And for the flame of liberty,

Heaven-kindled in thy breast, Which thou hast fed like sacred fire

A blessing on thee rest!

'Tis said thy spirit knoweth not

Its times of calm and sleeping, That ever are its restless thoughts

Like wild waves onward leaping:
Then may its flashing waters

Be tranquil never more-
They are “ troubled" by an angel,

Like the sacred pool of yore.

EVENING.

BY A TAILOR.

Day hath put on his jacket, and around His burning bosom buttoned it with stars. Here will I lay me on the velvet grass, That is like padding to earth's meagre ribs, And hold communion with the things about me. Ah me! how lovely is the golden braid That binds the skirt of night's descending robe ! The thin leaves, quivering on their silken threads, Do make a music like to rustling satin, As the light breezes smooth their downy nap.

Ha! what is this that rises to my touch, So like a cushion? Can it be a cabbage ? It is, it is that deeply injured flower Which boys do flout us with; but yet I love thee, Thou giant rose, wrapped in a green surtout ! Doubtless in Eden thou didst blush as bright As these thy puny brethren; and thy breath Sweetened the fragrance of her spicy air ; But now thou seemest like a bankrupt beau, Stripped of his gaudy hues and essences, And growing portly in his sober garments.

Is that a swan that rides upon the water ? O no, it is that other gentle bird, Which is the patron of our noble calling. I well remember, in my early years When these young hands first closed upon a goose; I have a scar upon my thimble finger, Which chronicles the hour of young Ambition. My father was a tailor, and his father, And

my sire's grandsire, all of them were tailors : They had an ancient goose—it was an heirloom From some remoter tailor of our race. It happened I did see it on a time When none was near, and I did deal with it, And it did burn me—oh, most fearfully!

It is a joy to straighten out one's limbs, And leap elastic from the level counter, Leaving the petty grievances of earth,

The breaking thread, the din of clashing shears,
And all the needles that do wound the spirit,
For such a pensive hour of soothing silence.
Kind Nature, shuffling in her loose undress,
Lays bare her shady bosom-I can feel
With all around me,I can hail the flowers
That sprig earth's mantle; and yon quiet bird,
That rides the stream, is to me as a brother.
The vulgar know not all the hidden pockets,
Where Nature stows away her loveliness.
But this unnatural posture of the legs
Cramps my extended calves, and I must go
Where I can coil them in their wonted fashion.

WOULDST thou know of me
Where our dwellings be?
'Tis under this hill,

Where the moonbeam chill
Silvers the leaf and brightens the blade, -

'Tis under this mound

Of greenest ground,
That our crystal Palaces are made.

Wouldst thou know of me
What our food

may

be ? 'Tis the sweetest breath

Which the bright flower hath, That blossoms in wilderness afar,

And we sip it up,

In a harebell cup,
By the winking light of the tweering star.

Wouldst thou know of me
What our drink may be ?
'Tis the freshest dew,

And the clearest, too,
That ever hung on leaf or flower ;

And merry we skink

That wholesome drink,
Thorough the quiet of the midnight hour.

Wouldst thou know of me
What our pastimes be?
'Tis the hunt and halloo,

The dim greenwood through; 0, bravely we prance it with hound and horn,

O'er moor and fell,

And hollow dell, Till the notes of our Woodcraft wake the morn.

Wouldst thou know of me
What our garments be?
'Tis the viewless thread,
Which the gossamers spread

As they float in the cool of a summer eve bright,

And the down of the rose,

Form doublet and hose
For our Squires of Dames on each festal night.

Wouldst thou know of me
When our revelries be?
'Tis in the still night,

When the moonshine white
Glitters in glory o'er land and sea,

That, with nimble foot,

To tabor and flute,
We whirl with our loves round yon glad old tree.

AN AMERICAN HUT.

It was a curious old pile, composed of rough-hewn oaken logs, locked together and wedded at the seams by satisfactory daubs of red clay, which the sun had baked into a substance tolerably substantial. Over this bleak framework were thrown long black branches of various trees, the interstices being stuffed with moss and straw, and then the whole paved with dark rows of uneven stones, which afforded a rude shelter, and bid an humble defiance to the storms that might hurl their power at the brow of this little tenement. A