There groups of merry children played,
There youths and maidens dreaming strayed;
O precious hours! O golden prime!
And affluence of love and time!

Even as a miser counts his gold,

Those hours the ancient timepiece told,"Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

From that chamber, clothed in white,
The bride caine forth on her wedding night;
There, in that silent room below,

The dead lay in his shroud of snow;

And in the hush that followed the prayer,

Was heard the old clock on the stair,-

"Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

All are scattered now and fled,
Some are married, some are dead;
And when I ask, with throbs of pain,
"Ah! when shall they all meet again?”
As in the days long since gone by,
The ancient timepiece makes reply,-
"Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

Never here, forever there,

Where all parting, pain and care,

And death and time shall disappear,―

Forever there, but never here!
The horologe of eternity
Sayeth this incessantly,-

"Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

AMERICAN LABORERS.

The gentleman, sir, has misconceived the spirit and tendency of Northern institutions. He is ignorant of Northern character. He has forgotten the history of his country. Preach insurrection to the Northern laborers! Who are the Northern laborers? The history of your country is their history. The renown of your country is their renown. The brightness of their doings is emblazoned on every page. Blot from your annals the words and the doings of Northern laborers and the history of your country presents but a universal blank. Sir, who was he that disarmed the thunderer; wrested from his grasp the bolts of Jove; calmed the troubled ocean; became the central sun of the philosophical system of his age, shedding his brightness and effulgence on the whole civilized word-whom the great and mighty of the earth delighted to honor, who participated in the achievement of your independence, prominently assisted in moulding your free institutions, and the beneficial effects of whose wisdom will be felt to the last moment of "recorded time"? Who, sir, I ask, was he? A Northern laborer, a Yankee tallow-chandler's son-a printer's runaway boy!

And who, let me ask the honorable gentleman, who was he that, in the days of our Revolution. led forth a Northern army-yes, an army of Northern laborers-and aided the chivalry of South Carolina in their defense against British aggression, drove the spoilers from their firesides, and redeemed her fair fields from foreign invaders? Who was he? A Northern laborer, a Rhode Island blacksmith--the gallant General Greene- who left his hammer and his forge and went forth conquering and to conquer in the battle for our independence! And will you preach insurrection to men like these?

Sir, our country is full of the achievements of Northern laborers. Where are Concord, and Lexington, and Princeton, and Trenton, and Saratoga, and Bunker Hill, but in the North? And what, sir, has shed an imperishable renown on the never-dying names of those hallowed spots, but the blood and the struggles, the high daring and patriotism, and sublime courage of Northern laborers? The whole North is an everlasting monument of the freedom, virtue, intelligence and indomitable independence of Northern laborers! Go, sir, go preach insurrection to men like these!

The fortitude of the men of the North, under intense suffering

for liberty's sake, has been almost godlike! History has so recorded it. Who comprised that gallant army, without food, without pay, shelterless, hopeless, penniless, and almost naked, in that dreadful winter-the midnight of our Revolution-whose wanderings could be traced by their blood tracks in the snow; whom no arts could seduce, no appeal lead astray, no sufferings disaffect; but who, true to their country and its holy cause, continued to fight the good fight of liberty until it finally triumphed? Who, sir, were Roger Sherman and-? But it is idle to enumerate. To name the Northern laborers who have distinguished themselves, and illustrated the history of their country, would require days of the time of this house. Nor is it necessary. Posterity will do them justice. Their deeds have been recorded in characters of fire!

NAYLOR.

THE LAST LEAF.

I saw him once before,

As he passed by the door;
And again

The pavement-stones resound
As he totters o'er the ground
With his cane.

They say that in his prime,
Ere the pruning knife of time
Cut him down,

Not a better man was found

By the crier on his round
Through the town.

But now he walks the streets,
And he looks at all he meets

So forlorn;

And he shakes his feeble head,

That it seems as if he said,
"They are gone."

The mossy marbles rest

On the lips that he has pressed

In their bloom;