bodies and of other material substances may assume at the last day, should the music of the spheres, now to us inaudible, make itself heard throughout creation.

And as to that nearer future, which many of us, I hope, may live to witness, and which is destined to change all our political and social organization into something nobler, grander and more perfect than anything we have yet enjoyed.-Oh! who can tell, after Slavery shall have been dissevered from its unnatural alliance with Liberty, what of glory and advancement, may belong to the hereafter of our history!

And that little golden link of Brotherly Love, some notice of which has come to us in the message from the battle-field, does it not belong to a chain, which after binding together more than hundreds of millions of human hearts, may reach up to the empyrean, and unite them

all to the heart of the All-merciful!

A BATTLE-EVE.

THE camp is silent.

Weary soldiers rest

Before to-morrow's work. The distant tents
So white, and still, they look like shadowy sails
Upon a far-off sea,- —or Arab tents

In drowsy, desert lands. All types of peace
Would image this false-seeming, fatal peace!
The blind mole burrows on the battle plain;
The ants build tiny houses upon sand,
A lamb might pasture here to-day unscared.

The sun dies slowly in the passive West Not redder than his wont;-predicting blood In all his ebbing veins,-unwarned of blood, All nature dreams. Not yet the time for signs In sun, or moon, or stars. The highest hills That grow to know the secrets of the clouds, Are still no seers, that they tremble not With sense of coming thunder. Nor the flowers Are sybils even, to foretell this sorrow

Weep dew to-night-weep blood to-morrow.
Fair flowers of the fated field! The bees
May starve to-morrow for these clover-blooms!
And all these slender, golden Southern moths,
Like yellow marriage-rings that circle round
The fingers of the locust fringes here-
May thirst to-morrow for the nectar spilt.

The gray oaks, century-wise, feel not one thrill
The more, through all their ever shuddering leaves,
Prescient of the dropping nests, the boughs
Uptorn, still less of all the graves, so soon
To mark the spot; the mad mirth of the guns,
The life-blood in heroic veins, as full

And blue as grapes trod out in such a press;
The cannon's shriek that makes the stars vibrate.

The curses louder than the cannon's roar !

For curses, though they're whispered in a vault,
Will reach the sad, recording Angel's ears,

Above the thunder of exploding shells.

What eye hath vision for to-morrow's night?

The battle fought, and past The air on fire
Left smouldering into blackness, and the dread,

Wide silence settling down upon the breathing Death! The fearful silence, that will not be dumb,

OUR COUNTRY.

But keeps on shivering with the passing souls,
And breaking into dying moans! The Death
That will be Life still in the open eyes
Fixed, staring at immortal mysteries

Of other worlds,-unclosed in this:

The brave

Young Patriot, with the poor white face upturned, The blank blue eye, the red wound on the brow— So let him lie, and symbolize in death,

His dear flag's colors,-red, and white, and blue.

REMINISCENCES OF THE HANCOCKS.

My position with Madam Hancock was such as to give me a fine opportunity to listen to her oft repeated stories of the Revolution and its results.

Many facts are stereotyped in my mind, and I feel myself more familiar with the events of the years connected with 1775, than with any period in my own history. I have been often urged to transfer my remembrances to paper, but have hitherto deferred doing it, so that the following will be an original statement.

Truth is most desirable in all history. I am happy to say that I never could detect any deviation in my aunt's narration of the same events, for a course of years. Madam Hancock, previous to her marriage, was Miss Dorothy Quincy, the daughter of Judge Edmund Quincy, of Boston, Massachusetts. Her youngest brother, Dr. Jacob Quincy, was my grandfather.

At her earnest request I resided with her, and was her daily companion for the last ten years of her life. Her death occurred in February, 1830, at the age of eighty