Its Flag and Union in the hour of gloom,
And lay Rebellion's spirit in the tomb?

We publish God! The towering mountains cry,
Jehovah's name is blazoned on the sky!

The dancing streamlet and the golden grain,
The lightning gleam, the thunder and the rain ;—

The dew-drop diamond on the lilies' breast,
The tender leaf by every breeze caressed;
The shell, whose pearly bosom ocean laves,
And sea-weed bowing to a troop of waves.

The glow of Venus and the glare of Mars,
The tranquil beauty of the lesser stars;
The Eagle, soaring in majestic flight,

The morning bursting from the clouds of night.

The child's fond prattle and the mother's prayer,
Angelic voices floating upon air-

Mind, heart, and soul, the ever-restless breath,
And all the myriad-mysteries of death.

Beware ye doubting disbelieving throng,
Whose sole ambition is to favor wrong;
There is a God; remember while ye can,
"His Spirit will not always strive with man."

MY LORD TOMNODDY.-Ingoldsby Legends.

My Lord Tomnoddy got up one day;
It was half after two,
He had nothing to do,
So his Lordship rang for his cabriolet.

Tiger Tim

Was clean of limb,

His boots were polish'd, his jacket was trim;
With a very smart tie in his smart cravat,
And a smart cockade on the top of his hat;
Tallest of boys, or shortest of men,

He stood in his stockings just four foot ten; And he ask'd, as he held the door on the swing, "Pray, did your Lordship please to ring?"

My Lord Tomnoddy he raised his head,
And thus to Tiger Tim he said,

"Malibran's dead,

Duvernay's fled,

Taglioni has not yet arrived in her stead;

Tim look'd up, and Tim look'd down,

He paused, and he put on a thoughtful frown,

And he held up his hat, and he peep'd in the crown;
He bit his lip, and he scratch'd his head,

He let go the handle, and thus he said,

As the door, released, behind him bang'd:

An't please you, my Lord, there's a man to be hang'd."

My Lord Tomnoddy jump'd up at the news,

"Run to M'Fuze,

And Lieutenant Tregooze,

And run to Sir Carnaby Jenks, of the Blues.
Rope-dancers a score
I've seen before-

Madame Sacchi, Antonio, and Master Black-more:
But to see a man swing

At the end of a string,

With his neck in a noose, will be quite a new thing!"

My Lord Tomnoddy stept into his cab-
Dark rifle green, with a lining of drab;

Through street, and through square,
His high-trotting mare,

Like one of Ducrow's, goes pawing the air,
Adown Piccadilly and Waterloo Place

Went the high-trotting mare at a very quick pace;
She produced some alarm,
But did no great harm,

Save frightening a nurse with a child on her arm,
Spattering with clay

Two urchins at play,

Knocking down-very much to the sweeper's dismay-
An old woman who wouldn't get out of the way,
And upsetting a stall
Near Exeter Hall,

Which made all the pious Church-mission folks squall,
But eastward afar,

Through Temple Bar,

My Lord Tomnoddy directs his car;

Never heeding their squalls,

Or their calls, or their bawls,
He passes by Waithman's Emporium for shawls,
And, merely just catching a glimpse of St. Paul's,
Turns down the Old Bailey,

Where in front of the gaol, he
Pulls up at the door of the gin-shop, and gaily
Cries, "What must I fork out to-night, my trump,
For the whole first-floor of the Magpie and Stump?"

The clock strikes twelve-it is dark midnight—
Yet the Magpie and Stump is one blaze of light.
The parties are met;

The tables are set;

There is "punch," "cold without," "hot with," "heavy wet," Ale-glasses and jugs,

And rummers and mugs,

And sand on the floor, without carpets or rugs,
Cold fowl and cigars,
Pickled onions in jars,

Welsh rabbits and kidneys-rare work for the jaws,-
And very large lobsters, with very large claws;
And there is M'Fuze,

And Lieutenant Tregooze,

And there is Sir Carnaby Jenks, of the Blues,

All come to see a man "die in his shoes !"

The clock strikes One!
Supper is done,

And Sir Carnaby Jenks is full of his fun,
Singing "Jolly companions every one!"
My Lord Tomnoddy
Is drinking gin-toddy,

And laughing at ev'ry thing, and ev'ry body.-
The clock strikes Two! and the clock strikes Three!
"Who so merry, so merry as we?"

Save Captain M'Fuze,

Who is taking a snooze,

While Sir Carnaby Jenks is busy at work,
Blacking his nose with a piece of burnt cork.

The clock strikes Four!-
Round the debtors' door

Are gather'd a couple of thousand or more;
As many await

At the press-yard gate,

Till slowly its folding doors open, and straight
The mob divides, and between their ranks

A wagon comes loaded with posts and with planks.

The clock strikes Five!

The Sheriffs arrive,

And the crowd is so great that the street seems alive;
But Sir Carnaby Jenks
Blinks, and winks,

A candle burns down in the socket, and stinks.
Lieutenant Tregooze
Is dreaming of Jews,

And acceptances all the bill-brokers refuse;
My Lord Tomnoddy

Has drunk all his toddy,

And just as the dawn is beginning to peep,
The whole of the party are fast asleep.

Sweetly, oh! sweetly, the morning breaks,
With roseate streaks,

Like the first faint blush on a maiden's cheeks;
Seem'd as that mild and clear blue sky
Smiled upon all things far and nigh,

On all-save the wretch condemn'd to die.
Alack! that ever so fair a Sun

As that which its course has now begun,
Should rise on such a scene of misery!-
Should gild with rays so light and free
That dismal, dark-frowning Gallows-tree!

And hark!-a sound comes, big with fate;
The clock from St. Sepulchre's tower strikes-Eight!-
List to that low funereal bell:

It is tolling, alas! a living man's knell!—
And see!-from forth that opening door
They come-He steps that threshold o'er
Who never shall tread upon threshold more!
-God! 'tis a fearsome thing to see
That pale wan man's mute agony,-
The glare of that wild, despairing eye,
Now bent on the crowd, now turn'd to the sky,
As though 'twere scanning, in doubt and in fear,
The path of the Spirit's unknown career;
Those pinion'd arms, those hands that ne'er
Shall be lifted again,-not even in prayer;
That heaving chest!-Enough-'tis done!
The bolt has fallen!-the spirit is gone-
For weal or for woe is known but to One!-
-Oh! 'twas a fearsome sight!—Ah me!
A deed to shudder at,-not to see.
Again that clock! 'tis time, 'tis time!
The hour is past;-with its earliest chime
The chord is severed, the lifeless clay
By "dungeon villains" is borne away:
Nine!-'twas the last concluding stroke!
And then-my Lord Tomnoddy awoke!
And Tregooze and Sir Carnaby Jenks arose,
And Captain M'Fuze, with the black on his nose:
And they stared at each other, as much as to say
"Hollo! Hollo!

Here's a rum Go!

Why, Captain!-my Lord!-Here's the devil to pay!
The fellow's been cut down and taken away!—
What's to be done?

We've missed all the fun!

Why they'll laugh at and quiz us all over the town,
We are all of us done so uncommonly brown!"

What was to be done?-'twas perfectly plain.
That they could not well hang the man over again:

What was to be done?-The man was dead!
Nought could be done-nought could be said;
So-my Lord Tomnoddy went home to bed!

THE BIRTHDAY OF WASHINGTON.-Rufus Choate.

THE birthday of the "Father of his Country!" May it ever be freshly remembered by American hearts! May it ever re-awaken in them a filial veneration for his memory; ever rekindle the fires of patriotic regard for the country which he loved so well, to which he gave his youthful vigor and his youthful energy, during the perilous period of the early Indian warfare; to which he devoted his life in the maturity of his powers, in the field; to which again he offered the counsels of his wisdom and his experience, as president of the convention that framed our Constitution; which he guided and directed while in the chair of state, and for which the last prayer of his earthly supplication was offered up, when it came the moment for him so well, and so grandly, and so calmly, to die. He was the first man of the time in which he grew. His memory is first and most sacred in our love, and ever hereafter, till the last drop of blood shall freeze in the last American heart, his name shall be a spell of power and of might.

Yes, gentlemen, there is one personal, one vast felicity, which no man can share with him. It was the daily beauty, and towering and matchless glory of his life which enabled him to create his country, and at the same time, secure an undying love and regard from the whole American people. "The first in the hearts of his countrymen!" Yes, first! He has our first and most fervent love. Undoubtedly there were brave and wise and good men, before his day, in every colony. But the American nation, as a nation, I do not reckon to have begun before 1774. And the first love of that Young America was Washington. The first word she lisped was his name. Her earliest breath spoke it. It still is her proud ejaculation; and it will be the last gasp of her expiring life! Yes; others of our great men have been appreciated-many admired by all;-but him we love; him we all love. About and around him we call up no dissentient and discordant and dissatisfied elements-no sectional prejudice nor bias-no party, no creed, no dogma of politics. None of these shall assail him. Yes; when the storm of battle blows darkest and rages highest, the memory of Washington shall nerve every American arm, and cheer every American heart. It shall relume that Promethean fire, that sublime flame of