Majestic monarch of the cloud!

Who rear'st aloft thy regal form,
To hear the tempest-trumpings loud,
And see the lightning lances driven,
When strive the warriors of the storm,
And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven,-
Child of the Sun! to thee 'tis given
To guard the banner of the free,
To hover in the sulphur smoke,
To ward away the battle-stroke,
And bid its blendings shine afar,
Like rainbows on the cloud of war,
The harbingers of victory!

Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly,
The sign of hope and triumph high!
When speaks the signal-trumpet tone,
And the long line comes gleaming on,
Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet,
Has dimm'd the glistening bayonet,
Each soldier's eye shall brightly turn
To where thy sky-born glories burn,
And as his springing steps advance,
Catch war and vengeance from the glance.
And when the cannon-mouthings loud
Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud,
And gory sabres rise and fall

Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall,
Then shall thy meteor glances glow,
And cowering foes shall shrink beneath
Each gallant arm that strikes below
That lovely messenger of death.

Flag of the seas! on ocean wave
Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave;
When death, careering on the gale,
Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail,
And frighted waves rush wildly back
Before the broadside's reeling rack,
Each dying wanderer of the sea
Shall look at once to heaven and thee,
And smile to see thy splendors fly
In triumph o'er his closing eye.

Flag of the free heart's hope and home,
By angel-hands to valor given,

Thy stars have lit the welkin dome,
And all thy hues were born in heaven.
Forever float that standard sheet,

Where breathes the foe but falls before us, With Freedom's soil beneath our feet,

And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us!

INFELICISSIME.-Nassau Magazine.

I STAND upon the hoary mountains of old Time,
God's stern and sleepless sentinels, that loom
In shadowy dimness, silent and sublime,

Through bending clouds of glory and of gloom.
I see around me shapes of rare device,

Domes, minarets and towers

Of Nature's own contriving; and soft bowers
Of interwoven branches, vines and flowers,
Through which trip lightly the impassioned Hours.
I hear the gushing melody of birds-
The dash of dancing waters, and the deep
Low murmurs of the winds, that creep
Into my soul, like music without words;
I stand in Paradise!

And lo! two beings, young, and beautiful
Beyond the poet's most enraptured dream,
Glide through the mazes: resting now to cull
Sweet tinted flowers that fringe a silver stream,
Or clustering fruits that in the sunlight gleam;
And all the while their voices fill the air

With swelling anthems to the Great Supreme,
And all the while, in peace, they wander there,
God-loving and beloved, without or grief or care.

The charm is broken! from a distant hill,
I see the Serpent take his subtle way,
To where, all dreamless of the coming ill,
The doomed pair in happy converse stray;
And now, with secret art, he holds his prey,
And now enfolds them like a tongue of flame;
With charmed words he leadeth them astray,
Till, all forgetful of the Master's claim,

They do the deed of sin, and hide themselves in shame.

I read, in Holy verse,
Their everlasting curse!

"Thou shalt bring forth in pain,

And live in sorrow, and toil in vain,

And thistles reap, and thorns, instead of grain,

And down thy brow shall sweat-drops roll like rain."

That curse has had no death; we are brought forth in pain,
And all the pathway of our checkered years

Is strewn with ashes and remorseful tears,

Till, in the midst of grief, we yield our breath again.
Yes! the world is full of sorrow

And dismay;

Joy lives always in to-morrow!
Pain, to-day!

Sweet phantoms rise, to cheer our bleak existence,
And lure us onward with uplifted hands,
We follow and they fade into the distance,
As fades the mirage upon desert sands.

What boots it, that the earth makes show of joy?
That roses bloom, and trees grow green in spring,
That the soft grass springs up without annoy,
That skies are blue, and birds forever sing?
There are more weeds than flowers,-
More sad than sunny hours!

And though the leaves be musical,
They all must wither soon, and fall!
And though the green grass waves—
Down under it are graves!

And, alas! they have no souls,
Those little birds, whose melody so rolls.

What boots it, that we ring the merry laugh,
Sing the song, and crack the jest;

That we seek love-deem kisses more than chaff,
Or hold pleasure worth the quest?

And what boots it, that some glide
Through the world with little care?

And what boots it, that the bride
Is so jubilant and fair?

The pleasure that we follow

Like our laugh is hollow-hollow
As a bell

That now rings us to a wedding, with a chime;
And now buries us in sorrow for a time-

With a knell !

And the jest seldom slips,
But it strikes a tender chord!
And a kiss was on the lips

Of the wretch who sold his Lord!
Do you sing?-the sweetest songs
Tell of sorrows and of wrongs.
Do you love?-perfect love
Only lives in realms above,
And the careless are the light,—
Light of heart, and light of head:
And ye robe the bride in white,—
And, in white, ye shroud the dead.

EXTRACT FROM A SPEECH OF PARK GODWIN, ON ✔ THE DEATH OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN.

THE great captain of our cause-ABRAHAM LINCOLN-Smitten by the basest hand ever upraised against human innocence, is gone, gone, gone! He who had borne the heaviest of the brunt, in our four long years of war, whose pulse beat livelier, whose eyes danced brighter than any others, when

"The storm drew off

Its scattered thunders groaning round the hills,"

in the supreme hour of his joy and glory was struck down. One who, great in himself, as well as by position, has suddenly departed. There is something startling, ghastly, awful in the manner of his going off. But the chief poignancy of our distress is not for the greatness fallen, but for the goodness lost. Presidents have died before: during this bloody war we have lost many eminent generals-Lyons, Baker, Kearney, Sedgwick, Reno, and others; we have lost lately our finest scholar, publicist, orator. Our hearts still bleed for the companions, friends, brothers that sleep the sleep "that knows no waking," but no loss has been comparable to his, who was our supremest leader,—our safest counsellor our wisest friend-our dear father. Would you know what Lincoln was, look at this vast metropolis, covered with the habiliments of woe! Never in human history has there been so universal, so spontaneous, so profound an expression of a nation's bereavement.

Yet we sorrow not as those who are without hope. Our chief is gone; but our cause remains; dearer to our hearts, because he is now become the martyr; consecrated by his sacrifice; more widely accepted by all parties; and fragrant and lovely forevermore in the memories of all the good and the great, of all lands, and for all time. The rebellion, which began in the blackest treachery, to be ended in the foulest assassination; this rebellion, accursed in its motive, which was to rivet the shackles of slavery on a whole race for all the future; accursed in its means, which have been "red ruin and the breaking up of laws," the overthrow of the mildest and blessedest of governments, and the profuse shedding of brother's blood by brother's hands; accursed in its accompaniments of violence, cruelty, and barbarism, and is now doubly accursed in its final act of cold-blooded murder.

Cold-blooded, but impotent, and defeated in its own purposes! The frenzied hand which slew the head of the government, in the mad hope of paralyzing its functions, only drew the hearts of the people together more closely to strengthen and sustain its power. All the North once more, without party or division, clenches hands around the common altar: all the North swears a more earnest fidelity to freedom; all the North again presents its breasts as the living shield and bulwark of the nation's unity and life. Oh! foolish and wicked dream, oh! insanity of fanaticism,

oh blindness of black hate-to think that this majestic temple of human liberty, which is built upon the clustered columns of free and independent states, and whose base is as broad as the continent-could be shaken to pieces, by striking off the ornaments of its capital! No! this nation lives, not in one man nor in a hundred men, however eminent, however able, however endeared to us; but in the affections, the virtues, the energies and the will of the whole American people. It has perpetual succession, not like a dynasty, in the line of its rulers, but in the line of its masses. They are always alive; they are always present to empower its acts, and to impart an unceasing vitality to its institutions. No maniac's blade, no traitor's bullet shall ever penetrate that heart, for it is immortal, like the substance of Milton's angels, and can only "by annihilating die."

THE SLEEPING SENTINEL.-Francis De Haes Janvier.

The incidents here woven into verse relate to William Scott, a young soldier from the State of Vermont, who, while on duty as a sentinel at night, fell asleep, and, having been condemned to die, was pardoned by the President. They form a brief record of his humble life at home and in the field, and of his glorious death.

"TWAS in the sultry summer-time, as War's red records show, -When patriot armies rose to meet a fratricidal foe

When, from the North, and East, and West, like the upheaving

sea,

Swept forth Columbia's sons, to make our country truly free.

Within a prison's dismal walls, where shadows veil'd decayIn fetters, on a heap of straw, a youthful soldier lay:

Heart-broken, hopeless, and forlorn, with short and feverish breath,

He waited but the appointed hour to die a culprit's death.

Yet, but a few brief weeks before, untroubled with a care,
He roam'd at will, and freely drew his native mountain air-
Where sparkling streams leap mossy rocks, from many a wood-
land font,

And waving elms, and grassy slopes, give beauty to Vermont!

Where, dwelling in an humble cot, a tiller of the soil,
Encircled by a mother's love, he shared a father's toil-
Till, borne upon the wailing winds, his suffering country's cry
Fired his young heart with fervent zeal, for her to live or die.

Then left he all:-a few fond tears, by firmness half conceal'd,
A blessing, and a parting prayer, and he was in the field-