WHILE yet, unbroken, frowned her ancient woods,

And on, untamed, majestic rolled her floods;
Before the bold Italian dared to urge
His faltering barks to startled nature's verge;
Tired of the petty strife of kings and lords,
Of blood-stained glory won by venal swords-
Deserting Europe's earth-tied, willing slaves,
Thy spirit, Liberty, o'erleaped the waves,
With bounding step alighted on the strand,
And met the Genius of her chosen land.
"Hail young America,"with joy she cried,
"Thy land shall be my hope, my home, my pride.
Where I myself, there too my children dwell-
Arts, and their sister Science,-guard them well:
Thy mountain peaks do not more proudly rise,
Than shall thy sons before the nation's eyes;
Not richer treasures in thy hills are stored,
Than shall their heaven-directed thought afford.
Science shall till thy fields, shall read thy skies,
And bid unnumbered votaries arise,
Whose deep researches into Nature's laws
Shall wake the world to wonder and applause.
But not alone in mighty minds shall burn
The fires of truth,-the poorest hind shall learn:
Thy proud, peculiar glory it shall be,

All minds shall flourish, where all men are free.
While thus fair Science shall thy land illume,
And start each flower of knowledge into bloom,
Brown Art shall gather guidance from her lore,
And triumph where he feared to tread before.
Rivers shall leave their beds at his command,
To flow submissive to his leading hand;

The crazy cataract to toil shall bend,

And its vast energies to aid him lend.
The very vapours, e'er they melt away,
Shall pause awhile his mandate to obey,
And trained to harness in his iron car,
His burdens bear with rushing speed afar;
Or, bound to service on the ocean wide,
Bear on his ships, unheeding wind or tide.

E'en red-tongued lightnings, curbed with steady hand,
Shall learn to execute his stern command;
Submissive grown, to distant cities bear

His simplest wishes, and record them there.
Meanwhile, to cheer and purify the heart,
The fairer brother shall perform his part;
Wake gentle pity with his flute's soft strains,
Till man his primal innocence regains;
To mutual love and confidence incite,
Till all thy sons in harmony unite.
Should War's wild trumpet sound its dread alarm,
His "golden lyre" the patriot soul shall warm,
Each slumbering arm arouse to mighty deed,
And bid each maiden pray, each warrior bleed:
High-souled resolve in every breast inspire,
And even the timid stir with martial fire:
Oppression's power shall falter, tyrants fail,
And bright-eyed peace and heaven-born right prevail.
Then shall remembered deeds of fearful strife
Quicken his painter pencil into life ;-

From brow and eye, from bearing still and stern,
Thy youth the hero's sentiment shall learn.
The speaking canvass then shall learn to glow
With every passion given to man below,
From love to pride, in kindred beauty seen,
Like Donna Alda and Evangeline;-

Or give his sculptor chisel taste and tone,
That form and warmth may dwell in blocks of stone.
To loosen then the high strung mental chords,
The Poet breathes his tender thoughts and words;
With plaintive verses moves the willing heart,
And urges sympathy in tears to start.
Oh, if the angels round the heavenly throne
One thought of earth or earthly feeling own,
It is when human hearts are taught to bleed
At human sufferings and a brother's need.
Thy minstrel's triumphs on all other themes,
On beauty's fragrance and ambition's dreams,
On all the glories I have shadowed forth,

Time shall display, and thou shalt know their worth."

"Oh Lord," she prayed-"Thou Lord of might, Oh, grant my darling Fame,

Among the nobles of the world,

To wear the noblest name.

"A name whose glory waxeth bright,

With still increasing fire;

A name to stand while ages pass,
And make a world admire:-
Oh, may there be some spirit near,

My soul's high wish to bear-"
But the angels stood with drooping wings,
Nor moved to waft her prayer.

"Oh God," she prayed, "thou Infinite,
Oh, grant my darling power;
The might of soul that sways a host,
As the fierce wind sways a shower:
And may there be some spirit near
My fervent wish to bear"-
But the steadfast angels sadly stood,
Nor moved to waft her prayer.

"Oh God, who art all Beautiful,
Oh, make my darling fair;

That he may still from life draw love,
Life's essence sweet and rare.

So every heart shall be a harp,
Beneath his touch to sound."
But the shuddering angels sadly stood,
And drooped their wings around.

"But if," she prayed, "thou God of love,

He may not grasp at fame,

Oh, grant him strength to face serene

A cold world's cruel blame.
And if he shrink from earthly power,

Nor aim to sway the time,

Gird thou his soul to cope with sin-
A conqueror sublime.

"And should he sometime fail to strike
Each heart to love's great tone,
Oh, may he tune to seraph height
The music of his own.

Now may there be some spirit near
My humble wish to bear."
The angels rose on rushing wings,
And bore to God her prayer.

She claimed for him that father's throne, Who slumbered with the dead.

A hush!-as when the sea

Its stormiest wave hath borne, And the old, seamed and riven rocks Await its dire return,

In breathless silence of the soul

Each listener bent his head,

For France with trembling pulse stood still, In syncope of dread.

A moment since, she deemed

In ecstasy divine,

Her grasp was on the altar-horns

Of Freedom's glorious shrine:

What should she do?-relapse?-relent? Bewildered and amazed,

Almost to penitence she turned,

As on that child she gazed.

Then, from a deep recess,

Pealed forth the voice of fate,
Quelling that agony of doubt,
With the strong tones,-"Too late!"
"Too late !"-These cabalistic words
The threatening billow swayed,
And Bourbon's throneless dynasty
Passed-like an empty shade.

"Too late!"-those sounds of woe,
Alas, have sometimes hung,
Amid the parting gasp and groan,
Upon the quivering tongue-
Death hath no other pang so keen,
Though all his terrors roll-
The knell of life for ever lost,
The funeral of the soul.

A LOVE TALE I offer, reader, which owes little to the embellishment of fancy; it is a simple fragment of the romance of real life, and will interest you, for the sake of the artist to whom it was the controlling incident of his destiny.

The scene was the parlor of a large old fashioned mansion, in street, Philadelphia, elegantly furnished in the style usual in houses of the wealthy, some eighty years ago, when the city, now so flourishing, was little more than a large village. The occupants of the apartment were a young girl, and a gentleman much older, whose resemblance to his fair companion, notwithstanding a strength bordering on hardness that marked his lineaments-bespoke near relationship. The maiden's beauty was of that soft and touching kind, which, exquisite as it is, wins gradually upon the heart, rather than strikes the sense like that of the more dazzling order. Her dark brown hair was parted in waves over a low white forehead, and her complexion was of that clear paleness which better interprets the varying phases of feeling than a more brilliant color. Her eyes were dark gray, and so shadowed by thick and long lashes, that they seemed black in the imperfect light; her small mouth was "a rose bud cleft," but the slight compression of the lips betokened determination and strength of will. The features were classic in their regularity, and the superb curve of the neck, and the rounding of the shoulders would have enchanted a statuary. Her attitude of dejection, the drooping lids on which trembled the unshed tears, and the heightened tinge in her cheeks, showed that she was agitated by painful thoughts; while the frown on her brother's brow, and his hasty, irregular step, as he paced the room, bore equal evidence that his displeasure had caused her sorrow. There had been words between them, such as should not pass between those so near in blood-especially when the brother is the sole support in life to which the orphaned sister may cling.

Mr. Shewell, for that was his name, continued to pace the apartment, while his young sister wiped away at intervals the tears that stole silently down her cheeks. Suddenly he stopped before her, and said, with a sternness his effort to speak mildly could not overcome :

"Once for all, I ask, will you do as I wish, Elizabeth?"

"I cannot, brother," she answered, looking up.

"I cannot consent to marry one whom I could never love. I have told Mr. so, and his application to you after knowing my decision, does not speak well for him?"

"Elizabeth!" said her brother, with a vehemence that startled her. "I will know the reason of this obstinacy. You were not wont to be somy wish was law to you."

"And so it is-and so it shall be, brother, in all things right. But I cannot do what duty, virtue, religion forbid; I cannot utter false vows of love, nor give my hand where

"No more of this romantic nonsense!" exclaimed Mr. Shewell; "your duty is to do as I counsel for your good-your religion is noughtif it teaches disobedience to your natural protector. Mr. is the husband I have chosen

แ

'Brother, I do," was the reply.

"Give me your word that you will never speak to him again."

"I cannot"-she faltered-and a violent burst of tears choked her voice.

"Go to your chamber," cried the brother. "I will take care of you, since you will not take care of yourself. Not a word-but go!" And, as the weeping girl quitted the parlor, Mr. Shewell called the servants, and laid his injunctions upon them, one and all, to refuse admittance to "Ben West," should he ever present himself at the door, and on no account to convey to him any communication from their young mistress, on the penalty of severe punishment.

Elizabeth retired to her chamber, to weep long over her brother's austerity, and to wonder who had betrayed to him the closely kept secret of her love. Her thoughts, after many conjectures, fixed on the right person; it was-it could be no other than the suitor she had rejected, who in the hope