My father's walls are made of brick, But not so tall, and not so thick

As these; and, goodness me! My father's beams are made of wood, But never, never half so good As these that now I see.

What a large floor! 'Tis like a town! The carpet, when they lay it down,

Won't hide it, I'll be bound. And there's a row of lamps. My eye! How they do blaze! I wonder why

They keep them on the ground?

At first I caught hold of the wing,
And kept away; but Mr. Thing-

umbob, the prompter-man, Gave with his hand my chaise a shove, And said, "Go on, my pretty love;

Speak to 'em, little Nan.

"You've only got to curtsey, whisper, hold your chin up, laugh and lisp,

And then you're sure to take: I've known the day when brats not quite Thirteen got fifty pounds a night,

Then why not Nancy Lake?"

But while I'm speaking, where's papa?
And where's my aunt? and where's mamma?
Where's Jack? Oh, there they sit !
They smile, they nod; I'll go my ways,
And order round poor Billy's chaise,

To join them in the pit.

And now, good gentlefolks, I go
To join mamma, and see the show;
So, bidding you adieu,

I curtsey, like a pretty miss,
And if you'll blow to me a kiss,
I'll blow a kiss to you.

JAMES and HORACE SMITH.-About 1812.

FA

COLUMBUS.

NAME, love, ambition! What are ye, With all your wasting passions' war, To the great strife that, like a sea, O'erswept his soul tumultuously

Whose face gleams on me like a star— A star that gleams through murky clouds— As here, begirt by struggling crowds, A spell-bound loiterer, I stand Before a print-shop in the Strand? What are your eager hopes and fears Whose minutes wither men like years, Your schemes defeated or fulfilled, To the emotions dread that thrilled His frame on that October night,

When, watching by the lonely mast, He saw on shore the moving light, And felt, though darkness veiled the sight, The long-sought world was his at last?

How Fancy's boldest glances fail,

Contemplating each hurrying mood Of thought that to that aspect pale Sent up the heart's o'erboiling flood Through that vast vigil, while his eyes Watched till the slow reluctant skies Should kindle, and the vision dread Of all his livelong years be read!In youth, his faith-led spirit doomed Still to be baffled and betrayed; His manhood's vigorous noon consumed Ere Power bestowed its niggard aid; That morn of summer, dawning gray, When, from Huelva's humble bay, He, full of hope, before the gale Turned on the hopeless world his sail, And steered for seas untracked, unknown, And westward still sailed on-sailed on; Sailed on till ocean seemed to be All shoreless as eternity,

Till, from its long-loved star estranged,
At last the constant needle changed,
And fierce amid his murmuring crew
Prone terror into treason grew;
While on his tortured spirit rose,
More dire than portents, toils or foes,
The awaiting world's loud jeers and scorn,
Yelled o'er his profitless return.

No! none through that dark watch may trace

The feelings wild beneath whose swell, As heaves the bark the billows' race,

His being rose and fell!

Yet over doubt and pride and pain,
O'er all that flashed through breast and brain,
As with those grand, immortal eyes

He stood, his heart on fire to know,
When morning next illumed the skies,

What wonders in its light should glow,— O'er all one thought must, in that hour, Have swayed supreme-power, conscious power;

The lofty sense that truths conceived

And born of his own starry mind,
And fostered into might, achieved
A new creation for mankind!
And when from off that ocean calm

The tropic's dusky curtain cleared,
And those green shores and banks of balm
And rosy-tinted hills appeared,
Silent and bright as Eden ere

Earth's breezes shook one blossom there,Against that hour's proud tumult weighed, Love, fame, ambition, how ye fade!

O hero of my boyish heart!

Ere from thy pictured looks I part,
My mind's maturer reverence now
In thoughts of thankfulness would bow
To the omniscient Will that sent
Thee forth, its chosen instrument,

WE

That we delve in the dirty clay

Till we bless the plain with golden grain,
And the vale with the fragrant hay.
Our place we know, we're so very low:
'Tis down at the landlord's feet.
We're not too low the grain to grow,

But too low the bread to eat.
Down, down we go—we're so very, very low-
To the hell of the deep-sunken mines;
But we gather the proudest gems that glow
When the crown of a despot shines.
And whene'er he lacks, upon our backs
Fresh loads he deigns to lay:
We're far too low to vote the tax,

But not too low to pay.

We're only the rank and file; We're not too low to fight the foe, But too low to touch the spoil.

TO THE WEST.

ΑΝΟΝ.

10 the West, to the West, to the land of the free,

Where mighty Missouri rolls down to the

sea;

Where a man is a man if he's willing to toil, And the humblest may gather the fruits of the soil;

Where children are blessings, and he who hath most

Has aid for his fortune and riches to boast;

may rest.

Away, far away, to the land of the West!

To the West, to the West, where the rivers that flow

Run thousands of miles, spreading out as they go;

Where the green waving forest shall echo our call,

As wide as old England and free to us all; Where the prairies, like seas where the billows have rolled,

Are broad as the kingdoms and empires of old, And the lakes are like oceans in storm or in rest.

Away, far away, to the land of the West!

To the West, to the West! There is wealth to be won:

The forest to clear is the work to be done; We'll try it, we'll do it, and never despair, While there's light in the sunshine or breath in the air;

The bold independence that labor shall buy Shall strengthen our hands and forbid us to

All night long the northern streamers
Shot across the trembling sky-
Fearful lights, that never beacon

Save when kings or heroes die.

News of battle! Who hath brought it? All are thronging to the gate: "Warder, warder! open quickly! Man! is this a time to wait?" And the heavy gates are opened; Then a murmur long and loud And a cry of fear and wonder

Bursts from out the bending crowd, For they see in battered harness

Only one hard-stricken man, And his weary steed is wounded, And his cheek is pale and wan; Spearless hangs a bloody banner

In his weak and drooping hand: What! can that be Randolph Murray, Captain of the city band?

Round him crush the people, crying, "Tell us all-oh, tell us true! Where are they who went to battle,

Randolph Murray, sworn to you? Where are they, our brothers, children? Have they met the English foe? Why art thou alone, unfollowed? Is it weal or is it woe?"

Like a corpse the grisly warrior

Looks from out his helm of steel,
But no word he speaks in answer,

Only with his armèd heel
Chides his weary steed, and onward

Up the city streets they ride,
Fathers, sisters, mothers, children,
Shrieking, praying, by his side:
"By the God that made thee, Randolph!
Tell us what mischance hath come."

Or if it be the will of Heaven
That back I never come,
And if, instead of Scottish shouts,

Ye hear the English drum,
Then let the warning bells ring out,

Then gird you to the fray,
Then man the walls like burghers stout,
And fight while fight you may.
'Twere better that in fiery flame

The roof should thunder down Than that the foot of foreign foe Should trample in the town!"

Then in came Randolph Murray;

His step was slow and weak, And as he doffed his dinted helm

The tears ran down his cheek;
They fell upon his corselet

And on his mailed hand
As he gazed around him wistfully,
Leaning sorely on his brand.

And none who then beheld him

But straight were smote with fear,