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the only question is, whether you choose to reach the point by slow gradations and at some distant period; lingering on through a long and sickly minority; subjected, meanwhile, to the machinations, insults, and oppressions of enemies foreign and domestic, without sufficient strength to chastise them ; - or whether you choose, rather, to rush at once, as it were, to the full enjoyment of those high destinies, and be able to cope, single-handed, with the proudest oppressor of the old world.

If you prefer the latter course, as I trust you do, encourage emigration ; encourage the husbandmen, the mechanics, the merchants of the old world to come and settle in this land of promise; make it the home of the skillful, the industrious, the fortunate and happy, as well as the asylum of the distressed; fill up the measure of your population as speedily as you can by the means which Heaven hath placed in your power; and I venture to prophesy there are those now living who will see this favored land amongst the most powerful on earth ; able, Sir, to take care of herself without resorting to that policy which is always so dangerous, though sometimes unavoidable, of calling in foreign aid.

Yes, Sir, they will see her great in arts and in arms; her harvests waving over fields of immeasurable extent; her commerce penetrating the most distant seas; and her cannon silencing the vain boasts of those who now proudly affect to rule the waves.

PATRICK HENRY.

LUCY GRAY;

OR SOLITUDE.

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray :

And when I crossed the wild, I chanced to see, at break of day,

The solitary child.

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;

She dwelt on a wide moor, The sweetest thing that ever grew

Beside a human door !

You yet may spy the fawn at play, The hare

upon

the

green; But the sweet face of Lucy Gray

Will never more be seen.

To-night will be a stormy night,

You to the town must go ; And take a lantern, child, to light

Your mother through the snow."

“ That, Father! will I gladly do:

'Tis scarcely afternoon, — The minster-clock has just struck two,

And yonder is the moon!”

At this the father raised his hook,

And snapped a fagot band; He plied his work; – and Lucy took

The lantern in her hand.

Not blither is the mountain roe:

With many a wanton stroke
Her feet disperse the powdery snow:

That rises up like smoke.

The storm came on before its time:

She wandered up and down; And many a hill did Lucy climb:

But never reached the town.

The wretched parents all that night

Went shouting far and wide;
But there was neither sound nor sight

To serve them for a guide.

At day break on the hill they stood

That overlooked the moor;
And thence they saw the bridge of wood,

A furlong from their door.

They wept, - and, turning homeward, cried,

6 In heaven we all shall meet; When in the snow the mother spied

The print of Lucy's feet.

Then downwards from the steep hill's edge

They tracked the footmarks small;
And through the broken hawthorn hedge,

And by the long stone wall;

And then an open field they crossed:

The marks were still the same; They tracked them on, nor ever lost;

And to the bridge they came.

They followed from the snowy bank

Those footmarks, one by one, Into the middle of the plank;

And further there were none !

Yet some maintain that to this day

She is a living child ;
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray

Upon the lonesome wild.

O’er rough and smooth she trips along,

And never looks behind; And sings a solitary song

That whistles in the wind.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. THE DEPARTURE OF SUMMER.

Thomas Hood was born in London, England, May 23, 1799, the son of a Scotch bookseller. From childhood his constitution was fragile. In 1818 he began to learn the art of engraving. Within the next three years he was appointed an editor of the London Magazine, and in that service formed the acquaintance of many eminent literary men.

For ten consecutive years he wrote, unaided, a series of books called “ The Comic Annual." His humorous verse is among the brightest in the English language. A number of his poems are tenderly pathetic. His “Bridge of Sighs” and “ The Song of the Shirt” still move the sympathies of the reader.

After a brave struggle against disease and other misfortunes, he died May 3, 1845.

[graphic]

Summer is gone on swallows' wings,
And earth has buried all her flowers ;
No more the lark, the linnet sings,
And silence sits in faded bowers.
There is a shadow on the plain
Of Winter ere he comes again,
There is in woods a solemn sound
Of hollow warnings whispered round,
As Echo in her deep recess
For once had turned a prophetess.
Shuddering Autumn stops to list,
And breathes his fear in sudden sighs,
With clouded face, and hazel eyes
That quench themselves, and hide in mist. .

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