GENERAL JOSEPH REED; OR, THE INCORRUPTIBLE PATRIOT.-By Rev. Edward C. Jones.

Governor Johnstone is said to have offered Gen. Joseph Reed £10,000 sterling, if he would try to re-unite the colonies to the mother country. Said he, "I am not worth purchasing; but, such as I am, the King of Great Britain is not rich enough to buy me."

I SPURN your gilded bait, oh, King, my faith you cannot buy;
Go, tamper with some craven heart, and dream of victory;
My honor never shall be dimmed by taking such a bribe;
The honest man can look above the mercenary tribe.

Carlisle and Eden may consort to bring about a peace;
Our year of Jubilee will be the year of our release.
Until your fleets and armies are all remanded back,
Freedom's avenging angel will keep upon your track.

What said our noble Laurens? What answer did he make?
Did he accept your overtures, and thus our cause forsake?
No! as his country's mouth-piece, he spoke the burning words,
"Off with Conciliation's terms-the battle is the Lord's!"

Are ye afraid of Bourbon's house? And do ye now despair,
Because to shield the perishing the arm of France is bare?
That treaty of alliance, which makes a double strife,
Has, like the sun, but warmed afresh your viper brood to life.

And art thou, Johnstone, art thou, pray, upon this mission sent,
To keep at distance, by thy craft, the throne's dismemberment?
Dismemberment !-ah, come it must, for union is a sin,
When parents' hands the furnace heat, and thrust the children in

Why, English hearts there are at home, that pulsate with our own.
Voices beyond Atlantic's waves send forth a loving tone;
Within the Cabinet are men who would not offer gold,
To see our country's liberty, like chattel, bought and sold.

You say that office shall be mine, if I the traitor play;
Can office ever compensate for honesty's decay?

Ten thousand pounds! ten thousand pounds! Shall I an Esau

prove,

And for a mess of pottage sell the heritage I love?

If you can blot out Bunker Hill, or Brandywine ignore,

Or Valley Forge annihilate, and wipe away its gore;

If you can make the orphans' tears forget to plead with God,
Then may you find a patriot's soul that owns a monarch's nod.

The King of England cannot buy the faith which fills my heart;
My truth and virtue cannot stand in Traffic's servile mari;
For till your fleets and armies are all remanded back,
Freedom's avenging angel will keep upon your track

LIBERTY AND UNION.-Webster.

I PROFESS, sir, in my carcer hitherto, to have kept steadily in view the prosperity and honor of the whole country, and the preservation of our federal union. It is to that union we owe our safety at home, and our consideration and dignity abroad. It is to that union that we are chiefly indebted for whatever makes us most proud of our country. That union we reached, only by the discipline of our virtues in the severe school of adversity. It had its origin in the necessities of disordered finance, prostrate commerce, and ruined credit Under its benign influences, these great interests immediately awoke, as from the dead, and sprang forth with newness of life. Every year of its duration has teemed with fresh proofs of its utility and its blessings; and, although our territory has stretched out wider and wider, and our population spread farther and farther, they have not outrun its protection or its benefits. It has been to us all, a copious fountain of national, social, and personal happiness.

I have not allowed myself, sir, to look beyond the union, to see what might lie hidden in the dark recess behind. I have not coolly weighed the chances of preserving liberty, when the bonds that unite us together, shall be broken asunder. I have not accustomed myself to hang over the precipice of disunion, to see whether, with my short sight, I can fathom the depth of the abyss below; nor could I regard him as a safe counsellor in the affairs of this government, whose thoughts should be mainly bent on considering, not how the union should be preserved, but, how tolerable might be the condition of the people, when it shall be broken up and destroyed.

While the union lasts, we have high, exciting, gratifying prospects spread out before us, for us and our children. Beyond that, I seek not to penetrate the vail. God grant, that in my day, at least, that curtain may not rise. God grant, that on my vision never may be opened what lies behind. When my eyes shall be turned to behold for the last time, the sun ic heaven, may I not see him shining on the broken and dishonored fragments of a once glorious union; on states dissevered, discordant, belligerent; on a land rent with civil feuds, or drenched, it may be, in fraternal blood! Let their last feeble and lingering glance, rather, behold the gorgeous ensign of the republic, now known and honored throughout the earth, still full high advanced, its arms and trophies streaming in their original lustre; not a stripe erased or polluted, nor a single star obscured, bearing for its motto, no such miserable interrogatory as, What is all this worth? nor those other words of delusion and folly: Liberty first, and union afterwards; but everywhere, spread all over in charao

ters of living light, blazing on all its ample folds, as they float over the sea, and over the land, and in every wind under the whole heavens, that other sentiment, dear to every true American heart, Liberty and union, now and forever, one and in separable!

THE SEMINOLE'S REPLY.-By G. W. Palten.

BLAZE, with your serried columns!
I will not bend the knee!
The shackles ne'er again shall bind
The arm which now is free.
I've mailed it with the thunder,
When the tempest muttered low;
And where it falls, ye well may dread
The lightning of its blow!

I've scared ye in the city,

I've scalped ye on the plain;

Go, count your chosen, where they fell
Beneath my leaden rain!

I scorn your proffered treaty!
The pale-face I defy!

Revenge is stamped upon my spear,
And blood my battle cry!

Some strike for hope of booty,
Some to defend their all,-
I battle for the joy I have
To see the white man fall:
I love, among the wounded,
To hear his dying moan,
And catch, while chanting at his side,
The music of his groan.

Ye've trailed me through the forest,
Ye've tracked me o'er the stream;
And struggling through the everglade,
Your bristling bayonets gleam;
But I stand as should the warrior,
With his rifle and his spear;
The scalp of vengeance still is red,
And warns ye-Come not here!

I loathe ye in my bosom,
I scorn ye with mine eye,

And I'll taunt ye with my latest breath,
And fight ye till I die!

I ne'er will ask ye quarter,

And I ne'er will be your slave;
But I'll swim the sea of slaughter,
Till I sink beneath its wave!

THE VAGABONDS.—By J. T. Trowbridge.

We are two travellers, Roger and I.

Roger's my dog:-
-come here, you scamp!
Jump for the gentlemen,-mind your eye!
Over the table,-look out for the lamp!-
The rogue is growing a little old;

Five years we've tramped through wind and weather,
And slept cut-doors when nights were cold,
And ate and drank-and starved together.
We've learned what comfort is, I tell you!.
A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin,
A fire to thaw our thumbs, (poor fellow!
The paw he holds up there's been frozen,)
Plenty of catgut for my fiddle,

(This out-door business is bad for strings,) Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle, And Roger and I set up for kings!

No, thank ye, Sir,-I never drink;

Roger and I are exceedingly moral,

Aren't we, Roger ?-see him wink!

Well, something hot, then, we won't quarrel.

He's thirsty, too,-see him nod his head?

What a pity, Sir, that dogs can't talk!

He understands every word that's said,—

And he knows good milk from water-and-chalk.

The truth is, Sir, now I reflect,

I've been so sadly given to grog,

I wonder I've not lost the respect

(Here's to you, Sir !) even of my dog. But he sticks by, through thick and thin; And this old coat, with its empty pockets,

And rags that smell of tobacco and gin,

He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets.

There isn't another creature living

Would do it, and prove, through every disaster, So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving,

To such a miserable thankless master!

No, sir!-see him wag his tail and grin!
By George! it makes my old eyes water!
That is, there's something in this gin
That chokes a fellow. But no matter!

We'll have some music, if you're willing,

And Roger (hem! what a plague a cough is, Sir!) Shall march a little. Start, you villain!

Stand straight! 'Bout face! Salute your officer! Put up that paw! Dress! Take your rifle !

(Soine dogs have arms, you see!) Now hold your Cap while the gentlemen give a trifle,

To aid a poor old patriot soldier!

March! Halt! Now show how the rebel shakes,
When he stands up to hear his sentence.
Now tell us how many drams it takes
To honor a jolly new acquaintance.

Five yelps, that's five; he's mighty knowing!
The night's before us, fill the glasses!—
Quick, Sir! I'm ill,-my brain is going!-
Some brandy, thank you,-there!-it passes!

Why not reform? That's easily said;

But I've gone through such wretched treatment, Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread,

And scarce remembering what meat meant,
That my poor stomach's past reform;

And there are times when, mad with thinking,
I'd sell out heaven for something warm
To prop a horrible inward sinking.

Is there a way to forget to think?

At your age, Sir, home, fortune, friends,
A dear girl's love,-but I took to drink ;-
The same old story; you know how it ends.
If you could have seen these classic features,—
You needn't laugh, Sir; they were not then
Such a burning libel on God's creatures:
I was one of your handsome men !

If you had seen her, so fair and yo ing,
Whose head was happy on this breast!

If you could have heard the songs I sung

When the wine went round, you wouldn't have guessed That ever I, Sir, should be straying

From door to door, with fiddle and dog,

Ragged and penniless, and playing

To you to-night for a glass of grog!

She's married since,-a parson's wife:
'Twas better for her that we should part,-
Better the soberest, prosiest life

Than a blasted home and a broken heart.
I have seen her? Once: I was weak and spent
On the dusty road, a carriage stopped:

But little she drosmed, as on she went,

Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped!