thousand pleasant things, long since gone, that it is a luxury to think of. There he stands before you, not quite an every-day mortal, for you have seen him as a king, or some other great character, and you in a moment recall to your recollection those wild and happy moments of your existence that were first spent in the theatre. You do not forget the tinsel rags even that then covered the poor fellow before you. Know you not that the man assisted in contributing to your pleasure, more innocent and harmless than much that you have run through since? then if you can do him a good turn do it manfully; forget him not on his Benefit night, and, in the meantime, step kindly up to him and do the part of the good Samaritan.

R. B. H.

DIRGE.

COMPOSED AT THE GRAVE OF A MOTHER AND HER SON.

EMBOSOM'D in one lowly grave,
Sleep on;

Lovely and pleasant while ye moved on earth,

Gladdening with household joys one happy hearth,-
Where willows and where wild-flowers wave,

In death ye undivided lie,

Prone 'neath the heaven's blue canopy,

With the beautiful greensward on your breast,

Which your spirits look on from the clime of the blest ;

Sleep on

Oh! "sleep on now, and take your rest."
Warm youth and ripening age,

Half-blown and spreading flower,

It was not winter's withering rage
That sear'd ye in your hour

Of wreathing smiles and sunny gladness-
'Twas Death's simoom swept through your bower,
And tore ye down in sadness.

Some day when the cold world has crucified
The last lone joy the poor heart can abide.

I do not dread to die-
Death is no foe of mine-

And I have stood unshrinkingly
Beside your shrine,

When the cold pale moon was glittering high,
And the shivering stars peeped out from the sky,
And the wild winds swept impetuous by,--
And the melody of the tomb began

To tremble from the spirit-land,
In a dirge o'er the urn of mortal man,
Flung off by an unseen hand;

While the bending cypress and the yew,
The laurel and the ivy-twine,

Aye and anon as the gust rush'd through
Their glittering green in the soft moonshine,
Would mingle their harp-like murmurings
With the plaintive swell of the spirit's strings.-
Sleep on in your turf-cover'd bed,

In your sanctity sleep on;

May the morn's first smiles on its grass be shed-
May the tear-drops of evening bedew its head,
And glisten unbrush'd by the wanderer's tread

'Mong the hallow'd-the silent-the lone.

W. K.

FAREWELL TO THE HARP.

FAREWELL, my gentle harp, farewell!
Thy task will soon be done;
And he who loved thy lonely spell
Shall like its tones be gone-
Gone to the place where mortal pain
Pursues the weary heart in vain.

I shed no tears-light passes by
The pang that melts in tears-
The stricken bosom that can sigh
No mortal arrow bears ;-
When comes the soul's true agony,
The lip is hush'd and calm the eye.

And mine has come!-no more I weep-
No longer passion's slave;

My sleep must be the unwaking sleep,

My bed must be the grave:

Through my wild brain no more shall move,
Or fear, or hope, or joy, or love.

CROLY.

THE BALD EAGLE.*

I'll have you chronicled, and chronicled, and cut and chronicled, and sung in all-to-be-praised sonnets, and graved in new brave ballads, and all tongues shall troule you in Sæcula Sæculorum.

Old Comedy.

IN one of the little villages sprinkled along the delicious valley of the Connecticut, there stood, not many years ago, a little tavern called the Bald Eagle. It was an old fashioned building with a small antique portico in front, where, of a lazy summer afternoon, the wise men of the village assembled to read newspapers, talk politics, and drink beer. Before the door stood a tall yellow sign post, from which hung a white sign, emblazoned with a fierce bald-headed eagle, holding an olive branch in one claw, and a flash of forked lightning in the other. Underneath was written in large black letters "The Bald Eagle: Good Entertainment for Man and Beast: by Jonathan Dewlap, Esq."

One calm, sultry summer evening, the knot of village politicians had assembled, according to custom, at the tavern door. At the entrance sat the landlord, justice of the peace and quorum, lolling in a rocking chair, and dozing over the columns of an electioneering hand bill. Along the benches of the portico were seated the village attorney, the schoolmaster, the tailor, and other personages of less note, but not less idle, nor less devoted to the affairs of the nation.

To this worthy assembly of patriotic citizens the schoolmaster was drowsily doling forth the news of the latest Gazette. It was at that memorable epoch of our national history, when Lafayette returned to visit in the evening of his days the land that owed so much to his youthful enthusiasm ; and to see in the soft decline of life, the consummation of his singular glory, in the bosom of that country where it first began. His approach was every where hailed with heartstirring joy. There was but one voice throughout the land; and every village through which he passed, hailed him with rural festivities, addresses, odes, and a dinner at the tavern.

Every step of his journey was regularly and minutely recorded in those voluminous chronicles of our country, the newspapers: and column after column was filled with long notices of the dinners he had eaten, and of the toasts drunk, and of the songs sung on the occasion.

* From The Token, and Atlantic Souvenir,' for 1833. A Christmas and New Year's Present, published at Boston.

As the schoolmaster detailed to the group around him an account of these busy festivals, which were so rapidly succeeding each other all over the country, the little soul he possessed kindled up within him. With true oratorical emphasis he repeated a long list of toasts drunk on a recent celebration of the kind—' the American Eagle,' -'the day we celebrate,'—' the New England Fair,'-' the Heroes who fought, bled, and died at Bunker Hill-of which I am one!' and a thousand others equally patriotic. He was interrupted by the merry notes of the stage horn, twanging in long drawn blasts over the blue hills, that skirted the village; and shortly after a cloud of dust came rolling its light volume along the road, and the stage coach wheeled up to the door.

It was driven by a stout thick-set young fellow, with a glowing red face, that peeped out from under the wide brim of a white hat, like the setting sun from beneath a summer cloud. He was dressed in a wren-tailed gingham coat, with pocket holes outside, and a pair of grey linen pantaloons, buttoned down each leg with a row of yellow bell buttons. His vest was stripped with red and blue: and around his neck he wore a coloured silk handkerchief, tied in a loose knot before, and tucked in at the waistband. Beside him on his coach box sat two dusty travellers in riding caps, and the group within, presented an uncomfortable picture of the miseries of travelling in a stage coach in the month of June.

In an instant all was noise and confusion in the bar-room of the inn. Travellers, that had just arrived, and those about to set off in the evening coach, came crowding in with their baggage; some eager to secure places, and others lodgings. A noisy group was gathered at the bar, within which the landlady was bouncing to and fro in a huff, and gingling a great bunch of keys, like some wild animal at a raree-show, stalking about its cage, whisking its tail, and jingling its iron chain.

The fire place was filled with pine boughs and asparagus tops; and over it the wall was covered with advertisements of new invented machines, patent medicines, toll gate and turnpike companies, and coarse prints of steam-boats, stage-coaches, opposition lines, and Fortune's home forever. In one corner stood an old fashioned oaken settee, with high back and crooked elbows, which served as a seat by day, and a bed by night: in another was a pile of trunks and different articles of a traveller's equipage: travelling coats hung here and there about the room; and the atmosphere was thick with the smoke of tobacco and the fumes of brandy.

At length the sound of wheels was heard at the door; 'Stage ready,' shouted the coachman, putting his head in at the door; there was a hurry and bustle about the room; the travellers crowded out;

a short pause succeeded; the carriage door was slammed to in haste; and the coach wheeled away, and disappeared in the dusk of the evening.

The sound of its wheels had hardly ceased to be heard, when the tailor entered the bar-room with a newspaper in his hand, and strutted up to the squire and the schoolmaster, who sat talking together upon the settee, with a step that would have done honour to the tragedy hero of a strolling theatre. He had just received the tidings that Lafayette was on his way north. The stage driver had brought the news; the passengers confirmed it; it was in the newspapers; and of course there could be no doubt upon the subject. It now became a general topic of conversation in the bar-room. The villagers came in one by one; all were on tiptoe; all talked together, Lafayette, the Marquis, the Gin'ral! He would pass through the village in two days from then. What was to be done! The town authorities were at their wits' end, and were quite as anxious to know how they should receive their venerable guest, as they were to receive him.

In the meantime, the news took wing. There was a crowd at the door of the post office talking with becoming zeal upon the subject; the boys in the street gave three cheers, and shouted 'Lafayette for ever,' and in less than ten minutes the approaching jubilee was known and talked of in every nook and corner of the village. The town authorities assembled in the little back parlour of the inn to discuss the subject more at leisure over a mug of cider, and conclude upon the necessary arrangements for the occasion. Here they continued with closed doors until a late hour; and after much debate, finally resolved to decorate the tavern hall; prepare a great dinner; order out the militia; and take the general by surprise. The lawyer was appointed to write an oration, and the schoolmaster an ode for the occasion.

As night advanced, the crowd gradually dispersed from the street. Silence succeeded to the hum of rejoicing, and nothing was heard throughout the village but the occasional bark of a dog, the creaking of the tavern sign, and the no less musical accents of the one-keyed flute of the schoolmaster, who, perched at his chamber window in nightgown and slippers, serenaded the neighbourhood with Fire on the Mountains,' and half of Washington's march;' whilst the grocer who lived next door, roused from sweet dreams of treacle and brown sugar, lay tossing in his bed, and wishing the deuce would take the schoolmaster, with his Latin, and his one-keyed flute.

As day began to peep next morning, the tailor was seen to issue out of the inn yard in the landlord's yellow waggon, with the negro hostler Cæsar, mounted behind, thumping about in the tail of the