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A PSALM OF THE UNION.

God of the Free! upon thy breath

ANONYMOUS.

Our flag is for the Right unrolled;
Still broad and brave as when its stars
First crowned the hallowed time of old:
For Honor still its folds shall fly,

For Duty still their glories burn,
Where Truth, Religion, Freedom guard
The patriot's sword and martyr's urn.

Then shout, beside thine oak, O North !
O South! wave answer with thy palm
And in our Union's heritage

Together lift the Nation's psalm !

How glorious is our mission here!
Heirs of a virgin world are we ;
The chartered lords whose lightnings tame
The rocky mount and roaring sea:
We march, and Nature's giants own
The fetters of our mighty cars;

We look, and lo! a continent

Is crouched beneath the Stripes and Stars;
Then shout beside thine oak, O North !
O South! wave answer with thy palm;
And in our Union's heritage

Together lift the Nation's psalm!

No tyrant's impious step is ours;
No lust of power on nations rolled :
Our Flag-for friends a starry sky,
For foes a tempest every fold!
Oh! thus we'll keep our nation's life,
Nor fear the bolt by despots hurled;

The blood of all the world is here,

And they who strike us, strike the world.

Then shout beside thine oak, O North!
O South wave answer with thy palm;
And in our Union's heritage

Together lift the Nation's psalm !

God of the Free! our Nation bless
In its strong manhood as its birth ;
And make its life a Star of Hope

For all the struggling of the Earth :
Thou gav'st the glorious Past to us;
Oh! let our Present burn as bright,
And o'er the mighty Future cast

Truth's, Honor's, Freedom's holy light!
Then shout beside thine oak, O North!
O South! wave answer with thy palm;
And in our Union's heritage

Together lift the Nation's psalm!

THE INDIANS.

JOSEPH STORY.

There is, in the fate of these unfortunate Indians, much to awken our sympathies, and much to disturb the sobriety of our judgment; much which may be urged to excuse their own atrocities; much in their characters, which betrays us into an involuntary admiration. What can be more melancholy than their history? By a law of their nature, they seem destined to a slow, but sure extinction. Everywhere, at the approach of the white man, they fade away. We hear the rustling of their footsteps, like that of the withered leaves of autumn, and they are gone for ever. They pass mournfully by us, and they return no more. Two centuries ago, the smoke of their wigwams and the fires of their councils rose in every valley, from Hudson's Bay to the farthest Florida, from the ocean to the Mississippi and the lakes. The shouts of victory and the war-dance rang through the mountains and the glades. The thick arrows and the deadly tomahawk whistled through the forests; and the hunter's trace and dark encampment star

tled the wild beasts in their lairs. The warriors stood forth in their glory. The young listened to the songs of other days. The mothers played with their infants, and gazed on the scene with warm hopes of the future. The aged sat down; but they wept not. They should soon be at rest in fairer regions, where the Great Spirit dwelt, in a home prepared for the brave, beyond the western skies. Braver men never lived; truer men never drew the bow. They had courage, and fortitude, and sagacity, and perseverance, beyond most of the human race. They shrank from no dangers, and they feared no hardships. If they had the vices of savage life, they had the virtues also. They were true to their country, their friends, and their homes. If they forgave not injury, neither did they forget kindness. If their vengeance was terrible, their fidelity and generosity were unconquerable also. Their love, like their hate, stopped not on this side of the grave.

THE AUCTION EXTRAORDINARY.

ANONYMOUS.

I dreamed a dream in the midst of my slumbers,
And as fast as I dreamed, it was coined into numbers.
My thoughts ran along in such beautiful metre,
I am sure I ne'er saw any poetry sweeter.
It seemed that a law had been recently made,
That a tax on old bachelors' pates should be laid ;
And, in order to make them all willing to marry,
The tax was as large as a man could well carry.

The bachelors grumbled, and said 'twas no use, 'Twas cruel injustice and horrid abuse ;

And declared that, to save their own hearts' blood from spill

ing,

Of such a vile tax they would ne'er pay a shilling.

But the rulers determined their scheme to pursue,

So they set all the bachelors up at vendue.

A crier was sent through the town to and fro,
To rattle his bell and his trumpet to blow,
And to bawl out to all he might meet on his way,
"Ho! forty old bachelors sold here to-day!"

And presently all the old maids of the town,
Each one in her very best bonnet and gown,
From thirty to sixty, fair, plain, red, and pale,
Of every description, all flocked to the sale.
The auctioneer, then, in his labor began;
And called out aloud, as he held up a man,—
"How much for a bachelor? Who wants to buy?"
In a twinkling, each maiden responded, “I—I !”
In short, at a hugely extravagant price,

The bachelors all were sold off in a trice;

And forty old maidens,- -some younger, some older,Each lugged an old bachelor home on her shoulder!

THE POOR MAN AND THE FIEND.

A Fiend once met a humble man

ANONYMOUS.

At night, in the cold, dark street

And led him into a palace fair,

Where music circled sweet;

And light and warmth cheered the wanderer's heart,
From frost and darkness screened,

Till his brain grew mad beneath the joy,
And he worshipped before the Fiend.

Ah! well if he ne'er had knelt to that Fiend,
For a task-master grim was he;

And he said, "One half of thy life on earth
I enjoin thee to yield to me;

And when, from rising till set of sun,

Thou hast toiled in the heat or snow,

Let thy gains on mine altar an offering be;"
And the poor man ne'er said, "No!"

The poor man had health, more dear than gold; Stout bone and muscle strong,

That neither faint nor weary grew,

To toil the June day long;

And the Fiend, his god, cried hoarse and loud, "Thy strength thou must forego,

Or thou no worshipper art of mine;"
And the poor man ne'er said, "No!"

Three children blessed the poor man's home-
Stray angels dropped on earth-

The Fiend beheld their sweet blue eyes,
And he laughed in fearful mirth :
"Bring forth thy little ones," quoth he·
"My godhead wills it so!

I want an evening sacrifice;"

And the poor man ne'er said, "No!"

A young wife sat by the poor man's fire,
Who, since she blushed a bride,

Had gilded his sorrow, and brightened his joys,
His guardian, friend, and guide.

Foul fall the Fiend! he gave command,

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Come, mix the cup of woe,

Bid thy young wife drain it to the dregs;'
And the poor man ne'er said, “No !”

Oh! misery now for this poor man!
Oh! deepest of misery!

Next the Fiend his godlike Reason took,
And amongst the beasts fed he;
And when the sentinel Mind was gone,

He pilfered his Soul also;

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And-marvel of marvels !-he murmured not:

The poor man ne'er said, "No!"

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