fell to the ground on saying this, and almost immediately expired. His unfortunate father soon after came, and seeing the body of his devoted son, remained for a short time stupified with agony. "He thought to die for me, he wished to save both his father and his queen! But it was I, not he, who was the murderer, and I must expiate my crime on the scaffold or the wheel."

THE RETURN.

How oft, in many a distant place,
Beyond the foaming sea,

I've wept to think, how vast the space
Betwixt my home and me :
I've thought, beneath a foreign sky,
(Nor e'en from tears forbore,)
How long must be the time, ere I
Could see my native shore.

But still, whene'er my mind was sad,
When dimm'd my eye the tear,

One thought my heart could always glad,
One thought my spirit cheer:

For, from my mind Hope's heav'nly light

The gloom could clear away,

And bid my soul, when wrapt in night,
Be brighten❜d into day.

I hop'd my native home, once more,

And all I lov'd, to see;

And there to dwell, my wand'rings o'er,

In long felicity.

Those thoughts how vain, that bliss how short,

Alas! I little knew ;

Nor yet had sad experience taught,

That Hope could prove untrue.

And time, indeed, hath pass'd away,
But ah how slowly pass'd;
Arriv'd is now the long-wish'd day,
And I at home at last.

But where are those fond dreams of joy,
Hope's visions, where are they?

No more my mind those thoughts employ,
They all have pass'd away.

An exile in my native land,

A home have I no more;
Against me now a stranger's hand,
Hath clos'd my father's door.
And where are they who gave me birth,
More dear than all beside?

My father in his bed of earth,
My mother by his side.

If e'er an hour of bliss I knew,

(And mine, alas! have been but few)
'Twas when I reach'd my native shore,
My griefs forgot, my wand'rings o'er ;
I plac'd my foot upon the sand,

And knelt, and kiss'd the long-wish'd land,
Look'd back exulting o'er the sea,
And wept in boundless ecstasy;
I thought of parents and of home,
Of sorrows past, and joys to come;
Of friends, and ev'ry tender tie,
And scenes long dear to memory;
I ne'er had felt such bliss before,
And ne'er, ah! ne'er shall feel it more.

Fair was the summer's eve; the sun Was sinking slow, his journey done. When homewards I with hurried face, And panting heart, and joy-flush'd face, Through scenes well known in younger day, My native village, bent my way; Unchang'd, unalter'd, as before, It still the self-same aspect wore ;

But oft strange faces met my view,
And memory could recall but few—
The aged, whom I once had known,
Now slept beneath their burial stone;
I look'd around, but none could see
Whom I had known in infancy:

So chang'd were those by lapse of time,
Whom I had left in youthful prime.

And now my home was just in view,
As quick I pass'd the church-yard through ;
Where many a new-rais'd mound might tell,
That death had done his office well.

One stone there was, whose marble fair,
Show'd that no vulgar dead lay there.
One side-long glance I careless threw,
It could not be—I saw not true-
Again I look'd with phrensied eye,
And saw the appalling certainty;
I saw-and stood in mute despair-
My father's name was graven there!

R.

THE DEATH OF MONTGOMERY.

Calmly he lay; from that young side,
Ebb'd forth of life the gushing tide;
Clos'd were those eyes, where erst the flame
Flash'd at his injur'd country's shame ;
And still, and nerveless, was that hand
Which, waving high his patriot brand,
Had bade the British despot feel,
Columbia's charging front of steel.
Yes, he, who in her deserts wild,
Fair Freedom view'd her fav'rite child,
And taught the storms of war to brave,
By wild Niagara's torrent wave,

Has fallen; he who wont to brood,
In forest depths of solitude,

Had heard the wild birds shrilly screaming,
Had seen the Indian watch-fire gleaming,
And felt his free-born spirit soar
On lone Oswego's desert shore.
Yet, Britain, know; for him, who dies,
Millions of kindred souls shall rise;
Go, and pour forth thy purchas'd horde,
The refuse of some German Lord;
And mingle with the British cry,
The Indian howl of victory.

In vain, in vain, these hirelings bleed,
Beneath the free Virginian's steed;

And true, too true, that sulph'rous flame

Tells of the rifle's deadly aim,

And dying heroes, as they fall,

Prove the unseen, th' unerring, ball.
Will savage force, will Hessian spear
Check the Columbian's fierce career?
No, though this heart in death be chill,
A thousand patriot bosoms thrill,
A thousand hands will point the way,
From Europe's chains, and despot sway;
And fair Columbia's shore shall be,
The refuge of the brave, and free.

OLIVER QUINCY.

ON PUNCTUALITY.

Tantum de medio sumptis accedit honoris.

There are, amidst the chequered shades and infinite. varieties of terrestrial feelings and passions, certain quali

ties of an indifferent and negative nature in themselves; qualities which, though they do not display any feature from which we can discover in them a direct or immediate tendency to the nature of Virtue or of Vice, are nevertheless found, in the degree of influence which they exercise upon our habits of life and rules of action, to be firm, though humble auxiliaries of the one, and though the mere outworks and projections of the fortress, still, in their bulwarks to oppose measure, the progress of the other. Thus we have heard, that Cleanliness is next to a Virtue, and Debt next to a Vice. The former of these propositions is much more easy to swallow than the latter; and, fortunately for some of us, Reason here appears to agree with inclination. For, as the preservation of health is certainly a duty, and as cleanliness is a powerful accessory to such preservation, it may herein be placed on a footing different from that of its brother thesis: since the moral merits or demerits of debt must entirely depend on the accompanying circumstances, under the influence of which such and such responsibilities are incurred. There are for instance, many occasions on which it is sinful-some, on which it is meritorious, to incur a debt. The man who contributes, by borrowing, to cause even the possibility of the embarrassment or the ruin of a fellow creature, voluntarily renders himself liable to at least the guilt of a contingent injury towards his neighbour. But he who for a lawful or a generous end, borrows that which he has good reason to suppose it will be in his power to repay-reason, founded not on capricious or interested suppositions, but on sound circumstantial evidence—such a one, surely, may rather have to claim