In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled,
The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy,
Death hushed that pang forever :—with thee fled
The present happiness and promised joy,
Which filled the imperial isles so full it seemed to cloy.
Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made!
Thy bridal fruit is ashes: in the dust
The fair-haired Daughter of the Isles is laid,
The love of millions! How we did entrust
Futurity to her! and, though it must
Darken above our bones, yet fondly deemed
Our children should obey her child, and blessed
Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise seemed
Like stars to shepherd's eyes :-'twas but a meteor
beamed.
Woe unto us, not her, for she sleeps well:
The fickle reck of popular breath, the tongue
Of hollow counsel, the false oracle,
Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung
Its knell in princely ears, 'till the o'erstrung
Nations have armed in madness, the strange fate
Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns, and hath flung
Against their blind omnipotence a weight
Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or late,
These might have been her destiny; but no,
Our hearts deny it; and so young, so fair,
Good without effort, great without a foe;
But now a bride and mother-and now there!
How many ties did that stern moment tear!
From the Sire's to his humblest subject's breast
Is linked the electric chain of that despair,
Whose was an earthquake's, and opprest
The band which loved thee so that none could love thee best.
THE DEATH OF HARRISON.
General William Henry Harrison, the subject of the following beautiful Elegy by N. P. WILLIS, after holding many high offices in the national and state governments, was chosen President of the United States by an immense majority, and died in one short month, after he took the oath of office, in the spring of 1841. The White House is that occupied by the President at Washington. Cincinnatus was a Roman general, who, like Harrison, was called from his plough to govern his country. If the piece is too long, the lines between the brackets can best be spared.
What! soared the old Eagle to die at the sun!
Lies he stiff with spread wings at the goal he had won!
Are there spirits more blest than the planet of even,
Who mount to their zenith, then melt into heaven!-
No waning of fire, no quenching of ray,
But rising, still rising, when passing away?
Farewell! gallant Eagle! thou 'rt buried in light!
God speed unto heaven, lost star of our night!
[Death! Death in the White House! Ah, never before
Trod his skeleton foot on the President's floor!
He is looked for in hovel, and dreaded in hall-
The king in his closet keeps hatchment and pall-
The youth in his birth-place, the old man at home,
Make clean from the door-stone the path to the tomb :
But the lord of this mansion was cradled not there-
In a churchyard far off stands his beckoning bier!
He is here as the wave-crest heaves flashing on high-
As the arrow is stopped by its prize in the sky-
The arrow to earth and the foam to the shore-
Death finds them when swiftness and sparkle are o'er.
But Harrison's death fills the climax of story—
He went with his old stride-from glory to glory!]
Lay his sword on his breast! There's no spot on its blade
In whose cankering breath its bright laurels will fade!
'Twas the first to lead on at humanity's call—
It was stayed with sweet mercy when " glory" was all!
As calm in the council as gallant in war,
He fought for his country, and not its "hurrah!"
In the path of the hero with pity he trod―
Let him pass with his sword to the presence of God!
What more! shall we on with his ashes! yet stay!
He hath ruled the wide realm of a king, in his day!
At his word, like a monarch's, went treasure and land—
The bright gold of thousands has passed through his
hand-
Is there nothing to show of his glittering hoard?
No jewel to deck the rude hilt of his sword-
No trappings no houses ?-what had he, but now?
On!-on with his ashes! he left but his plough!
Brave old Cincinnatus! Unwind his sheet!
Let him sleep as he lived with his purse at his feet!
Follow now, as ye list! The first mourner to day
Is the nation-whose father is taken away!
Wife, children, and neighbor, may moan at his knell-
He
was "lover and friend" to his country, as well!
For the stars on our banner, grown suddenly dim,
Let us weep,
in our darkness-but weep not for him!
Not for him-who, departing, leaves millions in tears!
Not for him-who has died full of honor and years!
Not for him-who ascended Fame's ladder so high
From the round at the top he has stepped to the sky!
It is blessed to go when so ready to die.
MARULLUS'S REBUKE OF THE ROMAN POPULACE.
This speech is taken from SHAKSPEARE's play of Julius Cæsar, and is generally called Marcellus's speech. Cæsar and Pompey were ri val generals, but the former was the more successful, subduing Pom pey, and usurping the government of Rome, under the new title of Emperor. He was afterwards assassinated by Brutus, Cassius, and other conspirators, but the republican form of government was never restored.
Wherefore rejoice that Cæsar comes in triumph?
What conquests brings he home?
What tributaries follow him to Rome,
To grace in captive bonds his chariot wheels?
You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless
things!
O, you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome !
Knew ye not Pompey? Many a time and oft
Have you climbed up to walls and battlements,
To towers and windows, yea, to chimney tops,
Your infants in your arms, and there have sat
The life-long day, with patient expectation,
To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome:
And when you saw his chariot but appear,
Have you not made an universal shout,
That Tyber trembled underneath her banks,
To hear the replication of your sounds,
Made in her concave shores?
And do you now put on your best attire?
And do you now cull out a holiday?
And do you now strow flowers in his way,
That comes in triumph over Pompey's blood?
Be gone!
Run to your houses, fall upon your knees,
Pray to the gods to intermit the plague
That needs must light on this ingratitude.
The author of the following Allegory, or Fable, is unknown to the Editor. It appears well when spoken by quite a small girl, and it is to be hoped the teacher will seize the occasion to turn her attention to things beyond the reach of Time's meddlesome fingers.
Time met Beauty one day in her garden,
Where roses were blooming fair;
Time and Beauty were never good friends,
So she wondered what brought him there. Poor Beauty exclaimed with a sorrowful air, "I request, Father Time, my sweet roses you'll spare ;" For Time was going to mow them all down,
While Beauty exclaimed, with her prettiest frown, "Fie! Father Time! Oh! what a crime! Fie! Father Time!"
"Well," said Time," at least let me gather A few of your roses there,
"Tis part of my pride to be always supplied With such roses the whole of the year." Poor Beauty consented, though half in despair, And Time, as he went, asked a lock of her hair, And as he stole the soft ringlet so bright,
He vowed 'twas for love, but she knew 'twas for spite, Oh, fie! Father Time! Oh! what a crime! Fie! Father Time!
Time went on and left Beauty in tears,
He's a tell-tale the world well knows;
So he boasted to all of the fair lady's fall,
And showed the lost ringlet and rose.
So shocked was poor Beauty, to think that her fame
Was ruined, though she was in no wise to blame,
That she drooped like some flower that is torn from its
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