No, friends, we come to tell our proud invaders
That we will use our strength to purchase freedom!
Freedom, prime blessing of this fleeting life,
Is there a man that hears thy sacred name,
And thrills not to the sound with loftiest hope,
With proud disdain of tyrant whips and chains?
Much-injured friends, your slavish hours are past!
Conquest is ours! not that your German swords
Have keener edges than the Roman falchions,—
Not that your shields are stouter, nor your armour
Impervious to the swift and deadly lance,-
Not that your ranks are thicker than the Roman;
No, no, they will outnumber you, my soldiers;—
But that your cause is good! they are poor slaves
Who fight for hire and plunder,-pampered ruffians;
Who have no souls for glory. We are Germans;
Who here are bound, by oaths indissoluble,
To keep your glorious birthrights or to die!
This is a field where beardless boys might fight,
And looking on the angel Liberty,

Might put such mettle in their baby-arms,

That veteran chiefs would ill ward off their blows.

I say no more, my dear and trusty friends!
Your glorious rallying-cry has music in it,

To rouse the sleepiest spirit from his trance,—
For Freedom and Germania!

EXTRACT FROM A DEFENCE OF MADAME ROLAND, INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN READ BEFORE THE TRIBUNAL OF FRANCE.

MINDS which have any claim to greatness are capable of divesting themselves of selfish considerations: they feel that they belong to the whole human race; and, their views are directed to posterity alone. I was the friend of men who have been proscribed and immolated by delusion, and the hatred of jealous mediocrity. It is necessary that I should perish in my turn, because it is a rule with tyranny to sacrifice those whom it has grievously oppressed, and to annihilate the very witnesses of its misdeeds. I have this double claim to death from your hands, and I expect it. When innocence walks to the scaffold, at the command of error

and perversity, every step she takes is an advance towards glory. May I be the last victim sacrificed to the furious spirit of party! I shall quit with joy this unfortunate earth, which swallows up the friends of virtue, and drinks the blood of the just.

Truth! friendship! my country! sacred objects, sentiments dear to my heart, accept my last sacrifice. My life was devoted to you, and you will render my death easy and glorious.

Just heaven! enlighten this unfortunate people for whom I desired liberty. . . . Liberty!-It is for noble minds. It is not for weak beings, who enter into a composition with guilt, and cover selfishness and cowardice with the name of prudence. It is not for corrupt wretches, who rise from the bed of debauchery, or from the mire of indigence, to feast their eyes on the blood that streams from the scaffold. It is the portion of a people who delight in humanity, practise justice, despise their flatterers, and respect the truth. While you are not such a people, O my fellow-citizens ! you will talk in vain of liberty: instead of liberty you will have licentiousness, of which you will all fall victims in your turns: you will ask for bread; and dead bodies will be given you; and you will at last bow down your necks to the yoke.

I have neither concealed my sentiments nor my opinions. I know that a Roman lady was sent to the scaffold for lamenting the death of her son. I know that in times of delusion and party rage, he who dares avow himself the friend of the proscribed exposes himself to their fate. But I despise death; I never feared any thing but guilt, and I will not purchase life at the expense of a base subterfuge. Woe to the times! woe to the people among whom doing homage to disregarded truth can be attended with danger; and happy he who in such circumstances is bold enough to brave it!

CHARACTER AND FATE OF THE AMERICAN INDIANS.

Extract from Judge Story's Discourse, before the Essex Historical Society, September 18, 1828.

In the fate of the Aborigines of our country-the American Indians-there is, my friends, much to awaken our sympathy, and much to disturb the sobriety of our judg

ment; much which may be urged to excuse their own atrocities; much in their characters, which betrays us into an involuntary admiration. What can be more melancholy than their history? Two centuries ago, the smoke of their wigwams, and the fires of their councils rose in every valley, from Hudson's Bay to the farthest Florida, from the ocean to the Mississippi and the Lakes. The shouts of victory and the war-dance rang through the mountains and the glades. The thick arrows and the deadly tomahawk whistled through the forests; and the hunter's trace, and the dark encampment startled the wild beasts in their lairs. The warriors stood forth in their glory. The young listened to the songs of other days. The mothers played with their infants and gazed on the scene with warm hopes of the future. The aged sat down; but they wept not. They should soon be at rest in fairer regions, where the Great Spirit dwelt, in a home, prepared for the brave, beyond the western skies. Braver men never lived; truer men never drew the bow. They had courage, and fortitude, and sagacity, and perseverance, beyond most of the human race. They shrunk from no dangers, and they feared no hardships.

If they had the vices of savage life, they had the virtues also. They were true to their country, their friends, and their homes. If they forgave not injury, neither did they forget kindness. If their vengeance was terrible, their fidelity and generosity were unconquerable also. Their love, like their hate, stopped not on this side of the grave. But where are they? Where are the villages, and warriors, and youth? The sachems and the tribes? The hunters and their families? They have perished. They are consumed. The wasting pestilence has not alone done the mighty work. No,- -nor famine, nor war. There has been a mightier power, a moral canker, which hath eaten into their heart-cores-a plague, which the touch of the white man communicated-a poison, which betrayed them into a lingering ruin. The winds of the Atlantic fan not a single region, which they may now call their own. Already, the last feeble remnants of the race are preparing for their journey beyond the Mississippi. I see them leave their miserable homes, the aged, the helpless, the women, and the warriors, few and faint, yet fearless still.' The ashes are cold on their native hearths. The smoke no longer curls round their lowly cabins. They move on with

a slow, unsteady step. The white man is upon their heels, for terror or despatch; but they heed him not. They turn to take a last look of their deserted villages. They cast a last glance upon the graves of their fathers. They shed no tears; they utter no cries; they heave no groans. There is something in their hearts which passes speech.

There is something in their looks, not of vengeance or submission, but of hard necessity, which stifles both; which choaks all utterance; which has no aim or method. It is courage absorbed in despair. They linger but for a moment. Their look is onward. They have passed the fatal stream. It shall never be repassed by them,―no, never. Yet there lies not between us and them, an impassable gulf. They know, and feel, that there is for them, still one remove farther, not distant, nor unseen. It is to the general burial ground of their race.

THE PILGRIM FATHERS.

Pierpont.

THE pilgrim fathers-where are they?
The waves that brought them o'er
Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray
As they break along the shore:

Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day,
When the May-flower* moored below,
When the sea around was black with storms,
And white the shore with snow.

The mists, that wrapped the pilgrim's sleep,
Still brood upon the tide ;

And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep,
To stay its waves of pride..

But the snow-white sail, that he gave to the gale,
When the heavens looked dark, is gone;-
As an angel's wing, through an opening cloud,
Is seen, and then withdrawn.

The pilgrim exile-sainted name !

The hill, whose icy brow

Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame,

In the morning's flame burns now.

*The May-Flower was the name of the vessel in which the pilgrims

came.

THE ACADEMICAL SPEAKER.

And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night
On the hill-side and the sea,

Still lies where he laid his houseless head;—
But the pilgrim-where is he?

The pilgrim fathers are at rest:

When Summer 's throned on high,

And the world's warm breast is in verdure dressed,
Go, stand on the hill where they lie.
The earliest ray of the golden day

On that hallowed spot is cast;

And the evening sun, as he leaves the world,
Looks kindly on that spot last.

The pilgrim spirit has not fled :

It walks in noon's broad light;

And it watches the bed of the glorious dead,
With the holy stars, by night.

It watches the bed of the brave who have bled,

And shall guard this ice-bound shore,

Till the waves of the bay, where the May-Flower lay,
Shall foam and freeze no more.

71

THE WORLD PURIFIED BY THE JUDGMENTS OF GOD.

Tzschirner.

WE should preserve the belief that the world is purified through God's judgments; because it gives us a grand and solemn, and at the same time a consolatory, view of the history of the world.

If you see nothing in the actions and destinies of nations, but a succession of bloody wars and quickly broken treaties of peace, of kingdoms rising and passing away, of countries separating and uniting; a multifarious picture, worthy of contemplation, is certainly exhibited before you, but not a great and imposing spectacle. For then it is nothing more than a long line of common appearances, a long continued play of the passions, incidentally varying, but essentially always the same. The history of the world, then, only becomes grand and sublime, when we perceive the spirit of God moving over the depths of the stream of time, and

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