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were singing together. But victory and defeat make no differences among them now. They have all conquered in the final triumph. Their names will thrill the coming ages, as they are spoken by the tongues of the eloquent; and their deeds will forever be chanted by immortal minstrels. They were together "brave men, who repose in the public monuments, all of whom alike, as being worthy of the same honor, the country buried, not alone the successful or victorious; any justly, for the duty of brave men done by all, their fortune being such as God assigned to each."

"By fairy hands their knell is rung,
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall a while repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there."

THE BATTLE OF GETTYSBURG.-By Howard Glyndon,

THE days of June were nearly done;
The fields, with plenty overrun,
Were ripening 'neath the harvest sun,
In fruitful Pennsylvania!

Sang birds and children, "All is well!"
When, sudden, over hill and dell,
The gloom of coming battle fell
On peaceful Pennsylvania!

Through Maryland's historic land,
With boastful tongue, and spoiling hand,
They burst-a fierce and famished band-
Right into Pennsylvania!

In Cumberland's romantic vale

Was heard the plundered farmer's wail,
And every mother's cheek was pale
In blooming Pennsylvania!

With taunt and jeer, and shout and song,
Through rustic towns they passed along-
A confident and braggart throng-

Through frightened Pennsylvania!

The tidings startled hill and glen;
Up sprang our hardy Northern men,
And there was speedy travel then,
All into Pennsylvania!

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It was the languid hour of noon,
When all the birds were out of tune,
And nature in a sultry swoon,

In pleasant Pennsylvania!

When, sudden o'er the slumbering plain,
Red flashed the battle's fiery rain;
The volleying cannon shook again
The hills of Pennsylvania!

Beneath that curse of iron hail,

That threshed the plain with flashing flail,
Well might the stoutest soldier quail,
In echoing Pennsylvania!

Then, like a sudden summer rain,
Storm-driven o'er the darkened plain,
They burst upon our ranks and main
In startled Pennsylvania!

We felt the old ancestral thrill,
From sire to son transmitted still,

And fought for Freedom with a will,
In pleasant Pennsylvania!

The breathless shock-the maddened toil-
The sudden clinch-the sharp recoil-
And we were masters of the soil,

In bloody Pennsylvania!

To westward fell the beaten foe;
The growl of battle, hoarse and low,
Was heard anon, but dying slow,
In ransomed Pennsylvania!

Sou'-westward, with the sinking sun,
The cloud of battle, dense and dun,
Flashed into fire-and all was won
In joyful Pennsylvania!

But ah! the heaps of loyal slain!
The bloody toil! the bitter pain!
For those who shall not stand again
In pleasant Pennsylvania!

Back, through the verdant valley lands,
Fast fled the foe, in frightened bands,
With broken swords, and empty hands,
Out of fair Pennsylvania!

THE SOLILOQUY OF ARNOLD.-By Rev. Edward C. Jones.

When he was invested with the command of West Point by Wash. ington, General Arnold entered into a secret correspondence with Sir Henry Clinton, and agreed that he would make a disposition of his forces which would enable the British general to surprise the post under such circumstances that the garrison must either lay down their arms, or be cut to pieces.

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THE plan is fixed; I fluctuate no more

Betwixt despair and hope. As leaves the shore
The hardy mariner, though adverse fate

May merge his bark, or cast him desolate

Upon a savage coast, so, wrought at last

Up to a frenzied purpose, I have passed
The Rubicon. Farewell my old renown!
Here I breathe mildew on my warrior crown;
Here honor parts from me, and base deceit
Steps to the usurper's throne; I cannot meet
The withering censure of the rebel band,

And, therefore, to the strong I yield this heart and hand.

What else befits me? I have misapplied

The nation's funds, and ever gratified

Each vaulting wish, tho' Justice wept the deed;
And here, beneath the load of pressing need,

I must have gold. How else the clamorous cry

Of creditors appease, and satisfy

Demands which haunt me more than dreams of blood,
And claims which chill more than Canadian flood?`
Stay? My accounts betray the swindler's mark.

Go? And my path, though smooth, like Tartarus is dark.

These rocky ridges, how they shelve on high,
Each a stern sentinel in majesty.

Yes, 'tis your own Gibraltar, Washington!
Aud must the strong hold of his hope be won ?
Won? Twenty thousand scarcely could invest
That sure defence, which o'er the river's breast
Casts a gigantic shadow; but my plan

Dispenses with the formidable van,
And Clinton may my garrison surprise,

With few sulphureous clouds to blot these azure skies.

And yet a pang comes over me—I see
Myself at Saratoga; full and free
Goes up the peal of noble-hearted men;
Among the wounded am I numbered then,
And my outgushing feelings cling to those
Who perilled all to face their country's foes.
Ah! when that wound a soldier's pride increased,
And gratulation scarce its pæan ceased,

I thought not then, oh, God! the stamp of shame
Would stand imprinted thus upon my hard-earned fame.
Avaunt, compunction! Conscience, to the wind!
Gold, gold I need-gold must Sir Henry find!
A rankling grudge is mine, for why not I
Commander of their forces? To the sky
Ever goes up the peal for Washington.
Is he a god, Virginia's favored son?
Why should the incense fume for evermore?
Must he my skill, my prowess shadow o'er?
Ere this autumnal moon has filled its horn,
His honors must be nipp'd, his rising glories shorn.
Ah! he securely rests upon my faith!
Securely, when the spectre dims his path!
How unsuspecting has he ever been;
Above the false, the sinister, the mean!
But hold such eulogy-I will not praise;
Mine is the task to tarnish all his bays.
West Point, thy rocky ridges seem to say,
Be firm as granite, crown the work to-day,
Blot Saratoga, hearth and home abjure,
Andre I meet again-the gold I must secure.

ODE TO MY LITTLE SON.-Thomas Hool.

THOU happy, happy elf!

(But stop-first let me kiss away that tear,) Thou tiny image of myself!

(My love, he's poking peas into his ear!) Thou merry, laughing sprite! With spirits feather light,

Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin, (Dear me! the child is swallowing a pin!)

Thou little, tricksy duck!

With antic toys so funnily bestuck,

Light as the singing bird that wings the air, (The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair f) Thou darling of thy sire!

(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire!)

Thou imp of mirth and joy!

In love's dear chain so strong and bright a link,
Thou idol of thy parents!-(Drat the boy!
There goes my ink!)

Thou cherub-but of earth;

Fit play fellow for fays by moonlight pale,
In harmless sport and mirth,

(That dog will bite him, if he pulls his tail!)

Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey
From every blossom in the world that blows,
Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny,
(Another tumble-that's his precious nose!)
Thy father's pride and hope!

(He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!)
With pure heart newly stamped from nature's mint,-
(Where did he learn that squint?)

Thou young domestic dove!

(He'll have that jug off, with another shove!)
Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest!
(Are those torn clothes his best?)
Little epitome of man!

(He'll climb upon the table-that's his plan!)
Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life,
(He's got a knife!)

Thou enviable being!

No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing,
Play on, play on,

My elfin John!

Toss the light ball-bestride the stick,

(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!)
With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down,
Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk,
With many a lamb-like frisk,

(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!)
Thou pretty opening rose!

(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!)
Balmy and breathing music like the south,
(He really brings my heart into my mouth!)
Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star,
(I wish that window had an iron bar!)
Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove,
(I'll tell you what, my love,

I cannot write, unless he's sent above!)

UNJUST NATIONAL ACQUISITIONS.-Thomas Corvin.

MR. PRESIDENT, the uneasy desire to augment our territory has depraved the moral sense and blighted the otherwise keen sagacity of our people. Sad, very sad, are the lessons which Time has written for us. Through and in them all I see nothing but the inflexible execution of that old law which ordains, as eternal, the cardinal rule, "Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's goods, nor anything which is his." Since I have lately heard so much about the dismemberment of Mex

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