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With which their children tread the hallowed ground
That holds their venerated bones, the peace
That smiles on all they fought for, and the wealth
That clothes the land they rescued,—these, though mute,
As feeling ever is when deepest,—these
Are monuments more lasting, than the fanes
Reared to the kings and demigods of old.

Touch not the ancient elms, that bend their shade
Over their lowly graves ; beneath their boughs
There is a solemn darkness, even at noon,
Suited to such as visit at the shrine
Of serious liberty. No factious voice
Called them unto the field of generous fame,
But the pure consecrated love of home.
No deeper feeling sways us, when it wakes
In all its greatness. It has told itself
To the astonished gaze of awe-struck kings,
At Marathon, at Bannockburn, and here,
Where first our patriots sent the invader back
Broken and cowed. Let these green elms be all
To tell us where they fought, and where they lie.
Their feelings were all nature, and they need
No art to make them known. They live in us,
While we are like them, simple, hardy, bold,
Worshipping nothing but our own pure hearts,
And the one universal Lord. They need
No column pointing to the heaven they sought,
To tell us of their home. The heart itself,
Left to its own free purpose, hastens there,
And there alone reposes. Let these elms
Bend their protecting shadow o'er their graves,
And build with their green roof the only fane,
Where we may gather on the hallowed day,
That rose to them in blood, and set in glory.
Here let us meet, and while our motionless lips
Give not a sound, and all around is mute
In the deep sabbath of a heart too full
For words or tears-here let us strew the sod
With the first flowers of spring, and make to them
An offering of the plenty, Nature gives,
And they have rendered ours-perpetually.



I stood upon the hills, when heaven's wide arch
Was glorious with the sun's returning march,

And woods were brightened, and soft gales

Went forth to kiss the sun-clad vales.
The clouds were far beneath me :-bathed in light
They gathered mid-way round the wooded height,

And in their fading glory shone

Like hosts in battle overthrown, As many a pinnacle, with shifting glance, Through the grey mist thrust up its shattered lance,

And rocking on the cliff was left

The dark pine blasted, bare, and cleft. The veil of cloud was lifted, -and below Glowed the rich valley, and the river's flow

Was darkened by the forest's shade,

Or glistened in the white cascade, Where upward in the mellow blush of day The noisy bittern wheeled his spiral way.

I heard the distant waters dash

I saw the current whirl and flash
And richly by the blue lake's silver beach
The woods were bending with a silent reach.

Then o'er the vale with gentle swell

The music of the village bell
Came sweetly to the echo-giving hills,
And the wild horn, whose voice the woodland fills,

Was ringing to the merry shout

That faint and far the glen sent out, Where, answering to the sudden shot, thin smoke Through thick-leaved branches from the dingle broke.

If thou art worn and hard beset

With sorrows that thou wouldst forget,-
If thou wouldst read a lesson that will keep
Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep,

Go to the woods and hills !--no tears
Dim the sweet look that nature wears.

H. W. L.

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The Spirit of Beauty unfurls her light,
And wheels her course in a joyous flight :
I know her track through the balmy air,
By the blossoms that cluster and whiten there ;
She leaves tbe tops of the mountains green,
And gems the valley with crystal sheen.
At morn, I know where she rested at night,
For the roses are gushing with dewy delight;
Then she mounts again, and around her flings
A shower of light from her purple wings,
Till the spirit is drunk with the music on high,
That silently fills it with ecstacy !
At noon, she hies to a cool retreat,
Where bowering elms over waters meet;


She dimples the wave where the green leaves dip,
And smiles, as it curls, like a maiden's lip,
When her tremulous bosom would hide, in vain,
From her lover, the hope that she loves again.
At eve, she hangs o'er the western sky
Dark clouds for a glorious canopy ;
And round the skirts of each sweeping fold,
She paints a border of crimson and gold,
Where the lingering sunbeams love to stay,
When their god in bis glory has passed away.
She hovers around us at twilight hour,
When her presence is felt with the deepest power;
She mellows the landscape, and crowds the stream
With shadows that fit like a fairy dream :
Still wheeling her flight through the gladsome air.
The Spirit of Beauty is every where !




The memory of Aristus must
Be trusted to this stone obscure ;
Know, reader, he was wise and justą
You may imagine he was poor.

Here Alcon lies, who fearing none
Upon his grave would drop a tear,
Gave all his creditors good cause
To show a grief the most sincere.


Gentle shepherds, lightly tread
On the powers of this mead,
Underneath its turf were laid

The ashes of a beauteous maid.
And Love perhaps has given the fair
The semblance of some flowret rare.

Alceus here lies buried,
And let each malefactor
Come pay the last sad tribute
Unto his benefactor.

Here lies, with years and toil borne down,
A swain, bis labours done.
Witb sheaves his monument we 'll crown,
The trophies that he won.


Westminster Review for April, 1825.

[Concluded.] An article on the “ Corn Laws” is opposed to a late opinion of the Edinburgh reviewers, that the price of corn would not be much lowered by the removal of the probibitory regulations. The Westminster reviewers contend that it would be so, and we think reasonably. Neither party appears to us to be aware of the increasing quantity which is likely to be exported from New York, as the back part of that state becomes settled.

A writer on “ Prison Discipline” joins in the general cry, which seems to prevail throughout Great Britain, against the use of the tread-wheel, as a means of employment in penitentiaries.

There is a long article on “ Emigration," of which the interest is principally of a local nature. It contains some erroneous opinions respecting the treatment of the coloured population in our northern states, which we intended to notice at length, but are prevented by the limits assigned to this article.

The remaining articles are on“ Boaden's Memoirs of Kemble,” which is treated with great contempt; on “ Contagion and Quarantine," which is interesting, without containing any thing very novel to those familiar with the various reviews, which have been published on this subject for the last ten years.

In perusing the various political articles in this volume, we were led to remark, what has occurred to us before, namely, the apparent popularity and enlightened character of the present ministry of Great Britain. This seems to be admitted, with little exception, by all parties in the state; and if they go on long as they have begun, the opposition will have no “ thunder" left.

There is nothing particularly interesting among the Critical Notices of this number.

Sayings and Doings, or Sketches from Life. Second Series. Philadelphia, 1825.

2 vols. 12mo. The first of these volumes contains three tales, the latter only one. Like those of the former series they are intended to illustrate certain proverbs, of which the reader never hears till the end of the story. They are of unequal merit, but are all interesting; and indeed we consider the work as among the most entertaining of any of those ephemeral matters, which one reads but to forget.

The principal merit of the tales consists in the liveliness of the dialogue and spirited sketching of common characters. The writer does not attempt to paint the workings of remarkable minds, from strong motives, or on great occasions. His characters are every-day people, placed now and then in picturesque or strange situations, and acting from ordinary motives, and generally, as he himself expresses it, from those eight-and

sixpenny ones, which lie at the bottom of so much of human conduct, The writer seems to have seen much of the world, and to have regarded mankind with some shrewdness, without penetrating far beneath the surface. He has a kind of easy philosophy, which leads one to laugh goodnaturedly at the follies and vices of one's fellow-creatures, without being much disgusted with the one or offended with the other. He is evidently of the Democritus school, and considers ridicule better than preaching; and if he does not always paint vice in colours sufficiently revolting, he certainly does not attempt to make it agreeable. It is a fault of many good books, that they paint both virtue and vice in colours so much stronger, than commonly exist in nature, that they defeat their own purpose. The pictures are evidently caricatures, and the characters monstrous. In these tales the aim is to make the virtuous respectable, and the evil not so much hateful as contemptible.

In this attempt he has succeeded indifferently well; and the effect, though not considerable, we think likely to be advantageous, since it is not difficult to identify the characters of such a work with many that we see around us in nature, and it leads us to associate the ideas of contempt with their evil and of respect with their good qualities. We shall not attempt an analysis of either tale. The following is a specimen of the dialogue. Colonel Arden, the principal personage of the second story, on setting up an establishment in London, is presented, among others, with a French cook.

"The particular profession of this person, the Colonel, who understood very little French, was for sometime puzzled to find out; he heard a vocabulary of dishes enumerated with grace and fluency, he saw a remarkably gentlemanly looking man, his well-tied neckcloth, his welltrimmed whiskers, his white kid gloves, his glossy hat, his massive chain encircling his neck, and protecting a repeating Breguer, all pronouncing the man of ton; and when he came really to comprehend that the sweet-scented, ring-fingered gentleman before him, was willing to dress a dinner on trial, for the purpose of displaying his skill, he was thunderstruck.

'Do I mistake?' said the Colonel I really beg pardon-it is fiftyeight years since I learned French-am I speaking to-a-and he hardly dared to pronounce the word)-cook?'

'Oui, Monsieur,' said M. Rissolle; I believe I have de first reputation in de profession: I live four years wiz de Marqui de Chester, and je me flatte dat, if I had not turn him off last months, I should have superintend his cuisine at dis moment.'

'Oh, you have discharged the Marquis, Sir?' said the Colonel. 'Yes, mon Colonel, I discharge him; because he cast affront upon me, insupportable to an artist of sentiment.'

Artist!' mentally ejaculated the Colonel.

Mon Colonel, de Marqui had de mauvais gout one day, when he had large partie to dine, to put salt into his soup, before all his compagnie.' Indeed,' said Arden; and, may I ask, is that considered a crime, Sir, in your code?'


'I don't know code,' said the man, Morue?-dat is salt enough without.'

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'I don't mean that, Sir,' said the Colonel; 'I ask, is it a crime for a gentleman to put salt into his soup?'

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