NIGHTFALL: A PICTURE. OW burns the summer afternoon; A mellow lustre lights the scene; And from its smiling beauty soon The purpling shade will chase the sheen. The old, quaint homestead's windows blaze; The loft stares out-the cat intent, Like carving, on some gnawing ratWith sun-bathed hay and rafters bent, Nooked, cobwebbed homes of wasp and bat. The harness, bridle, saddle dart Gleams from the lower, rough expanse; With rustling rush, the glancing oats. A sun haze streaks the dusky shed; The sun salutes the lowest west And blends her voice with every sound. The sheep stream rippling down the dell, Their smooth, sharp faces pointed straight; The pacing kine, with tinkling bell, Come grazing through the pasture gate. The ducks are grouped, and talk in fits; One yawns with stretch of leg and wing; One rears and fans, then, settling, sits; The oxen, loosened from the plow, Rest by the pear-tree's crooked trunk; Tim, standing with yoke-burdened brow, Trim, in a mound beside him sunk. One of the kine upon the bank, Heaves her face-lifting, wheezy roar; Freed Dobbin through the soft, clear dark And scattered bushes black between. With fickle light that gleams and dies; Still the sweet, fragrant dark o'erflows The viewless beetle by its sound. The tree-toad purrs in whirring tone; And now the heavens are set with stars, And night and quiet reign alone. ALFRED B. STREET. B UT now the scene is changed, and all Is fancifully new; The trees, last eve, so straight and tall, And streams of living daylight fall The boughs are strong with glittering pearls, And there they gleam in silvery curls, But Fancy yet brings, on her bright golden wings, To pleasures and pastimes too lovely to last. We wander again by the river to-day; We sit in the school-room, o'erflowing with fun, We whisper, we play, and we scamper away When our lessons are learned and the spelling is done. We see the old cellar where apples were kept, The garret where all the old rubbish was thrown, The little back chamber where snugly we slept, The homely old kitchen, the broad hearth of stone, Where apples were roasted in many a row, Where our grandmothers nodded and knit long ago. Our grandmothers long have reposed in the tomb; With a strong, healthy race they have peopled the land; They worked with the spindle, they toiled at the loom, Nor lazily brought up their babies by hand. The old flint-lock musket, whose awful recoil They were stern in their virtues. they hated all wrong, And they fought for the right with their hearts and their hands. Down, down from the hillsides they swept in their might, And up from the valleys they went on their way, Oh! fresh be their memory, cherished the sod And grateful our hearts to a generous God For the blood and the spirit that flows in our veins. Our Allens, our Starks, and our Warners are gone, But our mountains remain with their evergreen crown. The souls of our heroes are yet marching on, As they looked when we left them to wander away. From the weather-worn house to their heavenly home, Where they wait, where they watch, and will welcome us still, As they waited and watched in the house on the hill. EUGENE J. HALL. IN the month of September, 1814, the city of Baltimore was threatened by the approach of a British fleet. The chief defense of the city was Fort McHenry, which on the 13th became the object of a powerful attack. This attack was witnessed, under most remarkable circumstances, by Francis Scott Key, the author of the following song. A friend was held prisoner in the hands of the British. To effect his release, Mr. Key visited the squadron in a cartel, or vessel sent for the exchange of prisoners, and was detained by the Admiral till the termination of the attack. Placed on board a small vessel, he remained for a whole day a spectator of the tremendous cannonading to which the fort was subjected. On its successful resistance depended the fate of his home and friends. All day his eyes watched that low fortification. Night came, and in spite of all the efforts of the enemy the flag of his country was still flying defiantly in the rays of the setting sun. The bombardment continued through the night, and all the while the sleepless watcher paced the deck, straining his eyes to discern, through the smoke and darkness, if the flag was still there. By the fitful and lurid gleams of exploding shells, the Stars and Stripes were from time to time revealed to his eager gaze, and gave cheer to the anxious hours. Morning came. It found him with eyes still fastened on the fort. The star-spangled banner floated proudly in the morning breeze, and the echoes of defiant cheers were borne from the fort to his ears. At the same moment the outburst of cannon and the thunder of mortars proclaimed that the spirits and courage of its defenders were buoyant as ever. The attack had been foiled; his home, his friends were saved. It was a proud moment; and his emotions found utterance in the picturesque and impassioned ode, which has become forever associated with the national banner: |