And now the sun's beams through the deep boughs are glow. ing, And rock, tree, and mouata.n, their shadows are throwing, Huge and grim, o'er the meadow's bright bloom; And two travelers are seen coming forth on their way, And just as they pass, he hears one of them say--"Tis the hour that was fixed for his doom!”

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Still anguish gives strength to his wavering flight;
On he speeds; and lo! now in eve's reddening light
The domes of far Syracuse blend ;—

There Philostratus meets him, (a servant grown gray
In his house,) crying," Back! not a moment's delay;
No cares can avail for thy friend.

No; nothing can save his dear head from the tomb;
So think of preserving thy own.

Myself, I beheld him led forth to his doom;
Ere this his brave spirit has flown!

With confident soul he stood, hour after hour,

Thy return never doubting to see;

No sneers of the tyrant that faith could o'erpower,
Or shake his assurance in thee!"

"And is it too late? and can I not save

His dear life? then, at least, let me share in his grave.
Yes, death shall unite us! no tyrant shall say,

That friend to his friend proved untrue; he may slay,→
May torture,--may mock at all mercy and ruth,

But ne'er shall he doubt of our friendship and truth."

'Tis sunset: and Damon arrives at the gate,

Sees the scaffold and multitudes gazing below; Already the victim is bared for his fate,

Already the deathsman stands armed for the blow;
When hark! a wild voice which is echoed around,
"Stay!-'tis I-it is Damon, for whom he was bound!"

And now they sink in each other's embrace,
And are weeping for joy and despair;

Not a soul, among thousands, but melts at their case,
Which swift to the monarch they bear;

Even he, too, is moved-feels for once as he ought-·

And commands, that they both to his throne shall be brought.

Then, alternately gazing on each gallant youth,

With looks of awe, wonder, and shame ;-

"Ye have conquered!" he cries, "yes, I see now that truth,-That friendship is not a mere name.

Go;--you're free; but, while life's dearest blessings you prove, Let one prayer of your monarch be heard,

That--his past sins forgot--in this union of love

And of virtue--you make him the third."

ADVICE TO A FIRE COMPANY.

It having been announced to me, my young friends, that you were about forming a fire-company, I have called you together to give you such directions as long experience in a first-quality engine company qualifies me to communicate. The moment you hear an alarm of fire, scream like a pair of panthers. Run any way, except the right way,-for the furthest way round is the nearest way to the fire. If you happen to run on the top of a wood-pile, so much the better, you can then get a good view of the neighborhood. If a light breaks on your view, "break" for it immediately; but be sure you don't jump into a bow window. Keep yelling, all the time; and, if you can't make night hideous enough yourself, kick all the dogs you come across, and set them yelling, too; 'twill help amazingly. A brace of eats dragged up stairs by the tail would be a “powerful auxiliary." When you reach the scene of the fire, do all you can to convert it into a scene of destruction. Tear down all the fences in the vicinity. If it's a chimney on fire, throw salt down it; or, if you can't do that, perhaps the best plan would be to jerk off the pump-handle and pound it down. Don't forget to yell, all the while, as it will have a prodigious effect in frightening off the fire. The louder the better, of course; and the more ladies in the vicinity, the greater necessity for "doing it brown." Should the roof begin to smoke, get to work in good earnest, and make any man "smoke" that interrupts you. If it is summer, and there are fruit-trees in the lot, cut them down, to prevent the fire from roasting the apples. Don't forget to yell! Should the stable be threatened, carry out the cow-chains. Never mind the horse,-he'll be alive and kicking; and if his legs don't do their duty, let them pay for the roast. Ditto as to the hogs; let them save their own bacon, or smoke for it. When the roof begins to burn, get a crow-bar and pry away the stone steps; or, if the steps be of wood, procure an axe and chop them up. Next, cut away the wash-boards in the basement story; and, if that don't stop the flames, let the chair-boards on the first floor share a similar fate. Should the "devouring element" still pursue the "even tenor of its way," you had better ascend to the second story. Pitch out the pitchers, and tumble out the tumblers. Yell all the time!

If you find a baby abed, fling it into the second story window of the house across the way; but let the kitten carefully down in a work-basket. Then draw out the bureau drawers, and empty their contents out of the back window; telling

somebody below to upset the slop-barrel and rain-water hogs, head at the same time. Of course, you will attend to the mirror. The further it can be thrown, the more pieces will be made. If anybody objects, smash it over his head. Do not, under any circumstances, drop the tongs down from the second story; the fall might break its legs, and render the poor thing a cripple for life. Set it straddle of your shoulders, and carry it down carefully. Pile the bed clothes carefully on the floor, and throw the crockery out of the window. By the time you will have attended to all these things, the fire will certainly be arrested, or the building be burnt down. In either case, your services will be no longer needed; and, of course, you require no further directions.

GLORIOUS NEW ENGLAND.-S. S. PRENTISS.

Glorious New England! thou art still true to thy ancient fame, and worthy of thy ancestral honors. We, thy children, have assembled in this far distant land to celebrate thy birthday. A thousand fond associations throng upon us, roused by the spirit of the hour. On thy pleasant valleys rest, like sweet dews of morning, the gentle recollections of our early life; around thy hills and mountains cling, like gathering mists, the mighty memories of the Revolution; and, far away in the horizon of thy past, gleam, like thy own bright northern lights, the awful virtues of our pilgrim sires! But while we devote this day to the remembrance of our native land, we forget not that in which our happy lot is cast. We exult in the reflection, that though we count by thousands the miles which separate us from our birth-place, still our country is the same. We are no exiles meeting upon the banks of a foreign river, to swell its waters with our home-sick tears. Here floats the same banner which rustled above our boyish heads, except that its mighty folds are wider, and its glittering stars increased in number.

The sons of New England are found in every state of the broad republic! In the East, the South, and the unbounded West, their blood mingles freely with every kindred current. We have but changed our chamber in the paternal mansion; in all its rooms we are at home, and all who inhabit it are our brothers. To us the Union has but one domestic hearth; its household gods are all the same. Upon us, then, peculiarly devolves the duty of feeding the fires upon that kindly hearth; of guarding with pious care those sacred household gods.

We cannot do with less than the whole Union; to us it admits of no division. In the veins of our children flows Northern and Southern blood; how shall it be separated?Who shall put asunder the best affections of the heart, the noblest instincts of our nature? We love the land of our adoption: : so do we that of our birth. Let us ever be true to both; and always exert ourselves in maintaining the unity of our country, the integrity of the republic.

Accursed, then, be the hand put forth to loosen the golden cord of union! thrice accursed the traitorous lips which shall propose its severance!

But no! the Union cannot be dissolved. Its fortunes are too brilliant to be marred; its destinies too powerful to be resisted. Here will be their greatest triumph, their most mighty development.

And when, a century hence, this Crescent City shall have filled her golden horns;-when within her broad-armed port shall be gathered the products of the industry of a hundred millions of freemen;-when galleries of art and halls of learning shall have made classic this mart of trade; then may the sons of the Pilgrims, still wandering from the bleak hills of the north, stand up on the banks of the Great River, and exclaim, with mingled pride and wonder,-"Lo! this is our country; when did the world ever behold so rich and magnificent a city-so great and glorious a republic!"

THE NEWCASTLE APOTHECARY.-GEORGE COLMAN.

A member of the Æsculapian line lived at Newcastle-uponTyne: no man could better gild a pill, or make a bill, or mix a draught, or bleed, or blister; or draw a tooth out of your head; or chatter scandal by your bed; or spread a plaster. His fame full six miles round the country ran; in short, in reputation he was solus: all the old women called him "a fine man!" His name was Bolus.

Benjamin Bolus, though in trade (which oftentimes will genius fetter), read works of fancy, it is said, and cultivated the "belles lettres." Bolus loved verse; and took so much delight in't, all his prescriptions he resolved to write in't. No opportunity he e'er let pass of writing the directions on his labels in dapper couplets, like Gay's Fables, or rather like the lines in Hudibras.

He had a patient lying at death's door, some three miles from the town,-it might be four,-to whom, one evening

Bolus sent an article-in pharmacy that's called cathartical: and on the label of the stuff he wrote this verse, which one would think was clear enough, and terse,

"When taken,

To be well shaken."

Next morning early Bolus rose, and to the patient's house he goes, upon his pad, whɔ a vile trick of stumbling had; but he arrived, and gave a tap, between a single and a double rap. The servant lets him in, with dismal face, long as a courtier's out of place, -portending some disaster. John's countenance as rueful looked and grim, as if the apothecary had physicked him, and not his master.

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Well, how's the patient?" Bolus said. John shook his head. "Indeed!-hum!-ha!--that's very odd!-He took the draught?"-John gave a nod.-" Well? how? what then?-speak out, you dunce!" " Why then," says John, "we shook him once."-"Shook him! how? how?" friend Bolus stammered out.-" We jolted him about."

"What! shake the patient, man!--why that won't do." "No, sir," quoth John, "and so we gave him two." "Two shakes! O luckless verse! 'T would make the patient worse!" "It did so, sir, and so a third we tried."-" Well, and what then?"-" Then, sir, my master died!"

NEW YEAR'S EVE.

Little Gretchen, little Gretchen wanders up and down the street;

The snow is on her yellow hair, the frost is at her feet.
The rows of long, dark houses without look cold and damp,
By the struggling of the moonbeam, by the flicker of the lamp.
The clouds ride fast as horses, the wind is from the north,
But no one cares for Gretchen, and no one looketh forth."
Within those dark, damp houses are merry faces bright,
And happy hearts are watching out the old year's latest night.
With the little box of matches she could not sell all day,
And the thin, thin tattered mantle the wind blows every way,
She clingeth to the railing, she shivers in the gloom,-
There are parents sitting snugly by the firelight in the room;
And children with grave faces are whispering one another
Of presents for the new year, for father or for mother.
But no one talks to Gretchen, and no one hears her speak,
No breath of little whispers comes warmly to her cheek.
No little arms are round her: ah me! that there should be,
With so much happiness on earth, so much of misery!