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ters of living light, blazing on all its ample folds, as they float over the sea, and over the land, and in every wind under the whole heavens, that other sentiment, dear to every true American heart, Liberty and union, now and forever, one and inseparable!

THE SEMINOLE'S REPLY.-By G. W. Patten.

BLAZE, with your serried columns!
I will not bend the knee!
The shackles ne'er again shall bind
The arm which now is free.
I've mailed it with the thunder,
When the tempest muttered low;
And where it falls, ye well may dread
The lightning of its blow!

I've scared ye in the city,

I've scalped ye on the plain;

Go, count your chosen, where they fell
Beneath my leaden rain!

I scorn your proffered treaty!
The pale-face I defy !

Revenge is stamped upon my spear,
And blood my battle cry!

Some strike for hope of booty,
Some to defend their all,-
I battle for the joy I have

To see the white man fall:
I love, among the wounded,
To hear his dying moan,

And catch, while chanting at his side,
The music of his groan.

Ye've trailed me through the forest,
Ye've tracked me o'er the stream;
And struggling through the everglade,
Your bristling bayonets gleam;
But I stand as should the warrior,
With his rifle and his spear;
The scalp of vengeance still is red,
And warns ye-Come not here!

I loathe ye in my bosom,
I scorn ye with mine eye,

And I'll taunt ye with my latest breath,
And fight ye till I die!

I ne'er will ask ye quarter,

And I ne'er will be your slave;
But I'll swim the sea of slaughter,
Till I sink beneath its wave!

THE VAGABONDS.-By J. T. Trowbridge. WE are two travellers, Roger and I.

Roger's my dog:-come here, you scamp! Jump for the gentlemen,―mind your eye! Over the table,-look out for the lamp!The rogue is growing a little old;

Five years we've tramped through wind and weather, And slept out-doors when nights were cold, And ate and drank-and starved together. We've learned what comfort is, I tell you! A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin, A fire to thaw our thumbs, (poor fellow! The paw he holds up there's been frozen,) Plenty of catgut for my fiddle,

(This out-door business is bad for strings,) Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle, And Roger and I set up for kings!

No, thank ye, Sir,-I never drink;

Roger and I are exceedingly moral.

Aren't we, Roger ?-see him wink!

Well, something hot, then, we won't quarrel.

He's thirsty, too,-see him nod his head?

What a pity, Sir, that dogs can't talk!

He understands every word that's said,

And he knows good milk from water-and-chalk.

The truth is, Sir, now I reflect,

I've been so sadly given to grog,

I wonder I've not lost the respect

(Here's to you, Sir !) even of my dog. But he sticks by, through thick and thin; And this old coat, with its empty pockets,

And rags that smell of tobacco and gin,

He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets.

There isn't another creature living

Would do it, and prove, through every disaster,
So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving,

To such a miserable thankless master!
No, sir!-see him wag his tail and grin
By George! it makes my old eyes water!
That is, there's something in this gin
That chokes a fellow. But no matter!

We'll have some music, if you're willing,

And Roger (hem! what a plague a cough is, Sir!) Shall march a little. Start, you villain!

Stand straight! 'Bout face! Salute your officer! • Put up that paw! Dress! Take your rifle!

(Some dogs have arms, you see!) Now hold your Cap while the gentlemen give a trifle,

To aid a poor old patriot soldier!

March! Halt! Now show how the rebel shakes,
When he stands up to hear his sentence.
Now tell us how many drams it takes
To honor a jolly new acquaintance.

Five yelps, that's five; he's mighty knowing!
The night's before us, fill the glasses!—
Quick, Sir! I'm ill,-my brain is going!-
Some brandy,-thank you,-there!-it passes!

Why not reform? That's easily said;

But I've gone through such wretched treatment, Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread,

And scarce remembering what meat meant,
That my poor stomach's past reform;

And there are times when, mad with thinking,
I'd sell out heaven for something warm
To prop a horrible inward sinking.

Is there a way to forget to think?

At your age, Sir, home, fortune, friends,
A dear girl's love, but I took to drink ;-
The same old story; you know how it ends.
If you could have seen these classic features,—
You needn't laugh, Sir; they were not then
Such a burning libel on God's creatures:
I was one of your handsome men!

If you had seen her, so fair and young,
Whose head was happy on this breast!

If you could have heard the songs

I sung

When the wine went round, you wouldn't have guessed

That ever I, Sir, should be straying

From door to door, with fiddle and dog,

Ragged and penniless, and playing

To you to-night for a glass of grog!

She's married since,-a parson's wife:
'Twas better for her that we should part,-
Better the soberest, prosiest life

Than a blasted home and a broken heart.
I have seen her? Once: I was weak and spent
On the dusty road, a carriage stopped:

But little she dreamed, as on she went,

Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped!

You've set me talking, Sir; I'm sorry;
It makes me wild to think of the change!
What do you care for a beggar's story?
Is it amusing? you find it strange?
I had a mother so proud of me!
'Twas well she died before-
If the happy spirits in heaven can see
The ruin and wretchedness here below?

Another glass, and strong, to deaden

Do you know

This pain; then Roger and I will start.
I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden,
Aching thing, in place of a heart?

He is sad sometimes, and would weep, if he could,
No doubt, remembering things that were,-

A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food,
And himself a sober, respectable cur.

I'm better now; that glass was warming.-
You rascal! limber your lazy feet!
We must be fiddling and performing

For supper and bed, or starve in the street.-
Not a very gay life to lead, you think?

But soon we shall go where lodgings are free,

And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink ;—
The sooner, the better for Roger and me!

CARDINAL WOLSEY, ON BEING CAST OFF BY KING HENRY VIII.-Shakspeare.

NAY, then, farewell,

I have touch'd the highest point of all my greatness;
And, from that full meridian of my glory,

I haste now to my setting: I shall fall

Like a bright exhalation in the evening,
And no man see me more.

So farewell to the little good you bear me.
Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness!

This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope; to-morrow, blossoms,
And bears his blushing honors thick upon him:
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost;
And, when he thinks-good, easy man-full surely
His greatness is a ripening, nips his root,

And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
These many summers in a sea of glory;

But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride
At length broke under me; and now has left me,
Weary and old with service, to the mercy

Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me.
Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye!
I feel my heart new open'd. Oh, how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors!
There is, betwixt that smile he would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and his ruin,
More pangs and fears than wars or women have.
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again!

Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear

In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me,
Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman.

Let's dry our eyes: and thus far hear me, Cromwell;
And when I am forgotten, as I shall be,

And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention

Of me must more be heard,—say, then, I taught thee,~
Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory,
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor,
Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in;
A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it.
Mark but my fall, and that which ruin'd me!
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition!
By that sin fell the angels: how can man, then,
The image of his Maker, hope to win by't?
Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that hate thee,—
Corruption wins not more than honesty;

Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,

To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not.

Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's,

Thy God's, and truth's: then, if thou fall'st, O Cromwell,
Thou fall'st a blessed martyr! Serve the king;

And,- -Prithee, lead me in:

There, take an inventory of all I have,

To the last penny; 'tis the king's my robe,

And my integrity to heaven, is all

I dare now call mine own. O, Cromwell, Cromwell!
Had I but served my God with half the zeal
I served my king, he would not, in mine age,
Have left me naked to mine enemies!

DEATH OF JOHN Q. ADAMS.-By I. E. Holmes.

MR. SPEAKER: The mingled tones of sorrow, like the voice of many waters, have come unto us from a sister state -Massachusetts, weeping for her honored son. The state I

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