So small at first, the zephyr's slightest swell,
That scarcely stirs the pine-tree top,
Nor makes the wither'd leaf to drop,

The feeble fluttering of that flame would quell.

But soon it spread

Waving, rushing, fierce, and red

From wall to wall, from tower to tower,
Raging with resistless power;

Till every fervent pillar glow'd,

And every stone seem'd burning coal,

Instinct with living heat, that flow'd

Like streaming radiance from the kindled pole.

Beautiful, fearful, grand,

Silent as death, I saw the fabric stand.
At length a crackling sound began;

From side to side, throughout the pile it ran;
And louder yet and louder grew,

Till now in rattling thunder-peals it grew;
Huge shiver'd fragments from the pillars broke,
Like fiery sparkles from the anvil's stroke.
The shatter'd walls were rent and riven,
And piecemeal driven

Like blazing comets through the troubled sky.
"Tis done; what centuries had rear'd,
In quick explosion disappear'd,

Nor even its ruins met my wondering eye.

But in their place

Bright with more than human grace,

Robed in more than mortal seeming,

Radiant glory in her face,

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And eyes with heaven's own brightness beam

Rose a fair majestic form,

As the mild rainbow from the storm.

I mark'd her smile, I knew her eye;
And when, with gesture of command,
She waved aloft the cap-crown'd wand,
My slumbers fled mid shouts of "Liberty!"

Read ye the dream? and know ye not

How truly it unlock'd the world of fate? Went not the flame from this illustrious spot, And spreads it not, and burns in every state? And when their old and cumbrous walls, Fill'd with this spirit, glow intense,

Vainly they rear'd their impotent defence: The fabric falls!

That fervent energy must spread,

Till despotism's towers be overthrown; And in their stead,

Liberty stands alone!

Hasten the day, just Heaven!

Accomplish thy design;

And let the blessings thou hast freely given,
Freely on all men shine;

Till equal rights be equally enjoy'd,

And human power for human good employ'd;
Till law, not, the sovereign rule sustain,
And peace and virtue undisputed reign.

W. E. GALLAUDET.

LINES TO THE WESTERN MUMMY.

Oн, stranger, whose repose profound
These latter ages dare to break,
And call thee from beneath the ground
Ere nature did thy slumber shake!

What wonders of the secret earth
Thy lip, too silent, might reveal!
Of tribes round whose mysterious birth
A thousand envious ages wheel!
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Thy race, by savage war o'errun,
Sunk down, their very name forgot;
But, ere those fearful times begun,
Perhaps, in this sequester'd spot,

By Friendship's hand thine eyelids closed,
By Friendship's hand the turf was laid;
And Friendship here, perhaps, reposed,
With moonlight vigils in the shade.

The stars have run their nightly round, The sun look'd out and pass'd his way, And many a season o'er the ground

Has trod where thou so softly lay.

And wilt thou not one moment raise
Thy weary head, a while to see
The later sports of earthly days,
How like what once enchanted thee?

Thy name, thy date, thy life declare; Perhaps a queen, whose feathery band A thousand maids have sigh'd to wear, The brightest in thy beauteous land;

Perhaps a Helen, from whose eye
Love kindled up the flames of war:
Ah, me! do thus thy graces lie

A faded phantom, and no more?

Oh, not like thee would I remain,
But o'er the earth my ashes strew,
And in some rising bud regain

The freshness that my childhood knew

But has thy soul, oh maid! so long
Around this mournful relic dwelt }
Or burst away, with pinion strong,
And at the foot of Mercy knelt ?

Or has it, in some distant clime,
With curious eye, unsated, stray'd,
And, down the winding stream of time.
On every changeful current play'd?

Or, lock'd in everlasting sleep,

Must we thy heart extinct deplore,
Thy fancy lost in darkness weep,
And sigh for her who feels no more

Or, exiled to some humbler sphere,
In yonder wood-dove dost thou dwell,
And, murmuring in the stranger's ear,
Thy tender melancholy tell?

Whoe'er thou be, thy sad remains

Shall from the Muse a tear demand,
Who, wandering on these distant plains,
Looks fondly to a distant land.

I. M'LELLAN, JR.

THE NOTES OF THE BIRDS.

WELL do I love those various harmonies
That ring so gayly in Spring's budding woods,
And in the thickets, and green, quiet haunts,
And lonely copses of the Summer-time,
And in red Autumn's ancient solitudes.

If thou art pain'd with the world's noisy stil,
Or crazed with its mad tumults, and weigh'd down
With any of the ills of human life;

If thou art sick and weak, or mournest at the loss
Of brethren gone to that far-distant land
To which we all do pass, gentle and poor,
The gayest and the gravest, all alike,

Then turn into the peaceful woods, and hear
The thrilling music of the forest birds.

How rich the varied choir! The unquiet finch
Calls from the distant hollows, and the wren
Uttereth her sweet and mellow plaint at times,
And the thrush mourneth where the kalmia hangs
Its crimson-spotted cups, or chirps, half hid
Amid the lowly dogwood's snowy flowers,
And the blue jay flits by, from tree to tree,
And, spreading its rich pinions, fills the ear
With its shrill-sounding and unsteady cry.

With the sweet airs of Spring, the robin comes, And in her simple song there seems to gush A strain of sorrow when she visiteth Her last year's wither'd nest. But when the gloom Of the deep twilight falls, she takes her perch Upon the red stemm'd hazel's slender twig, That overhangs the brook, and suits her song To the slow rivulet's inconstant chime.

In the last days of Autumn, when the corn
Lies sweet and yellow in the harvest field,
And the gay company of reapers bind

The bearded wheat in sheaves, then peals abroad
The blackbird's merry chant. I love to hear,
Bold plunderer, thy mellow burst of song
Float from thy watchplace on the mossy tree
Close at the cornfield edge.

Lone whipporwill,
There is much sweetness in thy fitful hymn,
Heard in the drowsy watches of the night.
Ofttimes, when all the village lights are out,
And the wide air is still, I hear thee chant
Thy hollow dirge, like some recluse who takes
His lodging in the wilderness of woods,
And lifts his anthem when the world is still :
And the dim, solemn night, that brings to man
And to the herds deep slumbers, and sweet dews