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« Ready !” he answered. Sagitto embraced his wife, and took his stand near the spot where his followers had just been offered up to the vengeance of the usurpers. A dozen muskets were levelled at his person. Col. Nstood at a distance, with his sword drawn, ready to pronounce the word “Fire.” Orania walked boldly forward, and clutched him violently by the arm.

“ Hold !” she cried, “ or a sister's curse shall rest upon you for ever!

“ Woman, away! I know you not,” he replied.

“ But you shall know me," she exclaimed, and in a spirit of phrenzy she tore off the ornaments of her person; and spoke confusedly and hurriedly of a hundred different circumstances, that tended to prove her his only sister. The evidence was irresistible; and he paused a moment to receive her embrace. Still he was inexorable in his purpose. The chief was represented to be the husband of his sister ; but in this, according to the summary code of frontier warfare, he could find no reason why he should not be dealt with as his crimes deseryed. He lifted his hand as a signal for the men to fire, while Orania hung convulsively about his neck to prevent, if possible, the fatal command. It was too late. A moment, and Sagitto was no more.

Orania survived him but a few months. She returned to her kindred race; but she languished away like the autumnal flower. The spell that bound her to the earth was broken. The birds had lost their melody—the moon, and the stars, their lustre—and the rivers and mountains no longer had a charm ; and when the light of Paukannewah* glowed over the silent midnight, and the dancing spiritst arose from the bosom of the arctic zone, the unhappy Orania departed to the land of dreams.

* Ursa Major.

+ The Aurora Borealis.

THE BROKEN HEARTED.

BY ROBERT MORRIS.

I would that thou wert dead, devoted one,

For thou art all too pure to linger here ; Life's joyous sands to thee have fleetly run,

And sorrow's hand hath made thy being searThy girlhood was a pure and artless dream,

And many a sunny hope has thrilled thy breast, And many an air-blown bubble gilt life's stream,

Flash'd for a moment-broke, and sunk to restEmblems of youth and loveliness were they, And like hope's fairy visions pass'd away.

I would that thou wert dead, forsaken girl,

That high pale brow enshrined within the tomb; For as with gentle winds still waters curl,

So fades at sorrow's touch young beauty's bloom-Thou art too pure and fair for this cold earth,

A thing too guiltless long to dwell below,
Thy voice has lost its cadences of mirth,

The glory has departed from thy brow-
And youth's pure bloom has left thy virgin heart,
And beauty like a phantom will depart.

I would that thou wert dead, for life to thee

Is as a broken reed—a withered flower; Dark shadows rest upon thy destiny,

And storms of fate around thy fortunes lower-Wedded to one thy bosom cannot love,

Banished from him thine every thought employs,

Thou art in heart a bruised and wounded dove,

And earth to thee can yield no future joys,
Wearily passes life and time with thee;
A dusky shadow dims thy destiny.

I would that thou wert dead, devoted one,

And thy bright spirit disenthralled of clay;
E'en as the dew-drop wastes beneath the sun,

Thus by disease thy being wastes away-
Oh, who that knew thee when thou wert a child,

With a glad voice and heaven unfolding eye,
A creature as the snow flake undefiled,

With a bright lip and cheek of rosy dye,
Oh, who that knew thee then, can see thee now,
Nor wonder for the beauty of thy brow.

I would that thou wert dead, and sanctified

Thy spirit with high elements is fraught, And that which scorn and cruelty defied,

The lingering stealth of pale disease has wroughtYes, death is near thee now, sweet Genevieve,

And thou shalt haste to meet him with a smile; It is in vain thy gentle sisters grieve,

Thy soul shall soon flee by each starry isle, That glitters brightly through the calm blue skies, Like white lids lifted from pure spirit's eyes.

Thou soon shalt die, sweet martyr, and the earth

Will nurture gentle flowers above thy grave, Sweet emblems of thy being and thy birth,

With cypress leaves around thy tomb shall waveAnd when the pensive stranger wanders nigh,

His lips shall waft a tributary prayer, For her who soon shall prematurely die,

For her whose seraph form shall moulder thereFarewell, sweet Genevieve-'tis sad to part, Farewell, thy beauty shrouds a breaking heart.

PENNSYLVANIA HISTORY.

BY J. R. TYSON.

The national feeling which was engendered by Pennsylvania’s being the principal theatre of war—by being the locality of the first Congress—and by being the place whence emanated the Declaration of Independence-almost absorbed provincial attachments and local sympathies. Sectional predilections were exchanged for the brighter and more transcendant glory of the whole confederacy. The wise providence of her sisters in arms, while animated by the patriotic fire which sought to destroy the pretensions of Britain over the Union, did not permit them to be frigid upon the subject of their own reputations. They have blazoned their exploits in a hundred narratives and histories, and perhaps too sedulous of fame, have sometimes despoiled Pennsylvania of the laurels by which her brow should be adorned. Not content with assuming merits and gallantry which, perhaps, they legitimately claim, the disposition has been frequently observed to filch from Pennsylvania some of the mighty meed of her large honours,' by attributing to cowardice or toryism the effect of religious tenets, and by ascribing to the state at large the disaffection of a few. During all this period—a period beyond half a century-we have so far acquiesced in the justice of these reproaches as to maintain the profoundest silence, and though vires acquirunt eundo, not a production has ap

peared which aspires to the dignity of defending the purity and patriotism of her course by an authentic narrative. The materials for a history lie scattered in the richest profusion over works which, to the burning shame of our patriotic sensibilities, be it spoken, are seldom examined. That part of our story which is interwoven with the country, is accessible in every form in which it can be presented, by compilations of original documents—the attraction of personal memoirs—and the graver productions of elaborate histories. But where are the narratives of Pennsylvania in particular, subsequent to the year 1775? The total absence of any sober and authentic development of her transactions, sufferings, and services, has not been without its effects upon the currency of opinions involving the detriment of her revolutionary fame.

The absence of a formal history during and since the revolution, has not only proved injurious to the fame of our civic patriotism, but it conveys a really mortifying reflection upon our indifference to national glory. From the labours of this society, the accumulations of Mr. Hazard, and the curious researches of Mr Watson, the historian can labour under no paucity of materials. The selection of an individual who is competent to such a task, by the charms of an elegant and finished English styleby philosophical studies—by liberal and enlarged views -is a matter of very general, even public concern. The reputation of a country and the moral influence of her example upon her contemporaries and posterity, must essentially depend upon the ability of her historians. How can the one or the other of these be effected, but through the medium of a performance whose intrinsic and superior merits shall command the esteem of other countries and of other times? The brilliancy of great events, or the glare of imposing successes and dismal catastrophes, is

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