That woo'd me to its bosom: Raleigh's fame,
The New World's marvels, then made old men heroes,
And young men dreamers! So I left my home

With that wild seaman.

The villain whom I trusted, when we reached
The bark he ruled, cast me to chains and darkness,
And so to sea. At length no land in sight,

His crew-dark, swarthy men-the refuse crimes
Of many lands-(for he, it seems a pirate)
Call'd me on deck-struck off my fetters: "Boy!'
He said, and grimly smiled: "not mine the wrong;
Thy chains are forged from gold, the gold of those
Who gave thee birth!"

I wrench'd From his own hand the blade it bore, and struck The slanderer to my feet. With that, a shout, A hundred knives gleam'd round me; but the pirate, Wiping the gore from his gash'd brow, cried "Hold! Such death were mercy." Then they grip d and bound me To a slight plank-spread to the wind their sails, And left me on the waves alone with God!

That day, and all that night, upon the seas

Toss'd the frail barrier between life and death.

Heaven lull'd the gales; and when the stars came forth,
All look'd so bland and gentle that I wept,

Recall'd that wretch's words, and murmur'd, "Wave
And wind are kinder than a parent."

Day dawn'd, and glittering in the sun, behold
A sail-a flag!

It pass'd away,

And saw me not. Noon, and then thirst and famine;
And, with parch'd lips, I call'd on death, and sought
To wrench my limbs from the stiff cords that gnaw'd
Into the flesh, and drop into the deep;

And then methought I saw beneath the clear
And crystal lymph, a dark, swift-moving thing,
With watchful glassy eyes-the ocean-monster
That follows ships for prey. Then life once more
Grew sweet, and with a strained and horrent gaze,

OUR HEROES.

And lifted hair, I floated on, till sense

Grew dim and dimlier, and a terrible sleep,
In which still, still those livid eyes met mine,

Fell on me.

I awoke, and heard

My native tongue. Kind looks were bent upon me;
I lay on deck, escaped the ghastly death-
For God had watch'd the sleeper!

OUR HEROES.

JOHN A. ANDREW.

THE heart swells with unwonted emotion when we remember our sons and brothers whose constant valor has sustained, on the field, the cause of our country, of civilization, and liberty. On the ocean, on the rivers, on the land, on the heights where they thundered down from the clouds of Lookout Mountain the defiance of the skies, they have graven with their swords a record imperishable.

The Muse herself demands the lapse of silent years to soften, by the influences of Time, her too keen and poignant realization of the scenes of War-the pathos, the heroism, the fierce joy, the grief of battle. But, during the ages to 'come, she will brood over their memory. Into the hearts of her consecrated priests she will breathe the inspirations of lofty and undying beauty, sublimity, and truth, in all the glowing forms of speech, of literature, and plastic art. By the homely traditions of the fireside,—by the head-stones in the church-yard consecrated to those whose forms repose far off in rude graves by the Rappahannock, or sleep beneath the sea,--embalmed in the memories of succeeding generations of parents and children, the heroic dead will live on in immortal youth. By their names, their character, their service, their fate, their glory, they cannot fail :

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"They never fail who die
In a great cause; the block may soak their gore ;

Their heads may sodden in the sun, their limbs
Be strung to city gates and castle wall;
But still their spirit walks abroad. Though years
Elapse, and others share as dark a doom,

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They but augment the deep and sweeping thoughts
Which overpower all others, and conduct
The world at last to FREEDOM."

The edict of Nantes, maintaining the religious liberty of the Huguenots, gave lustre to the fame of Henry the Great, whose name will gild the pages of history after mankind may have forgotten the material prowess and the white plume of Navarre. The Great Proclamation of Liberty will lift the ruler who uttered it, our nation and our age, above all vulgar destiny.

The bell which rang out the Declaration of Independence has found at last a voice articulate, to " proclaim liberty throughout all the land unto all the inhabitants thereof." It has been heard across oceans, and has modified the sentiments of cabinets and kings. The people of the Old World have heard it, and their hearts stop to catch the last whisper of its echoes. The poor slave has heard it, and with bounding joy, tempered by the mystery of religion, he worships and adores. The waiting continent has heard it, and already foresees the fulfilled prophecy, when she will sit 'redeemed, regenerated, and disenthralled by the irresistible Genius of Universal Emancipation."

THE CLOSING YEAR.

GEORGE D. PRENTICE.

'Tis midnight's holy hour,-and silence now
Is brooding like a gentle spirit o'er

The still and pulseless world. Hark! on the winds
The bell's deep tones are swelling 'tis the knell
Of the departed year. No funeral train

Is sweeping past; yet, on the stream and wood,

THE CLOSING YEAR.

With melancholy light, the moon-beams rest
Like a pale, spotless shroud; the air is stirred
As by a mourner's sigh; and on yon cloud
That floats so still and placidly through heaven,
The spirits of the seasons seem to stand,—
Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's solemn form,
And Winter with its aged locks,—and breathe,

In mournful cadences that come abroad

Like the far wind-harp's wild and touching wail,
A melancholy dirge o'er the dead year,
Gone from the Earth forever.

'Tis a time

For memory and for tears. Within the deep,
Still chambers of the heart, a spectre dim,
Whose tones are like the wizard's voice of Time
Heard from the tomb of ages, points its cold
And solemn finger to the beautiful

And holy visions that have passed away,
And left no shadow of their loveliness
On the dead waste of life. That spectre lifts

The coffin-lid of Hope, and Joy, and Love,

And bending mournfully above the pale,

Sweet forms, that slumber there, scatters dead flowers
O'er what has passed to nothingness.

The year

Has gone, and with it, many a glorious throng
Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each brow,
Its shadow in each heart. In its swift course,
It waved its sceptre o'er the beautiful,—
And they are not. It laid its pallid hand
Upon the strong man,-and the haughty form
Is fallen, and the flashing eye is dim.

It trod the hall of revelry, where thronged
The bright and joyous,-and the tearful wail
Of stricken ones is heard where erst the song
And reckless shout resounded.

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It passed o'er

The battle-plain where sword, and spear, and shield, Flashed in the light of mid-day,-and the strength Of serried hosts is shivered, and the grass,

Green from the soil of carnage, waves above
The crushed and mouldering skeleton. It came,
And faded like a wreath of mist at eve;

Yet ere it melted in the viewless air

It heralded its millions to their home
In the dim land of dreams.

Remorseless Time!

Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe!—what power
Can stay him in his silent course, or melt
His iron heart to pity? On, still on,
He presses, and forever. The proud bird,
The condor of the Andes, that can soar
Through heaven's unfathomable depths, or brave
The fury of the northern hurricane,

And bathe his plumage in the thunder's home,
Furls his broad wings at nightfall, and sinks down
To rest upon his mountain crag, but Time
Knows not the weight of sleep or weariness,
And night's deep darkness has no chain to bind
His rushing pinions.

Revolutions sweep

O'er earth, like troubled visions o'er the breast
Of dreaming sorrow,-cities rise and sink
Like bubbles on the water,-fiery isles
Spring blazing from the ocean, and go back
To their mysterious caverns,-mountains rear
To heaven their bald and blackened cliffs, and bow
Their tall heads to the plain,- -new empires rise,
Gathering the strength of hoary centuries,
And rush down like the Alpine avalanche,
Startling the nations,-and the very stars,
Yon bright and burning blazonry of God,
Glitter a while in their eternal depths,