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His plighted maiden, when she fears
For him, the joy of her young years,
Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears;
And she, the mother of thy boys,
Though in her eye and faded cheek
Is read the grief she will not speak,

The memory of her buried joys,—
And even she who gave thee birth,
Will, by the pilgrim-circled hearth,

Talk of thy doom without a sigh;
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's;
One of the few, the immortal names,

That were not born to die.

"Marco Bozzaris was the Epaminondas of Modern Greece. He fell in a night attack upon the Turkish camp at Laspi, the site of the ancient Platea, August 20, 18-3 and expired in the moment of victory. His last words were, 'To die for liberty is a pleasure, not a pain.""

Literary Rambler.

SPEAK GENTLY.

DAVID BATES. FROM AN OLD NEWSPAPER,

SPEAK gently-it is better far

To rule by love than fear;
Speak gently-let no harsh word mar
The good we might do here!

Speak gently-love doth whisper low
The vows that true hearts bind!
And gently friendship's accents flow;
Affection's voice is kind.

Speak gently to the little child,

Its love be sure to gain;
Teach it in accents soft and mild ;
It may not long remain.

Speak gently to the young, for they
Will have enough to bear-

Pass through this life as best they may, 'Tis full of anxious care.

Speak gently to the aged one,

Grieve not the care-worn heart, The sands of life are nearly run, Let such in peace depart.

Speak gently, kindly, to the poor-
Let no harsh tone be heard;
They have enough they must endure,
Without an unkind word.

Speak gently to the erring ones— They must have toil'd in vain; Perchance unkindness made them so, Oh, win them back again.

Speak gently!-He who gave his life
To bend man's stubborn will,
When elements were fierce with strife
Said to them, "Peace, be still."

Speak gently!-'tis a little thing Dropp'd in the heart's deep well; The good, the joy that it may bring, Eternity shall tell.

THE ENGLISH HEARTH.

GEORGE TWEDDELL.

FROM "THE YORKSHIRE

MISCELLANY," 1845.

"O pleasant hour! O moment ever sweet! When once again we reach the calm retreat,

Where looks of iove and tones of joy abide,

That heaven on earth--our dear, our own fireside!" Heavisides' Pleasures of Home.

WHEN Autumn's fruits are gather'd in,

And trees and fields are bare;

When merry birds no more are heard

To warble in the air;

When sweetest flowers have droop'd and died,

And snow is on the ground;

How cheerful is an English hearth,

With friends all seated round.

Then is the time for festive mirth,
Then is the time for glee;
'Tis then the tales of by-gone days
Give pleasure unto me:

And when the wild storm howls without

With deep and hollow sound,

I love the cheerful English hearth

With friends all seated round.

And when those touching strains are sung,
Writ by the bards of old,

How swift the evening seems to fly-
Unfelt the piercing cold:

What though the snow-flakes thickly fall,
And icicles abound!

I have a cheerful English hearth

For friends to sit around.

And when the clouds of worldly care
Are gathering o'er my brow;
When sorrow's frost has nipt my heart,
And check'd the blood's warm flow;
When grief has in her heavy chain
My buoyant spirits bound;
How cheering is an English hearth,

With friends all seated round.

Though slander's foul, envenom'd shafts Should pierce my spirit through,

There is one smile, one sunlit eye,

To beam upon me now;

And though my fate should be to roam
Where stranger forms are found,

I'll think upon my English hearth,
And friends who sat around.

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