Be near us. Little have I yet to tell thee.
Thinking my rival's coat would best conceal me,
I won his favor by a tale scarce feigned.

Doug. A keeper of his chase thy garb bespeaks.
Per. Chief huntsman. Thus disguised, I day by day
Traverse my native hills, viewing the strength
And features of the land; its holds of safety;
And searching patriot spirits out. For, still,
Though kings and gaudy courts remember not,
Still, in the cottage and the peasant's heart,
The memory of my fathers lives.
When there,

The old, the good old day is cited, tears

Roll down their reverend Deards, and genuine love
Glows in their praises of my sires.

Doug. I long

To press the sons, and tell them what a lord

Lives yet to rule them.

Per. When first I mixed among them, oft I struck,
Unwittingly, a spark of this same fire.

Encouraged thus, I sought its latent seeds,
Seized opportunities to draw the chase
Into the bosom of the hills, and spent
Nights in their hospitable, happy cots.

There, to high strains, the minstrel harp I tuned,
Chanting the glories of the ancient day,

When their brave fathers, scorning to be slaves,
Rushed with their chieftain to the battle field,
Trod his bold footsteps in the ranks of death,

And shared his triumphs in the festal hall.

Doug. That lulled them, as the north wind does the sea: Per. From man to man, from house to house, like fire,

The kindling impulse flew; till every hind,

Scarce conscious why, handles his targe and bow;

Still talks of change; starts if the banished name

By chance he hears; and supplicates his saint,
The true-born offspring may his banner rear
With speed upon the hills.

Doug. What lack we? Spread

The warlike ensign. On the border side,

Two hundred veteran spears await your summons.
Per. What say'st thou ?

Doug. Sinews of the house;

Ready to tread in every track of Douglas.

By stealth I drew them in from distant points,

And hid amidst a wood in Chevy-Chace.

Per. O, Douglas! Douglas! even such a friend, For death or life, was thy great sire to mine.

Doug. Straight, let us turn our trumpets to the hills; Declare aloud thy name and wrongs; in swarms

Call down the warlike tenantry, and teach

Aspiring Neville fatal is the day

The Percy and the Douglas lead in arms.

Per. If he were all-Remember haughty Henry, The nephew of his wife, whose word could speed

A veteran army to his kinsman's aid.

Doug. Come one, come all; leave us to welcome them.

[Exit Douglas.

Per. Too long, too long a huntsman, Arthur comes,
Stripped of disguise, this night, to execute

His father's testament,-whose blood lies spilt;
Whose murmurs from the tomb are in his ears;
Whose injuries are treasured in a scroll

Steeped in a mother's and an orphan's tears.
O'er that cursed record has my spirit groaned,
Since dawning reason, in unuttered anguish.

When others danced, struck the glad wire, or caught
The thrilling murmurs of loved lips, I've roamed
Where the hill-foxes howl, and eagles cry,
Brooding o'er wrongs that haunted me for vengeance.
Ay!-I have been an outcast from my cradle;
Poor, and in exile, while an alien called

My birth-right home. Halls founded by my sires
Have blazed and rudely rung with stranger triumphs;
Their honorable name cowards have stained;
Their laurels trampled on; their bones profaned.
Hence have I labored; watched while others slept;
Known not the spring of life, nor ever plucked
One vernal blossom in the day of youth.-
The harvest of my toils this night I reap;
For death, this night, or better life awaits me.

WHY shouldst thou weep? No cause hast thou

For one desponding sigh;

No care has marked that polished brow,
Nor dimmed thy radiant eye.

Why shouldst thou weep? Around thee glows The purple light of youth,

And all thy looks the calm disclose

Of innocence and truth.

Nay, weep not while thy sun shines bright, And cloudless is thy day,

While past and present joys unite

To cheer thee on thy way;

While fond companions round thee move,
To youth and nature true,

And friends, whose looks of anxious love
Thy every step pursue.

Nay, weep not now: reserve thy tears
For that approaching hour,
When o'er the scenes of other years
The clouds of time shall lower;

When thou, alas! no more canst see,
But in the realms above,

The friends who ever looked on thee
Unutterable love;

When some, thy fond companions now,
And constant to thy side,

View thee with anger-darkening brow,
Or cold, repulsive pride;

Or some, the faithful of that band,

Bless thee with faltering breath,

While from their lips thy trembling hand
Wipes the chill dews of death.

Nay, weep not now: reserve thy tears
For that approaching day,

When, through the gradual lapse of years,
All joys have stol'n away;

When Memory a wavering light
Sheds dimly o'er the past,

And Hope no longer veils from sight
The horrors of the last.

Nay, weep not then let but the ray

:

Of heavenly peace be thine,

Glorious shall be thy summer's day,
Unclouded its decline.

Then Memory's light, though dim, shall show
How pure thy former years,
While Hope her holiest ray shall throw
On realms beyond the spheres.

Autumn.-H. W. LONGFELLOW.

O, WITH What glory comes and goes the year!The buds of spring-those beautiful harbingers Of sunny skies and cloudless times-enjoy Life's newness, and earth's garniture spread out; And when the silver habit of the clouds Comes down upon the autumn sun, and, with A sober gladness, the old year takes up His bright inheritance of golden fruits, A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene.

There is a beautiful spirit breathing now Its mellow richness on the clustered trees, And, from a beaker full of richest dyes, Pouring new glory on the autumn woods, And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds. Morn, on the mountain, like a summer bird, Lifts up her purple wing; and in the vales The gentle wind-a sweet and passionate wooerKisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned, And silver beach, and maple yellow-leaved,Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down By the way-side a-weary. Through the trees The golden robin moves; the purple finch, That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds,A winter bird, comes with its plantive whistle, And pecks by the witch-hazel; whilst aloud, From cottage roofs, the warbling blue-bird sings; And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke, Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail.

O, what a glory doth this world put on
For him, that, with a fervent heart, goes forth
Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks
On duties well performed, and days well spent!
For him the wind, ay, the yellow leaves,

Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings.
He shall so hear the solemn hymn, that Death
Has lifted up for all, that he shall go

To his long resting-place without a tear.

The Bucket.-SAMUEL WOODWORTH.

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,
When fond recollection presents them to view!
The orchard, the meadow, the deep tangled wild wood,
And ev'ry loved spot which my infancy knew;
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it,
The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell;
The cot of my father, the dairy house nigh it,

And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well!
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket, which hung in the well.

That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure;

For often, at noon, when returned from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,

The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing, And quick to the white pebbled bottom it fell; Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket arose from the well.

How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it,
As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips!
Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips
And now, far removed from the loved situation,
The tear of regret will intrusively swell,

As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,

And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,

The moss-covered bucket, which hangs in his well.