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APPREHENSION.

BY H. F. GOULD.

"Oh! sister, he is so swift and tall,
Though I want the ride, he will spoil it all,
For, when he sets out, he will let me fall,
And give me a bump, I know!
Mamma, what was it I heard you say
About the world's hobbies, the other day,
How some would get on, and gallop away,

To end with an overthrow?"

"I said, little prattler, the world was a race, That many would mount with a smile on the face, And ride to their ruin, or fall in disgrace:

That he who was deaf to fear,

And did not look out for a rein or a guide,
His courser might cast on the highway side,
In the mud, rocks and brambles, to end his ride,
Perchance, with a sigh and a tear!"

"Oh! sister! sister! I fear to try.
For Brutus's back is so 'live and high!

It creeps at my touch-and he winks his eye-
I'm sure he's going to jump!
Come! dear mother, tell us some more
About the world's ride, as you did before,
Who helped it up-and all how it bore
The fall, and got over the bump!"

ORIGINAL.

LINES ON A CLOCK.
We have hail'd thee time's tell-tale,
With many a joyous voice,
When the deep bell has sounded,
For the happy to rejoice.

We have thought thy pace too lagging,
When pleasure beckon'd on,
But, when possess'd of happiness,
How quickly hast thou flown.

In truth thou art a despot,
And rul'st with tyrant sway;

Behold, before thy ruling voice,
How all things pass away.

How many a smile has vanish'd
From beauty's beaming face,
When the hour for friends' departing,
Thy tell-tale fingers trace.

And yet, again how welcome,
That sound chimes on our ear,
When friends and joys expecting,
Each moment brings more near.
'Tis strange, that pain and pleasure

From the same source should spring,
And that which wo and sorrow brought,
Now joy and peace can bring.
There's nought beneath high heaven,
But has some soothing power,
To cheer the heart's dark loneliness,
Howe'er misfortunes lour.

'Tis so from childhood's morning,

When schooling tasks begun,
They know there comes a sweet release
At setting of the sun.

The fond impatient lover,
His day of trial past,

He gladly hails the evening shades
That bring him joys at last.

Blithe pleasure, with her many bells
And fair beguiling tongue,
Would fain thy fastly fleeting hour

Less frequently were rung.
While sorrow, with her tear-dimm'd eye,
Bodes happier days to be,
Hailing, as harbinger of peace..

Each hour that's told by thee. Time, here thou art a monarch, With a world's approval fraught; But remember, there's another, Where even thyself art nought.

C. H. W.

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DAPES.

Cæsar was ambitious and Cæsar was victorious. But after having conquered the world, and maimed and murdered millions of mankind, he fell beneath the dagger of his adopted son, a victim to his ambition, in the very scene of his greatest triumph; and the garland that graced his brow, the very next moment adorned his tomb. The regal robes that decked his person, and the royal gewgaws that glittered on his breast, which were, a moment before, the guarantees of his glory, became, at the base of Pompey's statue, the trophies of the grave. Hannibal, too, the glory of Carthage and the terror of Rome; the warrior and statesman: he who crossed the sublime solitudes of the Alps, never before attempted by man, became an exile, and was betrayed by a heartless prince, in whose cause his sword had been victoriously wielded. The rival of Scipio, like him, he fell by his own hand rather than fall into the hands of the Romans, who had long trembled at his name. Thus a cup of poison put a period to the existence of a man whom the world mourned and admired, and whom Rome at once dreaded and despised. Oh fame what a phantom thou art!

The mighty Macedonian, born for fame, Gave up his last hours to egregious shame. How perishable is human fame! How transitory is human grandeur. Like a star on the verge of the horizon, they dazzle in the gaze of the world for a moment, and then sink forever in the abyss of darkness. No conqueror ever yet shook the world with his triumphs, or beheld captive nations kneeling at his feet, that was not doomed to go down and be lost in the vortex of revolutions. The renowned Æneas, the terror of the sons of Grecian heroism, he who bore upon his back the old Anchises from the flaming towers of Troy, became a wanderer in the world, an exile from the land he loved; and at last Never was the rise and ruin of any individual proved recreant to the love and lavish kindness so conspicuous as of Napoleon Bonaparte. Flung of the brilliant and beautiful Dido. The name into the very vortex of a revolution, he rose with of Æneas lives only in the song of Virgil. The a rapidity unparalleled; and while the world mad Macedonian snatched the glittering spear looked on with astonishment, he dashed the from the hand of his victorious father, and aston- crown from the head of the Bourbon, and calmly ished mankind with the brilliance of his unbound-seated himself on the throne of France. From ed achievments. Standing on the pinnacle of the a subaltern to a sovereign, and from a cockade pyramids of Egypt, he saw the world in chains, to a crown, with him, was but a step and almost prostrate at his feet, and millions trembling at the work of a moment. The scenes of his mighty the nod of one ambitious man. Seventy cities, career changed with the rapidity of those in a as if by magic, sprang into existence. But where Camera Obscura, and were not more brilliant is Alexander, and where those cities that arose than they were transient. He stretched out his at his bidding? Alas! he has long since fallen the mighty arm over Egypt, and the theop and the victim of debauchery and midnight revel, and Arab became as harmless as the embalmed bothe ruined towers of the last city are tottering to dies of three thousand years. The land of oriental their fall, and are still seen on the banks of the tombs and triumphs became the trophy of his eternal Nile. Alexandria, once the seat of com-victorious march, and with Italy, the very Eden merce and science, of opulence and the arts, has now grown gray with years: no vestige of her once gigantic library exists, and the noiseless tooth of time is at work in the crumbling walls of her temples, which the proud architect vainly imagined would stand as an eternal monument of his fame. The desolating hand of time has destroyed every trace of his temple and his tomb, and left nothing but the imperishable page of history to record the wrecks of his renown and the ruin of his race. The barbarous Turk now surveys from his Seraglio and the Seven Towers, the vast empire, once swayed by the mighty house of Macedonia, and revels in the gardens where the conqueror of the world once sought his voluptuous repose. His fate has been no happier than that of his horse, Bucephalus, both have triumphed in their pride, and both have gone down to the dust, leaving nothing for the world to wonder at but their naked names, and nothing for the moralists of posterity but to reflect on the enormity of their crimes and their conquests.

The next page in the progress of history, presents two of the bravest and most brilliant heroes that ever waded through blood to conquest, or loaded the limbs of liberty with galling chains.

of the arts was inscribed on the long list of his splendid achievments. He made Paris splendid with the spoils of other cities and nations, and filled her galleries with the triumphs of the art of a Raphael, a Michael Angelo, and other celebrated sculptors and painters. She became gorgeous with the wrecks and relics of Italian grandeur, and in the midst of all that little world of glory, sat enthroned the nighty Despot of Europe. From the pinnacle of his glory he beheld once powerful kings as his subjects, and deserted thrones, which must crumble at his nod, or pass into the possession of those on whom his own transcendent genius had reflected greatness.Even the unbounded power of the Pope, acknowledged in every civilized land, passed away and vanished in the vortex of that revolution he had commenced; and the world looked on astonished, while a native of Corsica proclaimed himself the Emperor of Italy, and took possession of the city of the Cæsars. His mighty march was onward, but the tide of fortune once changed; his descent was as rapid as his elevation. But whether seated on the throne of the ancient Czars, amid the flaming ruins of Moscow, or traversing the burning sands of Numidia; whether battling at Austerliz, or heading the merry dance in the sa

THE MUTABILITY OF HUMAN GRANDeur.

99

loons of Paris, he was still the same fearless and I can withstand ambition in despair? The great ambitious conqueror; still the same grand and Napoleon's mind sunk under his accumulated gloomy genius. miseries and misfortunes; for he not only saw himself fallen but the prospects of his son, the darling hope and inheritor of his grandeur and glory blasted in the bud; and he went down to the grave a spirit-broken man. Posterity will worship his genius and wonder at the brilliance of his career. He sleeps in a barren rock-a common tomb alone tells where the mighty hero reposes-no gorgeous monument records the rise of his renown or the wrecks of his ruin.

Like Henry the Eighth of England, he repudiated one wife to make room for another; but unlike the British tyrant, he made the pope a pander and pimp to his licentious desires and sacrilegious inclinations. The same pontiff who thus became a pander to his passion, and whom, to cap the climax, he had crowned, soon found himself imprisoned by that power which he himself had formerly conferred.

Not more transient was the career of ambition How mournful, how melancholy was the fate which Napoleon pursued, than the benefits which of the young Napoleon! Born with the star of he conferred upon Europe. That he conferred empire on his breast, and crowned in the cradle benefits there is no doubt, for the pages of his the future emperor of Italy and France, he lived own history are pregnant with ample proof. to see his mighty father fall from the pinnacle of Through the fear of his irresistible power the his power, and with him all the splendid prospects Holy Alliance was humbled, and the autocrat of that fortune had promised to himself. He lived the north became more lenient to the nations over to find himself transported to an unknown land, whom he had tyrannized. The modern feudal where a dungeon must stay the stirring of ambisystem which had sprung from the gothic ruins tion, and jealousy lord it over the first aspiration of the dark ages, disappeared before the light of of genius. Ay, he lived to feel that he was a prihis more genial principles, and the nations of soner in the power of Austria, and that a single Europe, so long the tools of tyrants, awoke to a word or wish which should indicate the rising sense of the rights and dignity of mankind. He spirit of the fallen Napoleon, would subject him spoke, and liberty walked forth in the gardens of to a surveillance at once the most rigorous and Spain and Portugal, decked and adorned with unrelenting. Thus situated, the young Napoleon the garlands of gratitude. He spoke, and super-passed his days in inglorious ease, and approachstition was entombed in the terrific dungeons of the Inquisition, which had long been sacred to tyranny and torture, to silence and despair. Behold unto him a son is born! But scarcely had that son been crowned in his cradle, in the name of his fortunate father, ere the scene changes, and the star of Napoleon's glory is gone down in blood on the fatal field of Waterloo. In that hour the crown which he had crushed upon the head of another crumbled on his own, and the throne of his vast vassel empire passed away like the phantom of a noon-day dream. With him fell the host of soldiers and subalterns whom he had made sovereigns in the day of his glorious triumphs; and with the restoration of the monarchs whom Napoleon had dethroned, disappeared all the benefits which he had conferred on Europe. Scarcely had three years passed away ere every trace of Napoleon's grandeur had vanished with the good he had effected, and left the legitimate monarchs to tyrannize again, and trample on the necks of nations which he had led in triumph to liberty.

ed the verge of manhood with a mind trammeled by the manacles of the most odious of all despotism, the tyranny of mind. Whether the young Napoleon possessed the genius of his fallen father I know not. But be it so or not, his closing life was as melancholy as his birth was brilliant. What we have never possessed we mourn not for, but that from which we have fallen is remembered with a lasting regret, and calls forth the sympathy of mankind. Philip had his son Alexander-Cæsar his adopted son Brutus, and Napoleon his son Napoleon the Second: but alas! how fallen. After passing a life of constant restraint, he has gone down to the grave ere manhood had marked his brow, or ambition had roused his soul to a sase of the sublime height from which he had fallen.

Yet not more various were the fortunes of the young Napoleon than the vicissitudes to which France has been subjected. Scarcely had Napoleon fallen ere Louis the Eighteenth brought back to the throne all the vices which had been eradicated, and no sooner had the grave closed Fallen and deserted by fortune, we behold the over him, than the Count d'Artois, Charles the great Napoleon, the terror of England and the Tenth, seized the sceptre and attempted to tyScourge of Europe, wandering an exile in the rannize over the very people who had so recently country he had conquered, and an outcast from learned the rudiments of liberty in the school of the very people he had emancipated. Such is the great Napoleon. He imagined that the same popular favour-such the applause of the multi-chains were still rattling on their arms that his tude. As if conscious that the task was accom- feudal ancestors had rivetted, and in attempting plished for which heaven designed him, he gave to add another he lost his crown. His minions, himself up in a moment of despair, to the very the tools of his tyranny, shared perhaps a worse power which had so long looked with terror upon fate; for cut off from the world and divorced from his triumphs, and so long dreaded the vengeance their wives, they now lie immured in a dungeon, of his arm. Thrown upon a bleak and barren the iron doors of which they can never pass but island, in the lone solitude of the ocean, England as a corse. After three days, in which the sword doomed him to dwell, for whose grand and mighty of liberty was drawn, and the streets of Paris mind a world was not too wide. England thus were stained with the blood of her bravest and triumphed over the downfall of a man whose sin- best citizens and soldiers, the flag of peace gle voice, in the day of his glory, had struck ter-streamed proudly from every pinnacle, and the For to tyrants, and made millions tremble. Who | bleeding flag of freedom waved triumphantly on

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the walls of the capitol. They triumphed over the pretended downfall of the Bourbon dynasty, and immediately led to the throne one of the same line. The timidity and absence of decision which characterize Louis Philip, preclude the possibility that he can long wear the crown or sway the sceptre of gay and gallant France; a country, the people of which are proverbially brave and ambitious. A people no less celebrated in the arts than in arms, and who, led on by the gallant Napoleon, carried conquest to the gates of Italy and Egypt, and saw more than half of the noblest nations of Europe vanquished by their valour.

There is a stain upon the character of Louis Philip, which time itself can never obliterate. When the iron hand of the oppressor prostrated the Poles, and bleeding humanity called upon the monarchs of Europe for mercy, Louis Philip heard the appeal without a sigh, and saw Poland fall without a tear. When the French people were roused to madness by the cries of the suffering, and ready to march at a moment's warning, the coldness of Louis Philip and his minister repressed their ardour and paved the way for the downfall of Poland. And what is Poland now? The world weeps over her wretched condition and her ruined fortunes. Not only are her fields red with the blood of her bravest sons, but a cruelty more intolerable than death itself is now resorted to by the inhuman Nicholas, to revenge her patriotism, and it would seem, to exterminate the very nationality of the Poles. I allude, with horror, to the banishment to Siberia of thousands of Polish children, whose crimes consist in the patriotism of their fathers. It is a deed worthy of a demon. What heart but one dead to feeling could behold the agony of maternal love, whilst dragging from her her only son, the hope of her declining years, and not melt into compassion! Even at this moment perhaps the idolized boy has just bid his mother the agonizing adieu, and has joined the throng who are doomed to the deserts of Siberia, sad exiles in the spring of life, destined never again to behold the face of their friends, or the flowery fields of their native country. We are told that two boys, sons of General Roenstein, were ordered by the Emperor Nicholas to be sent off with hundreds of others to Siberia. The mourning mother memorialized the tyrant, and begged him to spare her the younger son. To this she received no consolatory answer. She then implored him in the name of nature, and of God and mercy, to spare her the agonizing calamity of having her last hope torn from her bleeding heart. The tyrant returned a brutal threat as an answer. Finding that her last hope had fled, and that her darling child was doomed to be torn from her bosom by the ruffians who stood round, yet more tender than the tyrant who condemned her children, she kissed her guiltless boy, and then, in the agony of the moment, seized a dagger and plunged it to his young heart. Imagine her feelings when the quivering body of her boy fell bleeding at her feet. Oh, God, it was a scene calculated to touch even the heart of the tyrant himself. And this was a taste of tyranny! Ay, this was for the crime of the father, who had nobly bared his bosom in the field of freedom, and resisted a tyrant whose mercy is misery, and whose kindest boon is banishment.

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When I remember that I was born in this republic, I rejoice. Let the miseries of the once happy and powerful Poland stimulate our countrymen to union and the love of liberty; for if once that love languishes, and the tyrant sets foot upon our soil, that moment the fabric of our freedom totters to its fall. We have cause to be proud of our prosperity, and it is our duty to hand down to posterity, untarnished, the glorious gift which our ancestors assigned us, sealed with their sacred blood. MILFORD BARD.

THE CUP.

BY EDWARD GAMAGE, ESQ.
There is a Cup of LIFE:
The little prints that stud the threshold o'er,
Are of the feet of such as came to drink,
Fresh in their natal hour-whose infant lips
Eschewed the taste, and perished on its brink!
There is a Cup of BLISS :

It mantles bright, and sends its foam aloft,

And calls for flowers to twine its sparkling brim. The young, gay, beauteons, happy dance around, Nor ken the shapes that 'neath its surface swim. There is a Cup of WEALTH,

With worthless tinsel deck'd. The ignoble crowd.
That cringe about the glittering fallacy,
Ne'er rise so high as taste the current proud,
Yet pine to share its splendid misery.
Of POVERTY-a Cup:

And the pale rank grass waves its hated sward,
For earth's best souls, thick o'er its sickly brow;
'Tis genius's birth gift-humble worth's reward,
For them that midst its turbed waters flow.
GLORY hath too her Cup:

She lifts it to the skies! and onward rush
Contending throngs, o'er mountain, vale, and flood,
She views their flashing hosts each other crush;
Grinds them to dust, then fills it with their blood!
There is a Cup of TEARS,

With oziers bound, and planted on the grave;

Thither the 'reft and desolate repair,
With duteous drops its pearly front to lave,
And swells the crystal store that glistens there!
For still round sorrow's cup,
'Tis meet the faint and weary should convene,
To cast the cyprus on its waters clear--
Descant on hopes that tripp'd life's fairy green,
And the stern hour that first enforced a tear.

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Well, there's a Cup of DEATH:

"And who so artful as to put it by?"

Its magic edge once kiss'd, we dream no more,
But wake to day that knows no sunset sky,

And beach our prow on unimagin'd shore! SEASONS OF WIT.-The greatest wits have their ebbs and flows: they are sometimes as it were exhausted, then let them neither write nor talk, nor aim at entertaining. Should a man singwhen he has a cold? Should he not wait till he recovers his voice?

THE BANDIT'S TEST-SONG-THE MOTHER.
REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

The Lives and Exploits of Banditti and Robbers
in all Parts of the World. By C. Mac Far-
lane, Esq.

MR. MAC FARLANE most truly observes, that "there are few subjects that interest us more generally than the adventures of robbers and banditti. In our infancy they awaken and rivet our attention as much as the best fairy tales; and when our happy credulity in all things is wofully abated, and our faith in the supernatural fled, we still retain our taste for the adventurous deeds and wild lives of brigands. Neither the fulness of years nor the maturity of experience and worldly wisdom can render us insensible to tales of terror such as fascinated our childhood, nor preserve us from a 'creeping of the flesh' as we read or listen to the narrative containing the daring exploits of some robber-chief, his wonderful address, his narrow escapes, and his prolonged crimes, seated by our own peaceful hearth."

This taste will be amply gratified by a perusal of these volumes, which are full of perilous adventure, hair-breadth escapes, and shocking murders; and we have only to entreat that our readers will not peruse the remainder of this column till after dark, that they may have the full benefit of the horrors we are about to lay before them.

THE BANDIT'S TEST.

101

and which was well known to his mistress, and
told him to run with it to her, and tell her an old
friend desired to speak with her at the fountain.
The child took the reliquary, and a piece of sil-
the Madonna to say nothing about the matter in
ver which the robber gave him on his vowing by
the village before one hour of the night, and ran
hind the old fountain, taking his rifle in his hand,
on to the village. The robber then retired be-
and keeping a sharp look out, lest his mistress
should betray him, or not come alone. But the
affectionate girl, who might have loved him still,
in spite of his guilt, who might have hoped to ren-
der him succour on some urgent need, or, per-
haps, to hear that he was penitent and anxious
the fountain, where, as the bells of the village
to return to society, went alone and met him at
church were tolling the Ave Maria, her lover
met her, and stabbed her to the heart! The mon-
to join the brigands, who were obliged to own,
ster then cut off her head, and ran away with it
duced, he was worthy to be their chief."
that after such a deed and such a proof as he pro-

From the Saturday Evening lost.
SONG OF THE CORSAIR.
I'll go where at even the primrose is blooming,
And gather its flowers to strew on thy head;
I'll bring the rose, in the glow of the morning,
Before the last sparkling dew-drop has fled.
I'll go where the deep wave of ocean is rushing,
And if it has pearls that are worthy of thee,
Will bring thec as fair one, as ever green blushing
Maidens of ocean wear under the sca.

Could I fly where the gems of the mountain are sparkling,
And take from its treasures a gift for my bride!
Or take where in depths of the desert lie darkling,
The purest of diamonds to place by her side!
We'll roam over ocean, 'mid havoc and slaugther,

For treasures of earth, which shall ever be thine;
For dearer than diamonds, or pearls of the water,
Art thou to this wild roving spirit of mine.
North Fairhaven, Jan.
INDIAN BARD.

THE MOTHER.-A SKETCH.

BY JOSEPH R. CHANDLER, ESQ.

“A young man, who had been several years an outlaw, on the violent death of the chief of the troop he belonged to, aspired to be Capo-bandito in his stead. He had gone through his noviciate with honour, he had shewn both cunning and courage in his calling as brigand, but the supremacy of the band was disputed with him by others, and the state of the times bade the robbers be specially careful as to whom they elected for their leader. He must be the strongest-nerved fellow of the set! The ambitious candidate offered to give any, even the most dreadful proof of his strength of nerve; and a monster among his companions proposed he should go to his native village and murder a young girl to whom he had been formerly attached. I will do it,' said the ruffian, who at once departed on his infernal mission. When he reached the village, he dared not present himself, having begun his crimes there Early in one of those beautiful mornings of last by murdering a comrade: he skulked behind an May, that called forth from the city so much old stone fountain, outside of the village, until of its youth, beauty, and even its decrepitude, near sunset, when the women came forth with to inhale and gratify a refined taste, I was riding their copper vases on their heads to get their sup- leisurely along the narrow road that skirts the plies of water at the fountain. His mistress came Schuylkill, about a mile above the princely and carelessly gossipping with the rest. He could hospitable mansion of Mr. Pratt. Solitude and have shot her with his rifle, but he was afraid of the darkening foliage of the surrounding trees, pursuit, and wanted besides, time to secure and gave a solemnity to the scene, that even those carry off a bloody trophy. He therefore remain- whom grief and habits of reflection render fond ed quiet, only hoping that she might loiter behind of retirement, so dearly love. Not a breath of the rest. She, however, was one of the first to air disturbed the leaves of the branches that balance her vessel of water on her head, and to stretched across the pathway. It was the true take the path to the village, whither all the gos- silence of nature in her secret places, and the sips soon followed her. What was now to be mind undisturbed by outward objects grew busy done? He was determined to go through the in the solitude. An opening in the bushes on ordeal and consummate the hellish crime. A the left, showed the summit of the hills on the child went by the fountain whistling. He laid opposite banks of the river, just touched with the down his rifle, so as not to alarm the little villa-yellow tints of the rising sun; and the dew gems ger, and presenting himself to him, gave him the upon its luxuriant grass glanced its beams in all reliquary he had worn round his neck for years, their prismatic beauty; but below and between,

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