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They are three vast centres of feud and revolutionary terror :-Portugal with an unowned monarch, reigning by the bayonet and the scaffold, with half her leading men in dungeons, with her territory itself a dungeon; and fierce retaliation and phrenzied enthusiasm hovering on her frontiers, and ready to plunge into the bosom of the land; -Spain torn by faction, and at this hour watching every band that gathers on her hills, as the signs of a tempest that may sweep the land from the Pyrenees to the ocean;— and France in the first heavings of a mighty change, that man can no more define than he can set limits to the heaving of an earthquake, or the swell and fury of a deluge. Other great objects and causes may have their share in those things. But the facts are before mankind.
The Playthings.-MISS GOULD.
"OH! mother, here's the very top
That brother used to spin;
The vase with seeds I've seen him drop
To call our robin in;
The line that held his pretty kite,
His bow, his cup and ball,
The slate on which he learned to write,
"My dear, I'd put the things away
Mutability of earthly Things.-N. A. REVIEW.
[From the Spanish of DON JORge Manrique.]
O LET the soul her slumbers break-
How soon this life is passed and gone,
Swiftly our pleasures glide away;
The moments that are speeding fast,
Our lives are rivers, gliding free
Thither all earthly pomp and boast
Thither the mighty torrents stray,
There all are equal; side by side
This world is but the rugged road
So let us choose that narrow way
From realms of love.
Our birth is but the starting place,
When, in the mansions of the blest,
the charms that lovers seek
In the clear eye and blushing cheek,
O'er rosy lip and brow of snow,-
The cunning skill, the curious arts,
These shall become a heavy weight,
When Time swings wide his outward gate To weary age.
Where are the high-born dames—and where Their gay attire, and jewelled hair,
And odors sweet?
Where are the gentle knights that came To kneel, and breathe love's ardent flame
Low at their feet?
Where is the song of Troubadour—
They loved of yore ?
Where is the mazy dance of old,
The flowing robes, inwrought with gold,
So many a duke of royal name,
Marquis and count of spotless fame,
And baron brave,
That might the sword of empire wield
All these, O Death, hast thou concealed
Their deeds of mercy and of arms,
O Death, thy stern and cruel face,
Unnumbered hosts, that threaten nigh,
High battlements, entrenched around-
And covered trench, secure and deep,-
When thou dost battle in thy wrath,
A Scene from the Brothers.-WORDSWORTH.
The elder of two brothers, after several years' absence in foreign lands, returns to his native village, and stops in the church-yard, and at length enters into conversation with the parish priest.
Leonard. You said his kindred all were in their graves, And that he had one brother
Priest. That is but
A fellow tale of sorrow. From his youth
And Leonard, being always by his side,
In him was somewhat checked; and when his brother
The little color that he had was soon
Stolen from his cheek; he drooped, and pined, and pined— Leonard. But these are all the graves of full grown
Priest. Ay, sir, that passed away: we took him to us; He was the child of all the dale; he lived
Three months with one, and six months with another;
And, when he lived beneath our roof, we found
He in his sleep would walk about, and sleeping
Leonard. But this youth,—
How did he die at last?
Priest. One sweet May morning
(It will be twelve years since when spring returns),