The little captain stood and stirred the posset with hi

sword,

And all his sturdy men-at-arms were ranged about the board.

He poured the fiery Hollands in,—the man that never feared,

He took a long and solemn draught, and wiped his yellow beard,

And one by one the musketeers-the men that fought and prayed

All drank as 'twere their mother's milk, and not a man afraid.

That night, affrighted from his nest, the screaming eagle flew;

He heard the Pequot's ringing whoop, the soldier's wild halloo;

And there the sachem learned the rule he taught to kith and kin,

"Run from the white man when you find he smells of Hollands gin."

A hundred years, and fifty more, had spread their leaves and snows,

A thousand rubs had flattened down each little cherub's

nose,

When once again the bowl was filled, but not in mirth

or joy,

'Twas mingled by a mother's hand to cheer her parting boy.

"Drink, John," she said, "'twill do you good,-poor child, you'll never bear

This working in the dismal trench out in the midnight air;

And if,-God bless me !-you were hurt, 'twould keep away the chill.”

So John did drink,—and well he wrought that night at Bunker's Hill!

I tell you there was generous warmth in good ol English cheer;

I tell you 'twas a pleasant thought to bring its symb

here;

'Tis but the fool that loves excess. Hast thou a drunken soul?

The bane is in thy shallow skull, not in my silver bowl!

I love the memory of the past,-its pressed yet fragrant flowers,—

The moss that clothes its broken walls,—the ivy on its towers,

Nay this poor bauble it bequeathed,—my eyes grow moist and dim

To think of all the vanished joys that danced around its brim.

Then fill a fair and honest cup, and bear it straight

to me;

The goblet hallows all it holds, whate'er the liquid be;

And may the cherubs on its face protect me from the

sin

That dooms one to those dreadful words-"My dear, where have you been?"

THE COLISEUM.

ARCHES on arches! as it were that Rome, Collecting the chief trophies of her line, Would build up all her triumphs in one dome, Her Coliseum stands; the moon-beams shine As 'twere its natural torches, for divine Should be the light which streams here, to illume This long-explored but still exhaustless mine Of contemplation; and the azure gloom Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume

Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven,
Floats o'er this vast and wondrous monument,
And shadows forth its glory. There is given
Unto the things of earth, which time hath bent,
A spirit's feeling, and where he hath leant
His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power
And magic in the ruined battlement,

For which the palace of the present hour

Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower.

REBEKAH.

THE character of Rebekah, the wife who was destined to console the filial grief of Isaac, is curious and instructive, for the extraordinary contrast it exhibits at different periods. It has been remarked by a very profound thinker, that "no two individuals are more dissimilar than the same person may be at different periods of life." It is impossible to pronounce definitely of the excellencies of poor human nature. Inconsistencies, contrasts, contradictions, and anomalies, go to make up the characters of the erring children of men. The page of fiction delights to paint perfection and emblazon uninterrupted excellence; the page of truth rarely shows any such exhibition, but plainly reveals that error and frailty mingle largely even in the most amiable human characters.

A beautiful pastoral simplicity pervades the whole interesting narrative of the circumstances that lead to Rebekah becoming the wife of Isaac.* Abraham determines to take a wife for his son from among the daughters of his kindred, and therefore sends a confidential God-fearing servant to Mesopotamia to execute this important commission. The servant is bound by a solemn oath to obey his master's commands, and sets forth in the spirit of obedience and prayer.

* Gen. xxiv.

Arriving at eventide near the city where his master's kindred dwelt, he prayed that God would give him a sign to enable him to know which among the damsels, who at that time of the day were in the habit of coming to draw water, he should select for a wife for Isaac. The sign the pious servant prayed for was-"Let it come to pass, that the damsel to whom I shall say, Let down thy pitcher, I pray thee, that I may drink; and she shall say, Drink, and I will give thy camels also: let the same be she that thou hast appointed for thy servant Isaac."*

The young Rebekah, of the kindred of Abraham, the cousin of Isaac, in all the grace of loveliness and simplicity, with her pitcher on her shoulder, came to draw water; and we are more charmed with the courtesy and ready benevolence of the maiden's disposition than with the account of her mere personal beauty, when we read of her answering the request of the thirsting traveller, by hastening to present her pitcher, saying, "Drink, my lord." The charm of the act was in its readiness. It was the free benevolent courtesy of native politeness, "a grace beyond the reach of art;" and then "she ran," and drew water for the camels also. The comprehensive kindness of her womanly heart extended to the weary beasts; she "drew for all his camels," until they had done drinking: prompt as well as kind. Oh! who can tell the merit of prompt kindness? excuses and delays mar

* Gen. xxiv. 14.