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LI. THE DOWNFALL OF POLAND.
And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile,
LII.-THE ENGINEER'S MURDER.
YES, I once committed a murder, outside the realms of law,
That I s'pose the body of people would not heed the worth of a straw ; But I think I should sleep the sounder, sometimes, when the night winds wail,
If I never remembered “murder," or never told over the tale.
No matter the road I was running,—'twas in one of the Middle States;
So many years since, that I wonder why the sorrow never abates. I was young, and hasty, and savage, as youth is apt to be,
And my hand,—well, my hand, you will fancy was a trifle too ready and free.
I was in my caboose just at evening, say 'tween Holden and Fiddler's Run,
Making time, to reach Wayman's Siding for the up-train, at five twenty-one; I had had a hot box at Grossman's, and that put me four minutes behind ;
So I felt like,—the word is ugly, but the truth !—like “going it blind.”
Round a curve, and running,—say forty, or it may have been fifty, who knows,
And there on the track before me, a black fiend, at full scream, arose !A dog, that sat down in the middle, between the two lines of rail,
And howled, like a fiend incarnate, with a mixture of bark, yell, and wail.
Did 1 stop? Not much! I just opened the throttle-valve, by a mite,
And over that dog she went flying, and over something else, —white ! I stopped her then with a shudder, and ran back; in a mangled heap
Lay the dog, and what had been lately a baby-girl laying asleep!
Have I never got over it? No, sir ! and I never shall till I die !
Why didn't I heed the warning ? it was only a black dog's cry. I may have done many more murders, and it is likely I have on the whole ; But there's none, when the night winds are howling, that lay such a weight on my
And what is the worst of my sorrow,—don't make the one grand mistake !
I should't grieve twice, I've a fancy, for the poor dead baby's sake! But the dog that was doing his duty so nobly,-I grieve for him ;
And I never tell over the story but I find my old eyes grow dim.
HE king was on his throne, the Satraps thronged the hall; a thousand bright
lamps shone o'er that high festival. A thousand cups of gold, in Judah deemed divine-Jehovah's vessels hold the godless Heathen's wine! In that same hour and hall, the fingers of a hand came forth against the wall, and wrote as if on sand : the fingers of a man ;—a solitary hand along the letters ran, and traced them like a wand. The monarch saw, and shook, and bade no more rejoice ; all bloodless waxe d his look, and tremulous his voice. 6. Let the men of lore appear, the wisest of the earth ; and expound the words of fear, which mar our royal mirth.” Chaldæa's seers are good, but here they have no skill; and the unknown letters stood untold and awful still. And Babel's men of age are wise and deep in lore; but now they were not sage, they saw
—but knew no more. A Captive in the land, a stranger and a youth, he heard the king's command, he saw that writing's truth. The lamps around were bright, the prophecy in view ; he read it on that night,—the morrow proved it true. “ Belshazzar's grave is made-his kingdom passed away--he, in the balance weighed, is light and worthless clay. The shroud, his robe of state-his canopy, the stone; the Mede is at his gate the Persian on his throne !"
L. E. L (MRS. MACLEAN.)
Upon a coal-black steed,
And bade their warrior speed. He had a power ; in his eye
His helm, his breastplate, were of gold, There was a quenchless energy- And graved with many a dent, that told A spirit that could dare
Of many a soldier's deed ; The deadliest form that death could take, The sun shone on his sparkling mail, And dare it for the daring's sake. And danced his snow-plume in the gale.
He stood, the fetters on his hand But now he stood, chained and alone; He raised them haughtily ;
The headsman by his side; And had that grasp been on the brand, The plume, the helm, the charger gone ; It could not wave on high
The sword, that had defied
Came from that lip of pride :
Once on the raging seas I rode ;
The storm was loud—the night was dark-
The wind, that tossed my foundering bark.
Deep horrors then my vitals froze
Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem-
It was the Star of Bethlehem !
It was my guide—my light-my all!
It bade my dark forebodings cease ;
It led me to the port of peace.
Now, safely moored, my perils o'er,
I'll sing, first in night's diadem,
The Star—the Star of Bethlehem !
LVI.-THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.
UR bugles sang truce--for the night-cloud had lowered,
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground, overpowered
The weary to sleep, and the wounded—to die !
When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice, ere the morning, I dreamt it again.
Methought, from the battle-field's dreadful array,
Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track; 'Twas autumn and sunshine arose on the way
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back!
I flew to the pleasant fields, traversed so oft
In life's morning march, when my bosom was young ; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,
And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.
Then pledged we the wine-cup; and fondly I swore
From my bome and my weeping friends never to part ; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er,
And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart :
“Stay! stay with us !-rest! thou art weary and worn !”
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stayBut sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.
LVII.-BRUCE TO HIS ARMY.
COTS! wha ha'e wi’ Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led,
Welcome to your gory bed, or to glorious victory!
Wha will be a traitor knave ? Wha can fill a coward's grave ?
Wha sae base as be—a slave ? Traitor! coward! turn and flee! Wha, for Scotland's king and law, freedom's sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand, or Freeman fa'? Caledonian !-on wi me!
By oppression's woes and pains ! by your sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins, but they shall—they shall be free!
OW stood Eliza on the wood-crowned height,
O'er Minden's plain, spectatress of the fight;
Oh, cease not yet to beat, thou vital urn!
From tent to tent the impatient Warrior flies,