In each of which he seems to shake a lance, And make those flights upon the banks of Thames Or influence, chide, or cheer the drooping stage Which since thy flight from hence hath mourned like night, And despairs day, but for thy volume's light! W BEN JONSON. EPITAPH ON SHAKESPEARE. HAT needs my Shakespeare for his honored bones, The labor of an age in pilèd stones? Or that his hallowed relics should be hid Under a starry-pointing pyramid? MARIUS. High thoughts may seem, 'mid passion's strife, Like Carthage in decay. And proud hopes in the human heart May be to ruin hurled, Like mouldering monuments of art Yet there is something will not die, Some towering thoughts still rear on high, LYDIA MARIA CHILD. SUFFERINGS AND DESTINY OF THE PILGRIMS. ETHINKS I see it now, that one solitary, ad. venturous vessel, the Mayflower of a forlorn hope, freighted with the prospects of a future state, and bound across the unknown sea. I behold it pursuing with a thousand misgivings, the uncertain, the tedious voyage. Suns rise and set, and weeks and months pass, and winter surprises them on the deep, but brings them not the sight of the wishedfor shore. I see them now, scantily supplied with provisions, crowded almost to suffocation in their ill-stored prison, delayed by calms, pursuing a circuitous route; and now driven in fury before the raging tempest, on the high and giddy wave. The awful voice of the storm howls through the rigging; the laboring masts seem straining from their base; the dismal sound of the pumps is heard; the ship leaps, as it were, madly, from billow to billow; the ocean breaks, and settles with ingulfing floods over the floating deck, and beats with deadening, shivering weight, against the staggered vessel. I see them, escaped from these perils, pursuing Suggested by a painting by Vanderlyn, of Marius seated among their all but desperate undertaking, and landed, at last, P the ruins of Carthage. ILLARS are fallen at thy feet, Fanes quiver in the air, And thou alone art there. No change comes o'er thy noble brow, Though friends and fame depart; And genius hath electric power, Which earth can never tame; Bright suns may scorch, and dark clouds lowerIts flash is still the same. The dreams we loved in early life May melt like mist away; after a few months' passage, on the ice-clad rocks of Plymouth-weak and weary from the voyage, poorly armed, scantily provisioned, without shelter, without means, surrounded by hostile tribes. Shut, now, the volume of history, and tell me, on any principle of human probability, what shall be the fate of this handful of adventurers? Tell me, man of military science, in how many months were they all swept off by the thirty savage tribes enumerated within the early limits of New England? Tell me, politician, how long did this shadow of a colony, on which your conventions and treaties had not smiled, languish on the distant coast? Student of history, compare for me the baffled projects, the deserted settlements, the abandoned adventures of other times, and find the parallel of this! Was it the winter's storm, beating upon the houseless heads of women and children? was it hard labor and spare meals? was it disease? was it the tomahawk ? was it the deep malady of a blighted hope, a ruined enterprise, and a broken heart, aching, in its last moments, at the recollection of the loved and left, beyond the sea?-was it some or all of these united, that hurried this forsaken company to their melancholy fate? And is it possible that neither of these causes, that not all combined, were able to blast this bud of hope! Is it possible that from a beginning so feeble, so frail, so worthy, not so much of admiration as of pity, there has gone forth a progress so steady, a growth so wonderful, an expansion so ample, a reality so important, a promise, yet to be fulfilled, so glorious! EDWARD EVERETT. From his hut, and the grave of his friend, far away— He is gone where the footsteps of men never ventured, Where the glooms of the wild-tangled forest are centred, Where no beam of the sun or the sweet moon has entered, No bloodhound has roused up the deer with his bay. Light be the heart of the poor lonely wanderer ; Firm be his step through each wearisome mileFar from the cruel man, far from the plunderer, Far from the track of the mean and the vile. And when death, with the last of its terrors, assails him, And all but the last throb of memory fails him, And o'er him the leaves of the ivy be shed, THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF AGASSIZ. T was fifty years ago, In the pleasant month of May, In the beautiful Pays de Vaud, A child in its cradle lay. And Nature, the old nurse, took The child upon her knee, Saying, "Here is a story-book Thy Father has written for thee." "Come, wander with me," she said, "Into regions yet untrod, In the manuscripts of God." The rhymes of the universe. And whenever the way seemed long, She would sing a more wonderful song, So she keeps him still a child, Though at times he hears in his dreams And the mother at home says, "Hark! And my boy does not return!" A PANEGYRIC TO OLIVER CROMWELL. HILE with a strong and yet a gentle hand, Let partial spirits still aloud complain, Above the waves, as Neptune showed his face, Your drooping country, torn with civil hate, The sea's our own; and now all nations greet, Still as you rise, the state exalted too, Finds no distemper while 'tis changed by you, Changed like the world's great scene when, without noise, The rising sun night's vulgar lights destroys Had you, some ages past, this race of glory Run, with amazement we should read your story, This Cæsar found; and that ungrateful age, That sun once set, a thousand meaner stars If Rome's great senate could not wield that sword, You, that had taught them to subdue their foes, So when a lion shakes his dreadful mane, As the vexed world, to find repose, at last Then let the muses, with such notes as these, EDMUND WALLER WOLSEY'S ADVICE TO CROMWELL. ROMWELL, I did not think to shed a tear And-when I am forgotten, as I shall be, | Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition: To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not Thy God's, and truth's, then if thou fall'st, O Crom well! Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. Serve the king; and-pr'ythee, lead me in. To the last penny; 't is the king's: my robe, I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell! WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE LORD MACAULAY. 'HE dreamy rhymer's measured snore And stalks among the statlier dead. High-crested Scott, broad breasted Burns, a JOSEPH MAZZINI LIGHT is out in Italy, A golden tongue of purest flame. We watched it burning, long and lone, And every watcher knew its name, And knew from whence its fervor came, That one rare light of Italy, Which put self-seeking souls to shame' This light which burnt for italy Through all the blackness of her night, She doubted, once upon a time, Because it took away her sight. She looked and said, "There is no light!" It was thine eyes, poor Italy! That knew not dark apart from bright. This flame which burnt for Italy, And only fed its upward leap, Its burning showed us Italy, And all the hopes she had to keep. This light is out in Italy, Her eyes shall seek for it in vain! For her sweet sake it spent itself, Too early flickering to its waneToo long blown over by her pain. Bow down and weep, O Italy, Thou canst not kindle it again! Laura C. REDDEN (Howard Glyndon). MARIA THERESA'S APPEAL TO HUNGARY. ARIA Theresa was twenty-four years old, when she succeeded her father on the thrones of Austria, Hungary, and Bohemia. Notwithstanding the guarantee given her father by the European powers, she soon found herself opposed by nearly all of them, who sought to wrest her dominions from her and divide them among themselves. The battle of Molwitz made the situation of Maria Theresa almost desperate, and a little later an alliance was formed against her by France, Prussia, Bavaria, Spain and Saxony. A French army entered Germany and united with the Bavarian forces, while the Saxon army advanced into Bohemia. The Bavarians marched into upper Austria and occupied Linz, where the elector was proclaimed Archduke of Austria. He might have taken Vienna had he moved promptly against the city, but becoming jealous of the successes of the Saxons in Bohemia, he undertook the conquest of that country. He entered Prague and was proclaimed King of Bohemia. In January, 1742, he was chosen emperor by the electors at Frankfort, and took the title of Charles VII. In the meantime Maria Theresa had exerted herself to repair her disasters. She fled to her kingdom! of Hungary for protection, and hastening to the assembled diet, with her infant son, afterwards Joseph II., in her arms, presented herself before the nobles and deputies, and appealed to them to maintain her cause. The chivalric Hungarians were deeply moved by her trust in them, and the hall rang with the cry: "Let us die for our King, Maria Theresa!" An army of 100,000 men was raised, and was joined by a strong force of Tyrolese. This force at once took the field. One division not only reconquered upper Austria, but invaded Bavaria, and captured Munich on the very day that Charles VII. was crowned emperor. A little later an Austrian army, under Prince Charles of Lorraine, was defeated by Frederick at Czaslau. This disaster induced the Queen to rid herself of her most dangerous enemy by surrendering upper Silesia and a part of lower Silesia to him. Frederick was satisfied for the time, and peace was made between Austria and Prussia. DANIEL BOONE. F all men, saving Sylla the man-slayer, Was happiest amongst mortals anywhere; Crime came not near him, she is not the child Where if men seek her not, and death be more Without which glory's but a tavern song- Is that you neither can be pleased nor please; LORD BYRON. A WELCOME TO "BOZ." ON HIS FIRST VISIT TO THE WEST. OME as artist, come as guest, Old acquaintances of thee. Much we hold it thee to greet, And thy voice would grateful hear, By the flogging wreaked on Squeers, To transfer his warm affections, By the mournful group that played Round the grave where Smike was laid, By the life of Tiny Tim, And the lesson taught by him, Asking in his plaintive tone By the sounding waves that bore Welcome fills the throbbing breast W. H. VEnable. TO VICTOR HUGO. ICTOR in poesy! Victor in romance ! Child-lover, bard, whose fame-lit laurels glance, Yield thee full thanks for thy full courtesy MARIA DE MEDICIS RECEIVING THE REGENCY. ARIA de Medicis, queen of France, was the daughter of Francis II., grand duke of Tuscany, and of Joan, archduchess of Austria. She was born at Florence in 1573. In 1650 she was married to Henry IV. Her son who became Louis XIII, was born the following year; his deplorable weakness as he grew up was the principal cause of his mother's misfortunes. The amours of her husband rendered her life a wretched one, and, being of a violent temper, the peace of the royal household |