The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it far above our power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here.

It is for us, the living, rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished work they have thus far so nobly carried on. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us, that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to the cause for which they gave the last full measure of de. votion, that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain, and that the nation shall, under God, have a new birth of freedom, and that the government of the people, by the people, and for the people shall not perish from the earth.

So, when the summer calleth,
On forest and field of grain
With an equal murmur falleth
The cooling drip of the rain :--
Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;
Wet with the rain, the Blue,

Wet with the rain, the Gray.

Sadly, but not with upbraiding,

The generous deed was done; In the storm of the years that are fading, No braver battle was won :Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Under the blossoms, the Blue,

Under the garlands, the Gray.

No more shall the war cry sever,
Or the winding rivers be red;
They banish our anger forever
When they laurel the graves of our dead!
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;
Love and tears for the Blue,
Tears and love for the Gray.

PATRIOTISM.

HAT is patriotism?

W

F. M. FINCH.

Is it a narrow affection for the spot where a man was born? Are the very clods where we tread entitled to this ardent preference because they are greener? No, sir: this is not the character of the virtue, and it soars higher for its object. It is an extended self-love, mingling with all the enjoyments of life, and twisting itself with the minutest filaments of the heart. It is thus we obey the laws of society, because they are the laws of virtue. In their authority we see, not the array of force and terror, but the venerable image of our country's honor. Every good citizen makes that honor his own, and cherishes it not only as precious, but as sacred. He is willing to risk his life in its defence, and is conscious that he gains protection while he gives it; for what rights of a citizen will be deemed inviolabie when a State renounces the principles that constitute their security? Or, if his life should not be invaded, what would its enjoyments be in a country odious in the eyes of strangers and dishonored in his own? Could he look with affection and veneration to such a country as his parent? The sense of having one would die within him; he would blush for his patriotism, if he retained any, and justly, for it would be a vice. He would be a banished man in his native

land.

FISHER AMES.

LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS.

HE breaking waves dashed high

On a stern and rock-bound coast,
And the woods against a stormy sky
Their giant branches tossed.

And the heavy night hung dark

The hills and waters o'er,

When a band of exiles moored their bark
On the wild New England shore.

Not as the conqueror comes,

They, the true-hearted came;
Not with the roll of the stirring drums,
And the trumpet that sings of fame.

Not as the flying come,

In silence and in fear;

They shook the depths of the desert gloom
With their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amidst the storm they sang,

And the stars heard, and the sea; And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free.

The ocean eagle soared

From his nest by the white wave's foam;
And the rocking pines of the forest roared—
This was their welcome home!

There were men with hoary hair
Amidst that pilgrim band :-
Why had they come to wither there,
Away from their childhood's land?
There was woman's fearless eye,

Lit by her deep love's truth;
There was manhood's brow serenely high,
And the fiery heart of youth.
What sought they thus afar?

Bright jewels of the mine?

The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?—
They sought a faith's pure shrine !

Ay, call it holy ground,

The soil where first they trod;
They left unstained what there they found—
Freedom to worship God.

a

FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS.

seech of you, my Lord-you who preside on that bench-when the passions and prejudices of this hour have passed away, to appeal to your own conscience, and to ask of it, was your charge as it ought to have been, impartial and indifferent between the subject and the crown?

My Lords, you may deem this language unbecoming in me, and perhaps it will seal my fate. But I am here to speak the truth, whatever it may cost; I am here to regret nothing I have ever done,—to retract nothing I have ever said. I am here to crave, with no lying lip, the life I consecrate to the liberty of my country. Far from it, even here-here, where the thief, the libertine, the murderer, have left their footprints in the dust; here on this spot, where the shadows of death surround me, and from which I see my early grave in an unanointed soil opened to receive me even here, encircled by these terrors, the hope which has beckoned me to the perilous sea upon which I have been wrecked, still consoles, animates, enraptures me.

No; I do not despair of my poor old country—her peace, her liberty, her glory. For that country, I can do no more than bid her hope. To lift this island up; to make her a benefactor to humanity, instead of being the meanest beggar in the world; to restore her to her native powers and her ancient constitution, -this has been my ambition, and this ambition has been my crime. Judged by the law of England, I know this crime entails the penalty of death; but the history of Ireland explains this crime, and justifies it. Judged by that history, I am no criminal-I deserve no punishment. Judged by that history, the treason of which I stand convicted loses all its guilt, is sanctioned as a duty, will be ennobled as a sacrifice. With these sentiments, my Lord, I await the sentence of the court.

Having done what I felt to be my duty, having spoken what I felt to be the truth-as I have done on every other occasion of my short career-I now bid farewell to the country of my birth, my passion, and my death; the country whose misfortunes have invoked my sympathies; whose factions I have sought to still; whose intellect I have prompted to a lofty aim; whose freedom has been my fatal dream. I offer to that country, as a proof of the love I bear her, and the sincerity with which I thought and spoke and struggled for her freedom, the life of a young

AN INCIDENT OF THE CRIMEAN WAR.

APTAIN GRAHAM, the men were sayin'

Ye would want a drummer lad,
So I've brought my boy Sandie,
Tho' my heart is woeful sad;
But nae bread is left to feed us,
And no siller to buy more,
For the gudeman sleeps forever,
Where the heather blossoms o'er.
"Sandie, make your manners quickly,
Play your blithest measure true—
Give us 'Flowers of Edinboro',
While yon fifer plays it too.
Captain, heard ye e'er a player

Strike in truer time than he?"
"Nay, in truth, brave Sandie Murray
Drummer of our corps shall be."

"I give ye thanks-but, Captain, maybe
Ye will hae a kindly care
For the friendless, lonely laddie,
When the battle wark is sair:
For Sandie's aye been good and gentle,
And I've nothing else to love,
Nothing-but the grave off yonder,
And the Father up above."

Then, her rough hand gently laying
On the curl-encircled head,

She blessed her boy. The tent was silent,
And not another word was said;

For Captain Graham was sadly dreaming
Of a benison, long ago,

Breathed above his head, then golden,
Bending now, and touched with snow.
Good-bye, Sandie." "Good-bye, mother,
I'll come back some summer day;
Don't you fear-they don't shoot drummers
Ever. Do they, Captain Gra— ?
One more kiss-watch for me, mother,
You will know 'tis surely me
Coming home for you will hear me
Playing soft the reveille."

After battle. Moonbeams ghastly
Seemed to link in strange affright,
As the scudding clouds before them
Shadowed faces dead and white;
And the night-wind softly whispered,
When low moans its light wing bore-
Moans that ferried spirits over

Death's dark wave to yonder shore.
Wandering where a footstep careless
Might go splashing down in blood,
Or a helpless hand lie grasping

Death and daisies from the sod-
Captain Graham walked swift onward,
While a faintly-beaten drum
Quickened heart and step together:
"Sandie Murray! See, I come!

"Is it thus I find you, laddie?

Wounded, lonely, lying here,
Playing thus the reveille?

See-the morning is not near." A moment paused the drummer boy, And lifted up his drooping head: "Oh, Captain Graham, the light is coming, 'Tis morning, and my prayers are said. "Morning! See, the plains grow brighterMorning-and I'm going home;

That is why I play the measure,
Mother will not see me come;

But you'll tell her, won't you, Captain-"
Hush, the boy has spoken true;

To him the day has dawned forever,
Unbroken by the night's tattoo.

SCOTLAND.

AND of my fathers!—though no mangrove here O'er thy blue streams her flexile branches rear; Nor scaly palm her fingered scions shoot; Nor luscious guava wave her yellow fruit; Nor golden apples glimmer from the tree ;Land of dark heaths and mountains, thou art free! Untainted yet, thy stream, fair Teviot! runs, With unatonèd blood of Gambia's sons: No drooping slave, with spirit bowed to toil, Grows, like the weed, seif-rooted to the soil, Nor cringing vassal on these pansied meads Is bought and bartered, as the flock he feeds. Free as the lark that carols o'er his head, At dawn the healthy ploughman leaves his bed, Binds to the yoke his sturdy steers with care, And, whistling loud, directs the mining share: Free as his lord, the peasant treads the plain, And heaps his harvest on the groaning wain; Proud of his laws, tenacious of his right, And vain of Scotia's old unconquered might. JOHN LEYDEN.

In arms the Austrian phalanx stood,

A living wall, a human wood;
Impregnable their front appears,
All horrent with projected spears.
Opposed to these, a hovering band
Contended for their fatherland,

Peasants, whose new-found strength had broke
From manly necks the ignoble yoke ;
Marshalled once more at freedom's call,
They came to conquer or to fall.

And now the work of life and death

Hung on the passing of a breath;
The fire of confict burned within;
The battle trembled to begin:

Yet, while the Austrians held their ground
Point for assault was nowhere found;
Where'er the impatient Switzers gazed,
The unbroken line of lances blazed;
That line 't were suicide to meet,
And perish at their tyrants' feet.
How could they rest within their graves,
To leave their homes the haunts of slaves?
Would they not feel their children tread,
With clanking chains, above their head?

It must not be: this day, this hour,
Annihilates the invader's power!
All Switzerland is in the field-
She will not fly; she cannot yield;
She must not fall! her better fate
Here gives her an immortal date.
Few were the numbers she could boast,
But every freeman was a host,
And felt as if 't were a secret known
That one should turn the scale alone,
While each unto himself was he
On whose sole arm hung victory.

It did depend on one, indeed;
Behold him-Arnold Winkelried!
There sounds not to the trump of fame
The echo of a nobler name.
Unmarked, he stood amid the throng,
In rumination deep and long,
Till you might see, with sudden grace,
The very thought come o'er his face;
And, by the motion of his form,
Anticipate the bursting storm;
And, by the uplifting of his brow,
Tell where the bolt would strike, and how.
But 't was no sooner thought than done-
The field was in a moment won!
"Make way for liberty!" he cried,
Then ran, with arms extended wide,
As if his dearest friend to clasp;
Ten spears he swept within his grasp.
"Make way for liberty!" he cried ;
Their keen points crossed from side to side.
He bowed among them like a tree,
And thus made way for liberty.

Swift to the breach his comrades fly"Make way for liberty!" they cry,

And through the Austrian phalanx dart,
As rushed the spears through Arnold's heart;
While, instantaneous as his fall,

Rout, ruin, panic seized them all.
An earthquake could not overthrow
A city with a surer blow.

Thus Switzerland again was free-
Thus death made way for liberty.

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

For Teutons brave, inured by toil,
Protect their country's holy soil.

Dear Fatherland, thou need'st not fear-
Thy Rhineland watch stands firmly here.

The heart may break in agony,
Yet Frenchmen thou shalt never be.
In water rich is Rhine; thy flood,
Germania, rich in heroes' blood.

Dear Fatherland, thou need'st not fear-
Thy Rhineland watch stands firmly here.

When heavenward ascends the eye,
Our heroes' ghosts look down from high;
We swear to guard our dear bequest,
And shield it with the German breast.
Dear Fatherland, thou need'st not fear-
Thy Rhineland watch stands firmly here.
As long as German blood still glows,
The German sword strikes mighty blows,
And German marksmen take their stand,
No foe shall tread our native land.
Dear Fatherland, thou need'st not fear→
Thy Rhineland watch stands firmly here.
We take the pledge. The stream runs by;
Our banners proud, are wafting high.
On for the Rhine, the German Rhine!
We all die for our native Rhine.
Hence, Fatherland, be of good cheer-
Thy Rhineland watch stands firmly here.

THE PATRIOT'S BRIDE.

H! give me back that royal dream
My fancy wrought,

When I have seen your sunny eyes
Grow moist with thought;

And fondly hoped, dear love, your heart from mine

Its spell had caught;

And laid me down to dream that dream divine,
But true, methought,

Of how my life's long task would be, to make yours blessed as it ought.

To learn to love sweet nature more

For your sweet sake,

To watch with you-dear friend, with you!

Its wonders break;

The sparkling spring in that bright face to see
Its mirror make-

On summer morns to hear the sweet birds sing
By linn and lake;

And know your voice, your magic voice, could still a grander music wake!

To wake the old weird world that sleeps In Irish lore;

The strains sweet foreign Spenser sung By Mulla's shore;

Dear Curran's airy thoughts, like purple birds
That shine and soar;

Tone's fiery hopes, and all the deathless vows
That Grattan swore;

The songs that once our own dear Davis sung-ah me! to sing no more.

And all those proud old victor-fields
We thrill to name,

Whose memories are the stars that light

Long nights of shame;

The Cairn, the Dan, the Rath, the Power, the Keep, That still proclaim

In chronicles of clay and stone, how true, how deep Was Eire's fame;

Oh! we shall see them all, with her, that dear, dear friend we two have loved the same.

Yet ah! how truer, tenderer still
Methought did seem

That scene of tranquil joy, that happy home'
By Dodder's stream.

The morning smile, that grew a fixéd star
With love-lit beam,

The ringing laugh, locked hands, and all the far
And shining stream

Of daily love, that made our daily life diviner than a dream.

For still to me, dear friend, dear love,
Or both dear wife,

Your image comes with serious thoughts,
But tender, rife;

No idle plaything to caress or chide

In sport or strife,

But my best chosen friend, companion, guide,

To walk through life,

Linked hand in hand, two equal, loving friends, true husband and true wife.

SIR CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY.

THE PILGRIMS.

'OW slow yon tiny vessel ploughs the main ! Amid the heavy billows now she seems A toiling atom-then from wave to wave Leaps madly, by the tempest lashed-or reels Half wrecked, through gulfs profound.

-Moons, wax and wane. But still that lonely traveler treads the deep.I see an ice-bound coast, toward which she steers With such a tardy movement, that it seems Stern winter's hand hath turned her keel to stone, And sealed his victory on her slippery shrouds.— They land!-They land!-not like the Genoese, With glittering sword and gaudy train, and eye Kindling with golden fancies.-Forth they come From their long prison-hardy forms, that brave The world's unkindness-men of hoary hair, And virgins of firm heart, and matrons grave,