a mighty conqueror. Not thine any more, but the nation's; not ours, but the world's. Give him place, O ye prairies!

In the midst of this great continent his dust shall rest, a sacred treasure to myriads who shall pilgrim to that shrine to kindle anew their zeal and patriotism. Ye winds that move over the mighty places of the West, chant his requiem! Ye people, behold a martyr whose blood, as so many articulate words, pleads for fidelity, for law, for liberty!

THE BARON'S LAST BANQUET.

'ER a low couch the setting sun had thrown its latest ray, Where, in his last strong agony, a dying warrior lay The stern old Baron Rudiger, whose frame had ne'er been bent By wasting pain, till time and toil its iron strength had spent.

"They come around me here, and say my days of life are o'er That I shall mount my noble steed, and lead my band no more; They come, and, to my beard, they dare to tell me now that I, Their own liege lord and master born, that I-ha! ha!—must die.

"And what is death? I've dared him oft, before the Paynim spear: ye

Think he's entered at my gate - has come to seek me here? I've met him, faced him, scorned him, when the fight was raging

hot:

I'll try his might, I'll brave his power!-defy, and fear him not!

"Ho! sound the tocsin from my tower, and fire the culverin;
Bid each retainer arm with speed; call every vassal in:
Up with my banner on the wall- - the banquet-board prepare
Throw wide the portal of my hall, and bring my armor there!"

An hundred hands were busy then; the banquet forth was spread,
And rung the heavy oaken floor with many a martial tread;
While from the rich, dark tracery, along the vaulted wall,
Lights gleamed on harness, plume, and spear, o'er the proud old
Gothic hall.

Fast hurrying through the outer gate, the mailed retainers poured, On through the portal's frowning arch, and thronged around the board;

While at its head, within his dark, carved, oaken chair of state, Armed cap-à-pie, stern Rudiger, with girded falchion, sate.

"Fill every beaker up, my men! - pour forth the cheering wine! There's life and strength in every drop- thanksgiving to the vine!

Are ye all there, my vassals true? - mine eyes are waxing dim: Fill round, my tried and fearless ones, each goblet to the brim!

"Ye're there, but yet I see you not!-forth draw each trusty sword,

And let me hear your faithful steel clash once around my board! I hear it faintly! — louder yet! What clogs my heavy breath ? Up, all!-and shout for Rudiger, 'Defiance unto death!""

Bowl rang to bowl, steel clanged to steel, and rose a deafening cry,

That made the torches flare around, and shook the flags on high: "Ho! cravens! do ye fear him? Slaves! traitors! have ye flown?

Ho! cowards, have ye left me to meet him here alone?

"But I defy him! - let him come!" Down rang the massy cup, While from its sheath the ready blade came flashing halfway up; And, with the black and heavy plumes scarce trembling on his head,

There, in his dark, carved, oaken chair, old Rudiger sat-dead!

DAVID'S LAMENT OVER ABSALOM.

HE king stood still

THE

Till the last echo died: then, throwing off
The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back
The pall from the still features of his child,
He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth
In the resistless eloquence of woe:

"Alas! my noble boy! that thou shouldst die!
Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair!
That death should settle in thy glorious eye,
And leave his stillness in this clustering hair!
How could he mark thee for the silent tomb,
My proud boy, Absalom!

"Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill, As to my bosom I have tried to press thee: How was I went to feel my pulses thrill,

Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee, And hear thy sweet 'My father' from these dumb And cold lips, Absalom!

"The grave hath won thee. I shall hear the gush Of music, and the voices of the young;

And life will pass me in the mantling blush,
And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung;
But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come
To meet me, Absalom!

“And, oh! when I am stricken, and my heart, Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, How will its love for thee, as I depart,

Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token! It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, To see thee, Absalom!

"And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up, With death so like a gentle slumber on thee: And thy dark sin!-Oh! I could drink the cup, If from this woe its bitterness had won thee. May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home, My erring Absalom!"

He covered up his face, and bowed himself
A moment on his child: then, giving him
A look of melting tenderness, he clasped
His hands convulsively, as if in prayer;

And, as if strength were given him of God,
He rose up calmly, and composed the pall
Firmly and decently, and left him there,
As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.

ROBERT BRUCE AND THE SPIDER.

FOR

OR Scotland's and for Freedom's right
The Bruce his part had play'd:
In five successive fields of fight

Been conquered and dismay'd;
Once more against the English host
His band he led, and once more lost
The meed for which he fought;
And now, from battle faint and worn,
The homeless fugitive forlorn

A hut's lone shelter sought.

And cheerless was that resting-place
For him who claim'd a throne;
His canopy, devoid of grace,

The rude rough beams alone;
The heather couch his only bed-
Yet well I know had slumber fled
From couch of eider-down;
Through darksome night to dawn of day,
Immersed in wakeful thoughts he lay
Of Scotland and her crown.

The sun rose brightly, and its gleam
Fell on that hapless bed,

And tinged with light each shapeless beam
Whien roof'd the lowly shed;

When, looking up with wistful eye,

The Bruce beheld a spider try

His filmy thread to fling

From beam to beam of that rude cot;
And well the insect's toilsome lot

Taught Scotland's future king.

Six times his gossamery thread
The wary spider threw:

In vain the filmy line was sped;
For powerless or untrue

Each aim appear'd, and back recoil'd
The patient insect, six times foil'd,

And yet unconquer'd still;

And soon the Bruce, with eager eye,
Saw him prepare once more to try
His courage, strength, and skill.

One effort more, the seventh and last;
The hero hail'd the sign!

And on the wish'd-for beam hung fast
The slender, silky line.

Slight as it was, his spirit caught

The more than omen, for his thought
The lesson well could trace,

Which even "he who runs may read,"
That perseverance gains its meed,
And patience wins the race.

ANTONY'S ADDRESS TO THE ROMANS.

RIENDS, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears:

FRI

I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their bones:
So let it be with Cæsar. The noble Brutus
Hath told you Cæsar was ambitious:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Cæsar answered it.
Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest,
(For Brutus is an honorable man:
So are they all, all honorable men,)
Come I to speak in Cæsar's funeral.

He was my friend, faithful and just to me:
But Brutus says he was ambitious,