FRANCONIA MOUNTAIN NOTCH.

197

In that most grave and philosophic face;
If it be true, Old Man, that we do see

Sage Franklin's countenance, thou indeed must be
A learned philosopher most wise and staid,

From all that thou hast had a chance to see,

Since Earth began. Here thou, too, oft hast played With lightnings, glancing frequent round thy rugged head.

Thou sawest the tawny Indian's light canoe
Glide o'er the pond that glistens at thy feet,
And the White Hunter first emerge to view
From up yon ravine where the mountains meet,
To scare the Red Man from his ancient seat,
Where he had roamed for ages, wild and free.
The motley stream which since from every state
And clime through this wild vale pours ceaselessly,
Travellers, gay tourists, all have been a theme to thee!

In thee the simple-minded Indian saw
The image of his more benignant God,
And viewed with deep and reverential awe

The spot where the Great Spirit made abode ;

When storms obscured thee, and red lightnings glowed
From the dark clouds oft gathered round thy face,

He saw thy form in anger veiled, nor rowed

His birchen bark, nor sought the wild-deer chase,

Till thy dark frown had passed, and sunshine filled its place.

Oh! that some bard would rise, true heir of glory,

With the full power of heavenly poesy,

To gather up each old romantic story

That lingers round these scenes in memory,

And consecrate to immortality;

Some western Scott, within whose bosom thrills

That fire which burneth to eternity,

To pour his spirit o'er these mighty hills,

And make them classic ground, thrice hallowed by his spells.

But backward turn the wondrous shape hath gone!
The round hill towers before thee, smoothly green;

Pass but a few short paces farther on,

Nought but the ragged mountain side is seen.
Thus oft do earthly things delude, I ween,
That in prospective glitter bright and fair,
While time or space or labor intervene.
Approach them, every charm dissolves to air,
Each gorgeous hue hath fled, and all is rude and bare!

And trace yon streamlet down the expanding gorge,
To the famed Basin close beside the way,

Scooped from the rock by its imprisoned surge,
For ages whirling in its foamy spray,
Which issuing hence shoots gladly into day,

Till the broad Merrimack it proudly flows,

And into ocean pours a rival sea,

Gladdening fair meadows as it onward goes,

Where, mid the trees, rich towns their heav'nward spires disclose.

And farther down, from Garnsey's lone abode,
By a rude footpath climb the mountain side,
Leaving below the traveller's winding road,
To where the cleft hill yawns abrupt and wide,
As though some earthquake did its mass divide
In olden time; there view the rocky Flume,
Tremendous chasm! rising side by side,

The rocks abrupt wall in the long, high room,
Echoing the wild stream's roar, and dark with vapory gloom.

But long, too long, I've dwelt as in a dream,
Amid these scenes of high sublimity;

Another pen must eternize the theme

Mine has essayed, though all unworthily.

Franconia! thy wild hills are dear to me,

Would their green woods might be my spirit's home!

Oft o'er the stormy waste of memory

Shall I look back, where'er I chance to roam,

And see their shining peaks rise o'er its angry foam!

WASHINGTON.

BY BENJAMIN ORR.

In the establishment of kingdoms and republics in the eastern continent, the struggles between liberty and usurpation, and the predominance of passion over reason and humanity, have tarnished the deeds of men in power with guilt and oppression. Those nations which have been most able in subduing the foreign foe, have found a more destructive conflict with the rage of internal ambition. While victory is obtained over invaders, or empire extended by new conquests, it is all that ambition can hope or desire; but when the potent and aspiring warrior, on completing his conquests, has failed of that aggrandizement and distinction from his country, which his vanity aimed at, his sword is unsheathed against the people, from whom his honors were derived, and his triumphs are terminated in the slaughter and subjugation of his fellow-citizens. The sovereign who personally assumes the command of his victorious army, is in danger of a subversion of his government, only from external enemies. Republics, less energetic in their sovereignty, and equally dependent, in times of hostility, on the ablest character, for the chief management of their warlike operations, are secured in the enjoyment of their rights and liberties, only by the patriotic virtues of their chief commander, in concert with their own.

If, in examining the records of nations, we survey the enlightened and magnificent dominions of the East, where shall we find a character, the first in power, and the first in public and private virtue? Or in whom shall we discover the tender sympathies of humanity and the ardor of justice, accompanying the uninterrupted successes of warfare?

Is

there a conqueror on the annals of a nation in the eastern con tinent, whose soul was above the ambition of self-emolument? Is there one, who, regardless of the splendor of conquest, has converted his acquisitions solely to the public good? It is in vain that we extend our inquiries to the earliest date of civil government, and trace the rise and progress of kingdoms and republics throughout the world to the present time; for the character of our illustrious WASHING

TON STANDS ALONE.

His heart was a system of all the orders of virtue, regulated by the power of a superlative understanding. His mind, conscious of the imperfection of all human wisdom, was too humble to acknowledge its own excellence it was too exalted to stoop to the degradation of earthly splendor. In scenes of the most trying perplexity, his wisdom and fortitude enabled him to surmount the storm, and his conceptions shone through all his dangers and sufferings, with invariable lustre. When he enjoyed the mighty honors of conquest, it was with a serenity which bespoke the dignity of his patriotism, and the sympathetic regret for the ravages of unbridled ambition. When seated in the high preferment of state, his disregard of aggrandizement, and the love of his country, turned the clamorous spirit of envy into silent remorse. In the tranquillity of domestic retirement, his affections continued to vibrate with the fondness of a parent for his countrymen, and the inviolable maintenance of their dear-bought rights, was still the subject of his most anxious solicitude.

Though his deeds of merit have surpassed all the human efforts of past and modern ages-though they have excited the admiration and astonishment of the world though they have wounded the vices of the great, tarnished the glory of ambition, humbled the triumphs of conquest, and converted the imaginary virtues of crowns into dross; yet these but imperfectly represent the inestimable powers of the intellectual man. His righteous soul has exalted the hope of a happy immortality to the just, and taught the virtuous to look upon death as the last messenger of peace.

BY

NAPOLEON AT MELUN.

MRS. SARAH REBECCA

BARNES.

"THE glades of the forest, presenting the appearance of a deep solitude, were full in view of the royal army, encamped at Melun. At length the galloping of horse was heard, aud an open carriage approached, surrounded by a few hussars, and drawn by four horses. It came on at full speed, and Napoleon, jnmping from the vehicle, was in the midst of the ranks that had been sent to oppose him. There was a general shout of "Vive Napoleon!" The last army of the Bourbons passed from their side, and there existed no farther obstruction between Napoleon and the capital."- SCOTT'S LIFE OF BONAPARTE.

In all thy long career of pride, of glory and of power,
Of triumph and of victory - oh, name thy proudest hour!
That hour which o'er thy future course the rosiest promise threw,
Which from the past no omen ill or inauspicious drew.

Was it when on red Lodi's field, unshrinking, undismayed,
Defying death and dangers, thou that pass of peril made?
Or when, her ancient glory dim, her winged lion low,
Inglorious Venice shrank aghast and fell without a blow?

Queen of the Adriatic!. thou still lingerest round the heart,
Awakening dreams of other days, unworthy as thou art;
Romance hath cast her spell o'er thee in gorgeous memories dyed,
And the hour that saw thee in the dust was not an hour of pride.

Was it when like a "flaxen band," proud Austria's power was rent,
And o'er her flying myriads thou thy glance of triumph sent?
When from her ancient capital abandoned to thy power,
Thy shouts of victory went up: was that thy proudest hour?

Was it when Russia's giant force in terror and dismay,
Upon the field of Austerlitz before thee prostrate lay?
That "battle of the Emperors," with glorious memories rife,
So cherished mid each after-scene of thy eventful life?

Or when at thy sublimest height of conquest and renown,

Was placed upon thy laurelled brow the Lombard's iron crown?
The iron crown of Charlemagne - a symbol of the power

That countless thousands humbly owned: was that thy proudest hour?

Perchance upon thine inmost soul prophetic whisperings came,
Of the insecurity of thrones, the heartlessness of fame.
Perchance upon thy spirit then dark visions floated past,
To mar the triumph of that hour, its radiant promise blast.