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never fall more worthily than in defending her from her own degenerate children. If overborne by this tumult, and the cause seems hopeless, continue self-sustained and self-possessed. Retire to your fields, but look beyond them. Nourish your spirits with meditation on the mighty dead who have saved their country. From your own quiet elevation, watch calmly this servile route as its triumph sweeps before you. The avenging hour will at last come. It cannot be that our free nation can long endure the vulgar dominion of ignorance and profligacy. You will live to see the laws re-established; these banditti will be scourged back to their caverns—the penitentiary will reclaim its fugitives in office, and the only remembrance which history will preserve of them, is the energy with which you resisted and defeated them.
THE DEAD SOLDIER.
BY HENRY D. BIRD.
Thine was the death that
To their eternal rest-
What 'vails it where we barter life?
Whether upon the plain,
Or on the stormy main?
We die; and what to us is fame!
Why liest thou stiff and idle there,
Thy hand upon thy sword,
His fearful signal word?
Up, and away! the squadron'd horse
Approach in fierce array; They'll mar thy poor dishonor'd corse,
And tread thy form; away! Madly o'er faint and dead they pour, And hoof and fetlock smoke with gore.
Thou heed'st me not; thou hearest not
The trumpet echoing near;
Flies soundless by thine ear,
An hour ago thou wert all life,
With fiery soul and eye,
To do thy best, and die-
Why are those trappings on thy form?
The harness could not shield
That hurtled o'er the field.
A thousand like thyself, ah me!
Are stretch'd upon the ground; While the glad trump of victory
Is pealing round and round: Hark, how the victors shout and cheer?
It matters not the dead are here!
Arise! the Pæan rings aloud,
The battle field is won;
Before the booty's done:
Silent, and grim, and sad to view,
Thou liest upon the plain; To bleach or fester in the dew,
The sun, the winds, the rain: What art thou now, poor luckless tool? A murderer's mark, a tyrant's fool.
BY RICHARD PENN SMITH.
In the year 1812, shortly after the declaration of war with Great Britain, I made an excursion, partly of business, partly of pleasure, into that beautiful and romantic section of Pennsylvania, which lies along its northeastern boundary. One morning while pursuing my journey, I heard at a distance the sound of martial music, which gradually became more distinct as I ascended the Blue Ridge, and seemed to proceed from a humble village, situated in the deep valley beneath, on the bank of the Delaware. Nothing could exceed the splendour of the scene that lay below. The sun was just rising, his first beams were gradually stealing through the break or gap in the distant mountains, which seems to have been burst open by the force of the torrent; and as they gilded the dark green foliage of the wilderness, presented a view which might well awaken the genius of art, and the speculations of science, but was far too pure to be estimated by those, whose taste had been corrupted by admiration of the feeble skill of man.
There are indeed throughout the globe, various features which the most plausible theories are scarce sufficient to account for, and among them may truly be classed that to which we have alluded, where the Delaware has cut its way through the rugged bosom of the Kittatinny mountain. The scene is indeed sublime, and while