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shade of gloom will be thrown over the heart, and in vain will we seek to disguise it under the appearance of gayety. The day—the fatal minute—has arrived His hand is within our own, and “adieu’’ trembles upon his lips. We essay, but in vain, to reply, and tears gush into our eyes. The hurried but thrilling pressure of his hand—it is over, and he turns hastily away. He is gone—he has left us; but we have caught the last faltering accents of his tongue, and they are treasured up in our hearts for “an eternity of love.” We have gazed (perhaps for the last time) upon his countenance, but its cherished lineaments are engraven too deep on the memory ever to be eradicated; and, even now, we bend eagerly forward to catch the last echo of his retreating footsteps; this soon dies away, and then, indeed, we feel all the bitterness of separation. In vain do we attempt to imagine happiness without him ; the future lowers “dark and drear” before us, while the agony of passing grief makes us feel truly “lone and desolate.” This flood of uncontrollable sorrow will undoubtedly exhaust itself; but still the heart will love to revert with delight to the recollection of his many good qualities, and often, in imagination, will we fondly picture him standing before us, as good and as kind as ever. There is nothing more valuable than a true friend, and nothing more deserving of every sacrifice. Never should we suffer a quick word, a hasty glance, or a passionate action, to part us from him even foran instant. For O ! it

is hard to be forced to frown haughtily and contemptuously on those who were once the enshrined idols of our hearts. It is similar to the sacrifice of Abraham in its affliction and tormenting agony of spirit. I will not stop here to characterize those who basely strive to sunder friends. If you have a friend, cling to him as you would to an invaluable treasure. Nor gold, nor silver, nor all the diamonds of Golconda, are equivalent to his worth. In after days, when the pilgrimage of life draws to its close, the memory of your youthful friendships will gild your age with images of soft and peaceful happiness, and hover around you as bright and angelic spirits of consolation, “ministering a joy to every wo.” Then will the tired soul rejoice to turn to them, as the traveller, after a weary day's march over the desert, turns with renovated strength and gladness to the sparkling fount of the green oasis, which, glittering in the rays of the departing sun, and “murmuring sweet music as it goes,” flows on in refreshing beauty and harmony.

Louisville, Ky., February 6, 1846.


[On the night of the 25th of December, 1776, Washington recrossed the Delaware, and surprised and routed the British forces, taking one thousand prisoners.]

WINTER had stretched his hand
O'er hill and lea,

And stopped with his icy wand
The merry glee

Of the murmuring brook and rippling stream,

That erst did dance in the sun's bright beam
O'er glittering sand.

The invader had sought his lair,
In the pomp of might —
When a shout burst on the air
Of the still midnight:
'Twas a shout from a band of the brave and free—
*T was a shout that told of a victory:
No bonds they'd wear !

Then up with our banners high,
And swell the strain:
Tell to the earth and sky
We've broke the chain -
- The chains for the free by the free were rent:
The tyrant was crushed; and his vassals bent
To the Freeman's cry!

New York, August. 1846. J. D. H.

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I ASKED a matron once, of restless mind,
Which she would choose, the pit or vaulted tomb :
She answered thus: “The narrow grave would bind; -
*T was close and lonesome in its sullen gloom :
The vault more open was, and less confined:
And, e'en when stiff in death, she wanted room,
Room for the roaming soul, which would return

To pace its dismal path around her urn.”

'T was a strange choice, with which I can't agree.
Mine be the grassy grave well sodded o'er,
Beneath a waving, weeping willow tree'
Around be blooming every lovely flower—
Above may many wingéd warblers be,
So sweetly singing through the summer hour !
Such sounds and sights so near unto my rest,
Will lighten every clod upon my breast.

There is a lovely place I twice have seen;
And oft I long when lifeless there to lay.


A mountain's brow it is, whose scalp of green
Above the clouds doth greet the coming day.
Midway below the morning mists do lean,
Till melted by the sun's dissolving ray;
And on its highest peak is many a mound,
Of spirits passed—an Indian burial-ground.

Myriads there have made their dusty bed,
Unnumbered generations of the past ;
'T was there the earthy coverlid was spread —
When once ’tis worn, it will for ever last;
Beneath it there is lain the chieftain dread,
"Whose potent voice was as the rising blast;
The painted warriors, once his greatest pride,
Are shrivelled mummies, mouldering by his side.

The place I speak of now is “PARNELL's KNOB ;”—
A cone-like mountain, and a lovely spot:
Who climbs its shaggy sides will find a job,
By far more tough, perhaps, than first he thought.
Beneath each bending branch his head must bob,
Or else 'twill stun his brain — if brains he's got,
And struggling upward still, and worn and weak,
At last he panting stands upon the peak.

All-glorious is the sight! The dizzy hill
. Uprears so loftily from out the plain,
The widest creek is dwindled to a rill—
The rills are struggling to be seen in vain:
Each little cot contracts and hides its sill
Behind the pigmy fields of waving grain;
And man a marble seems, so far below,
Though strutting pompously himself to show.

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