As morning high and higher shines,
To pure and perfect day;

Nor sink those stars in empty night,

But hide themselves in heaven's own light.

ROLLA TO THE PERUVIANS.

My brave associates-partners of my toil, my feelings, and my fame!-can Rolla's words add vigour to the virtuous energies which inspire your hearts?-No! You have judged as I have, the foulness of the crafty plea by which these bold invaders would delude you. Your generous spirit has compared, as mine has, the motives which, in a war like this, can animate their minds and ours.

They, by a strange frenzy driven, fight for power, for plunder, and extended rule ;-we, for our country, our altars, and our homes. They follow an adventurer whom they fear, and obey a power which they hate:-we serve a monarch whom we love-a God whom we adore. Where'er they move in anger, desolation tracks their progress! Where'er they pause in amity, affliction mourns their friendship.

They boast they come but to improve our state, enlarge our thoughts, and free us from the yoke of error!-yes :-they will give enlightened freedom to our minds, who are themselves the slaves of passion, avarice, and pride. They offer us their protection— Yes, such protection as vultures give to lambs-covering and devouring them! They call on us to barter all the good we have inherited and proved, for the desperate chance of something better which they promise. Be our plain answer this:-The throne we

honour is the people's choice—the laws we reverence are our brave fathers' legacy-the faith we follow teaches us to live in bonds of charity with all mankind, and die with hope of bliss beyond the grave. Tell your invaders this, and tell them, too, we seek no change; and, least of all, such change as they would bring us.

THE BUCKET.

I.

How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood!

When fond recollection presents them to view; The orchard, the meadow, the deep tangled wildwood,

And every loved spot which my infancy knew; The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that 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.

II.

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 bucketThe moss covered bucket arose from the well.

III.

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 that 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 hung in the
well.

PARTIALITY OF AUTHORS.

Dr. Taylor. HAVE you read my Key to the Romans?

Mr. Newton. I have turned it over.

Dr. Taylor. You have turned it over! And is this the treatment a book must meet with, which has cost me many years of hard study? Must I be told at last that you have "turned it over," and then thrown it aside? You ought to have read it carefully, and weighed deliberately what comes forward on so serious a subject.

Mr. Newton. Hold! You have cut me out full employment, if my life were to be as long as Methuselah's. I have somewhat else to do in the short

day allotted me, than to read whatever any one may think it his duty to write. When I read, I wish to read to good purpose; and there are some books, which contradict on the very face of them what appear to me to be first principles. You surely will not say I am bound to read such books. If a man tells me he has a very elaborate argument to prové that two and two make five, I have something else to do than to attend to this argument. If I find the first mouthful of meat which I take from a fine looking joint on my table is tainted, I need not eat through it to be convinced I ought to throw it away.

THE LIFE BOAT.

'Tis sweet to behold, when the billows are sleeping,
Some gay coloured bark moving gracefully by,
No damp on her deck, but the eventide's weeping,
No breath in her sails but the summer wind's sigh.

Yet who would not turn, with a fonder emotion,
To gaze on the life-boat, though rugged and worn,
Which often hath wafted, o'er hills of the ocean,

The lost light of hope to the seaman forlorn?

Oh! grant that of those who, in life's sunny slumber, Around us like summer barks idly have played, When storms are abroad we may find in the number One friend like the life-boat to fly to our aid!

THE RED SQUIRREL.

THE pretty red squirrel lives up in a tree,
A little blithe creature as ever can be,

He dwells in the boughs where the stockdove broods,

Far in the shade of the green summer woods.
His food is the young juicy cones of the pine,
And the milky beech nut is his bread and his wine.
In the joy of his heart, he frisks with a bound
To the topmost twig, then down to the ground,
Then up again like a winged thing,

And from tree to tree with a vaulting spring;
Then he sits up aloft and looks waggish and queer,
As if he would say, "Ay, follow me here!"
And then he grows pettish and stamps with his foot,
And then independently he cracks his nut.

But small as he is, he knows he may want
In the bleak winter weather when food is so scant,
So he finds a hole in an old tree's core,

And there makes his nest, and lays up his store;
Then when cold winter comes and the trees are bare,
When the white snow is falling and keen is the air;
He heeds it not as he sits by himself

In his warm little nest, with his nuts on the shelf.
Oh! wise little squirrel! no wonder that he
In the green summer woods is as blithe as can be.

THE CHARACTER OF THE AMERICAN INDIAN.

IN the fate of the Aborigines of our country-the American Indians-there is, my friends, much to