMES. The day before my kite-string snapped, The wind whisked off my palm-leaf hat ;- It came as quarrels sometimes do, And then came on the thunder. Oh! how the ponds and rivers boiled, And all above was in a howl, And all below a clatter,The earth was like a frying-pan, Or some such hissing matter. It chanced to be our washing-day, I saw the shirts and petticoats I saw them straddling through the air, I saw them chase the clouds as if That night I saw them in my dreams, How changed from what I knew them! The dews had steeped their faded threads, The winds had whistled through them; I saw the wide and ghastly rents, Where demon claws had torn them; I have had many happy years, But those young pantaloons have gone And not till fate has cut the last This aching heart shall cease to mourn Ex. LXXI.-A PSALM OF LIFE. WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST. TELL me not, in mournful numbers, "Life is but an empty dream!” And the grave is not its goal; Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Art is long, and time is fleeting; And our hearts, though stout and brave, In the world's broad field of battle, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Trust no future, howe'er pleasant! We can make our lives sublime, Footprints, that perhaps another, Let us, then, be up and doing, Ex. LXXII.-THE GRAVE OF THE BELOVED. WASHINGTON IRVING.. SORROW for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal : every other affliction to forget; but this wound we consider our duty to keep open; this affliction we cherish and brood over in solitude. Where is the mother that would willingly forget the infant that perished like a blossom from her arms, though every recollection is a pang? Where is the child that would willingly forget the most tender of parents, though to remember be but to lament? who, even in the hour of agony, would forget the friend over whom he mourns? who, even when the tomb is closing upon the remains of her he most loved, and he feels his heart, as it were, crushed in the closing of its portal, would accept consolation that was to be bought by forgetfulness? No, the love which survives the tomb is one of the noblest attributes of the soul. If it has its woes, it has likewise its delights; and when the overwhelming burst of grief is calmed into the gentle tear of recollection, when the sudden anguish and the convulsive agony over the present ruins of all that we most loved, is softened away into pensive meditation on all that it was in the days of its loveliness, who would root out such a sorrow from the heart? Though it may sometimes throw a passing cloud even over the bright hour of gayety, or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of gloom, yet who would exchange it even for the song of pleasure, or the burst of revelry? No; there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song; there is a recollection of the dead to which we turn even from the charms of the living. Oh, the grave!-the grave! It buries every error; covers every defect; extinguishes every resentment. From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can look down upon the grave even of an enemy, and not feel a compunctious throb, that even he should have warred with the poor handful of earth that lies moldering before him! The grave of those we loved-what a place for meditation! There it is that we call up in long review the whole history of virtue and gentleness, and the thousand endearments lavished upon us almost unheeded in the daily intercourse of intimacy; there it is that we dwell upon the tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness of the parting scene; the bed of death with all its stifled griefs; its noiseless attendants; its mute, |