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They are three vast centres of feud and revolutionary terror :-Portugal with an unowned monarch, reigning by the bayonet and the scaffold, with half her leading men in dungeons, with her territory itself a dungeon ; and fierce retaliation and phrenzied enthusiasm hovering on her frontiers, and ready to plunge into the bosom of the land ; -Spain torn by faction, and at this hour watching every band that gathers on her hills, as the signs of a tempest that may sweep the land from the Pyrenees to the ocean ;and France in the first heavings of a mighty change, that man can no more define than he can set limits to the heaving of an earthquake, or the swell and fury of a deluge. Other great objects and causes may have their share in those things. But the facts are before mankind,
The Playthings.-Miss GOULD.
“Oh! mother, here's the very top
That brother used to spin ;
The vase wi seeds I've seen him drop
To call our robin in ;
The line that held his pretty kite,
His bow, his cup and ball,
The slate on which he learned to write,
His feather, cap, and all !"
“My dear, I'd put the things away
Just where they were before :
Go, Anna, take him out to play,
And shut the closet door.
Sweet innocent! he little thinks
The slightest thought expressed
Of him that's lost, how deep it sinks
Within a mother's breast!"
Mutability of earthly Things.-N. A. REVIEW.
[From the Spanish of Don JORGE MANRIQUE.)
O LET the soul her slumbers break-
Let thought be quickened and awake :
Awake to see
How soon this life is passed and gone,
And death comes softly stealing on-
How silently !
Swiftly our pleasures glide away;
Our hearts recall the distant day
With many sighs :
The moments that are speeding fast,
We heed not,-but the past, the past,
More highly prize.
Our birth is but the starting place,
Our life the running of the race:
We reach the goal,
When, in the mansions of the blest,
Death leads to its eternal rest
The weary soul.
Tell me,—the charms that lovers seek
In the clear eye and blushing cheek,
The hues that play
O’er rosy lip and brow of snow,-
When hoary age approaches slow,
Ah! where are they?
The cunning skill, the curious arts,
The glorious strength that youth imparts,
In life's first stage, These shall become a heavy weight, When Time swings wide his outward gate
To weary age.
Where are the high-born dames—and where Their gay attire, and jewelled hair,
And odors sweet?
Where are the gentle knights that came
To kneel, and breathe love's ardent flame
Low at their feet?
Where is the song of Troubadour-
Where are the lute and gay tambour,
They loved of yore?
Where is the mazy dance of old,
The flowing robes, inwrought with gold,
The dancers wore?
So many a duke of royal name,
Marquis and count of spotless fame,
And baron brave,
That might the sword of empire wield-
All these, O Death, hast thou concealed
In the dark grave!
Their deeds of mercy and of arms,
In peaceful days or war's alarms-
When thou dost show,
O Death, thy stern and cruel face,
One stroke of thy all-wowerful mace
Unnumbered hosts, that threaten nigh,
Pennon and standard flaunting high,
And flag displayed-
High battlements, entrenched around-
Bastion, and moated wall, and mound,
And covered trench, secure and deep,-
All these cannot one victim keep,
O Death, from thee,
When thou dost battle in thy wrath,
And thy strong shafts pursue their path
A Scene from the Brothers.—WORDSWORTH.
The elder of two brothers, after several years' absence in foreign lands,
returns to his native village, and stops in the church-yard, and at length enters into conversation with the parish priest.
Leonard. You said his kindred all were in their graves, And that he had one brother
Priest. That is but
A fellow tale of sorrow. From his youth
James, though not sickly, yet was delicate;
And Leonard, being always by his side,
Had done so many offices about him,
That, though he was not of a timid nature,
Yet still the spirit of a mountain boy
In him was somewhat checked; and when his brother
Was gone to sea, and he was left alone,
The little color that he had was soon
Stolen from his cheek; he drooped, and pined, and pined-
Leonard. But these are all the graves of full grown
Priest. Ay, sir, that passed away: we took him to us;
He was the child of all the dale ; he lived
Three months with one, and six months with another ;
And wanted neither food, nor clothes, nor love;
And many, many happy days were his.
But, whether blithe or sad, 'tis my belief
His absent brother still was at his heart.
And, when he lived beneath our roof, we found
(A practice till this time unknown to him)
That often, rising from his bed at night,
He in his sleep would walk about, and sleeping
He sought his brother Leonard.—You are moved !
Forgive me, sir ; before I spoke to you,
I judged you most unkindly.
Leonard. But this youth,-
How did he die at last?
Priest. One sweet May morning
(It will be twelve years since when spring returns),
He had gone forth among the new-dropped lambs,
With two or three companions, whom their course
Of occupation led from height to height
Under a cloudless sun, till he, at length,
Through weariness, or, haply, to indulge
The humor of the moment, lagged behind.
You see yon precipice ;-it wears the shape
Of a vast building made of many crags ;
And in the midst is one particular rock