where his brethren moulder; he bends before the tomb of his FATHER; his words are tears, the speech of sad remembrance. But he looks around upon a ransomed land and a joyous race; he beholds the blessings those trophies secured, for which those brethren died, for which that father lived; and again his words are tears, the eloquence of gratitude and joy.

Spread forth creation like a map; bid earth's dead multitude revive; and of all the pageant splendors that ever glittered to the sun, when looked his burning eye on a sight like this! Of all the myriads that have come and gone, what cherished minion ever ruled an hour like this? Many have struck the redeeming blow for their own freedom; but who, like this man, has bared his bosom in the cause of strangers? Others have lived in the love of their own people; but who, like this man, has drunk his sweetest cup of welcome with another! Matchless Chief! of glory's immortal tablets there is one for him, for him alone! Oblivion shall never shroud its splendor; the everlasting flame of liberty shall guard it, that the generations of men may repeat the name recorded there, the beloved name of LA FAYETTE.

THE LAMENT OF ALPIN.

OSSIAN.

My tears, O Ryno, are for the dead; my voice for those that have passed away. Tall thou art on the hill; fair among the sons of the vale. But thou shalt fall like Morar; the mourner shall sit on thy tomb. The hills shall know thee no more; thy bow shall lie in thy hall, unstrung!

Thou wert swift, O Morar! as a roe on the desert;

terrible as a meteor of fire. Thy wrath was as the storm. Thy sword in battle, as lightning in the field. Thy voice was as a stream after rain; like thunder on distant hills. Many fell by thy arm; they were consumed in the flames of thy wrath. But when thou didst return from war, how peaceful was thy brow! Thy face was like the sun after rain; like the moon in the silence of night; calm as the breast of the lake when the loud wind is laid.

Narrow is thy dwelling now! dark the place of thine abode! With three steps I compass thy grave, O thou who wast so great before. Four stones with their heads of moss are the only memorial of thee. A tree with scarce a leaf, long grass which whistles in the wind, mark to the hunter's eye the grave of the mighty Morar. Morar, thou art low indeed. Thou hast no mother to mourn thee; no maid with her tears of love. Dead is she that brought thee forth. Fallen is the daughter of Morglan.

Who on his staff is this? who is this whose head is white with age? whose eyes are red with tears? who quakes at every step? It is thy father, O Morar! the father of no son but thee. He heard of thy fame in war; he heard of foes dispersed. He heard of Morar's renown; why did he not hear of his wound? Weep, thou father of Morar, weep; but thy son heareth thee not. Deep is the sleep of the dead; low their pillow of dust. No more shall he hear thy voice; no more awake at thy call. When shall it be morn in the grave, to bid the slumberer awake? Farewell, thou bravest of men! thou conqueror in the field! but the field shall see thee no more; nor the lighted with the splendor of thy steel. no son. The song shall preserve thy name. Future times shall hear of thee; they shall hear of fallen Morar!

dark wood be Thou hast left

THE OLD CĻOCK ON THE STAIRS.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

Somewhat back from the village street
Stands the old-fashioned country-seat;
Across its antique portico

Tall poplar trees their shadows throw;
And, from its station in the hall,
An ancient time-piece says to all,-
"Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

Half-way up the stairs it stands,

And points and beckons with its hands,
From its case of massive oak,

Like a monk who, under his cloak,
Crosses himself, and sighs, alas!

With sorrowful voice to all who pass,-
"Forever--never!

Never forever!"

By day its voice is low and light;
But in the silent dead of night,
Distinct as a passing footstep's fall,
It echos along the vacant hall,
Along the ceiling, along the floor,

And seems to say at each chamber door,—

"Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

Through days of sorrow and of mirth,
Through days of death and days of birth,
Through every swift vicissitude

Of changeful time, unchanged it stood,
And as if, like God, it all things saw,
It calmly repeats those words of awe,-

"Forever-never!
Never-forever!"

In that mansion used to be

Free-hearted Hospitality;

His great fires up the chimney roared;
The stranger feasted at his board;
But, like the skeleton at the feast,

That warning time-piece never ceased,-
"Forever-never!

Never--forever!"

There groups of merry children played;
There youths and maidens dreaming strayed;
Oh, precious hours! oh, golden prime,
And affluence of love and time!

Even as a miser counts his gold,

Those hours the ancient time-piece told,

"Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

From that chamber, clothed in white,
The bride came forth on her wedding night;
There, in that silent room below,

The dead lay, in his shroud of snow;

And, in the hush that followed the prayer,
Was heard the old clock on the stair,-

"Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

All are scattered, now, and fled,—
Some are married, some are dead;
And when I ask, with throbs of pain,
“Ah! when shall they all meet again?"
As in the days long since gone by,
The ancient time-piece makes reply,-
"Forever-never!
Never-forever!"

Never here, forever there,

Where all parting, pain, and care,

And death, and time, shall disappear,-
Forever there, but never here!
The horologe of Eternity
Sayeth this incessantly,—
"Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

THE LEPER.

N. P. WILLIS.

Day was breaking,

When at the altar of the temple stood

The holy priest of God. The incense lamp
Burned with a struggling light, and a low chant
Swelled through the hollow arches of the roof,
Like an articulate wail; and there, alone,
Wasted to ghastly thinness, Helon knelt.
The echoes of the melancholy strain
Died in the distant aisles, and he rose up,
Struggling with weakness, and bowed his head
Unto the sprinkled ashes, and put off
His costly raiment for the leper's garb,
And with the sackcloth round him, and his lip
Hid in the loathsome covering, stood still,
Waiting to hear his doom :-

"Depart! depart, O child

Of Israel, from the temple of thy God!

For he has smote thee with his chastening rod,

And to the desert wild,

From all thou lov'st, away thy feet must flee,

That from thy plague his people may be free.