I dream'd I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine On the vine-clad hills of Bingen-fair Bingen on the Rhine!

"I saw the Blue Rhine sweep along-I heard, or seem'd to hear, The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear; And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill,

The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still; And her glad blue eyes were on me as we passed with friendly

talk

Down many a path beloved of yore, and well remembered walk,
And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine:
But we'll meet no more at Bingen-loved Bingen on the Rhine!"
His voice grew faint and hoarser,—his grasp was childish weak,—
His eyes put on a dying look,—he sigh'd and ceased to speak:
His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled,—
The soldier of the Legion, in a foreign land-was dead!
And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she look'd down
On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corpses strown;
Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seem'd to shine,
As it shone on distant Bingen-fair Bingen on the Rhine!

OUR DEFENDERS.-By T. Buchanan Read.
OUR flag on the land and our flag on the ocean,
An angel of peace wheresoever it goes:
Nobly sustain'd by Columbia's devotion,
The angel of death it shall be to our foes!
True to its native sky

Still shall our eagle fly,

Casting his sentinel glances afar;

Though bearing the olive-branch,
Still in his talons staunch

Grasping the bolts of the thunders of war!

Hark to the sound! There's a foe on our border,-
A foe striding on to the gulf of his doom;
Freemen are rising and marching in order,
Leaving the plough and the anvil and loom.
Rust dims the harvest-sheen

Of scythe and of sickle keen;

The axe sleeps in peace by the tree it would mar;
Veteran and youth are out,

Swelling the battle-shout,

Grasping the bolts of the thunders of war!

Our brave mountain eagles swoop from their eyrie,
Our lithe panthers leap from forest and plain;
Out of the West flash the flames of the prairie,
Out of the East roll the waves of the main.

Down from their Northern shores,

Swift as Niagara pours,

They march, and their tread wakes the earth with its jar;
Under the Stripes and Stars,

Each with the soul of Mars,

Grasping the bolts of the thunders of war!

Spite of the sword or assassin's stiletto,

While throbs a heart in the breast of the brave,
The oak of the North, or the Southern palmetto,
Shall shelter no foe except in the grave!
While the Gulf billow breaks,
Echoing the Northern lakes,

And ocean replies unto ocean afar,
Yield we no inch of land

While there's a patriot hand

Grasping the bolts of the thunders of war!

HEZEKIAH STUBBINS' ORATION, July 4th.

FELLER-CITIZENS of Pine Holler: Fourth of July's come, and we've come to meet him. Here we are, with our cannon, and muskets, and fire-crackers, and squibs, ready to kick up a rusty, or pitch slam-bang into any feller that's got a word to say agin our forefathers, that fit, bled, and died for liberty. (Why don't you cheer me?)

Feller-Citizens: In the name of the martyrs of liberty, who fell supportin' the declaration on the bloody fields of Trafalgar; in the names of Franklin, Washington, and Bonyparte, who, hand in hand, fit the bloody British lion at Monterey in the name of the mighty eagle himself, who now flaps his wings on the top-rail of creation, I tell you something's got to be did. (Cheer me agin.).

You've got to look at the clock-work of this glorious Union, and see if there ain't a peg out-a jint loose, or the cogs don't want greasin'. You've got to overhaul the conductors you've put on the Union Smoky-lotive, and see if they hain't been playin hob with the machinery, or cabbagin the funds. You've got to git rid of them pesky fellers who don't know nothin, and yit go round makin election speeches, and tryin to bust the glorious Union; and you've got to elect us fellers, that have got larnin, and knows how to protect your rights. (That's the place to cheer me agin.)

Feller-Citizens: If we've got to stan every thing these lyin scamps keep tellin us 'bout how uncommon patriotic they are, and what big hearts they have, and how they love liberty, and what a splurge they'll make, and what a rumpus they'll

kick up when they get to Congress, and what partikelar fits they'll give the rich monopolers who won't vote for 'em, and what nice things they'll do for us honest, hard-fisted fellows, if we'll only elect 'em; and then, when we put 'em through, can't see us over their shirt collars, and don't even know as such beings as Hezekiar Stubbins, or Enoch Grimes, or Jedediah Spewkins, live upon the face of the airth; if such things are going to be did, what's the use of having Fourth of July's. (Cheer me agin.)

What's the use of firin cannon,
Shooting crackers, burnin squibs,
If there has to be a man on
Every stump a tellin fibs.

Must the heroes of Pine Holler
Hear to all the pizen snakes

Try their best to make 'em swaller
'Bout the value of the stakes?
Louder than the rattlin thunder,
Swifter than the lightnin's flash,
Say, We'll never nuckle under,
Or believe their pesky trash.
Yes, sir! Tell them nation fellers,
Preachin 'bout the Union dear,
If they want to keep their smellers
Out of danger, keep from here.

(Now cheer me agin.)

Feller-Citizens: Such doins ain't to be stood; and, if you don't want them mean, chicken-hearted fellers to bring this country to perdition, let every man, boy and yelper, give a shout for Stubbins, liberty, and the dear Union, that shall rouse the bloody British lion from his lair, and send him howlin o'er the sandy plains of Popocatapeete; while the Russian Bear shall be so skeered, that, sneakin like a whipped spaniel, he shall throw himself kerwhollop into the gulf of 'blivion; and the glorious American Eagle, hearin the rumpus, and flappin his wings o'er the universal Yankee nation, that stretches from the Bay of Biscay to Californy, shall thunder out Stubbins! Fourth of July! and Yankee Doodledum forever! (Scene closes with three cheers.)

SUFFERINGS AND DESTINY OF THE PILGRIMS. Edward Everett.

METHINKS I see it now, that one solitary, adventurous vessel, the Mayflower of a forlorn hope, freighted with the prospects of a future state, and bound across the unknown sea. I behold it pursuing, with a thousand misgivings, the uncertain, the tedious voyage. Suns rise and set, and weeks and months pass, and winter surprises them on the deep, but brings them not the sight of the wished-for shore. I see them now, scantily supplied with provisions, crowded almost to suffocation in their ill-stored prison, delayed by calms, pursuing a circuitous route; and now driven in fury before the raging tempest, on the high and giddy wave. The awful voice of the storm howls through the rigging; the laboring masts seem straining from their base; the dismal sound of the pumps is heard; the ship leaps, as it were, madly, from billow to billow; the ocean breaks, and settles with ingulfing floods over the floating deck, and beats, with _deadening, shivering weight, against the staggered vessel. I see them, escaped from these perils, pursuing their all but desperate undertaking, and landed, at last, after a few months' passage, on the ice-clad rocks of Plymouth,-weak and weary from the voyage, poorly armed, scantily provisioned, without shelter, without means, surrounded by hostile tribes.

Shut, now, the volume of history, and tell me, on any principle of human probability, what shall be the fate of this handful of adventurers? Tell me, man of military science, in how many months were they all swept off by the thirty savage tribes enumerated within the early limits of New England? Tell me, politician, how long did this shadow of a colony, on which your conventions and treaties had not smiled, languish on the distant coast? Student of history, compare for me the baffled projects, the deserted settlements, the abandoned adventures, of other times, and find the parallel of this! Was it the winter's storm, beating upon the houseless heads of women and children? was it hard labor and spare meals? was it disease? was it the tomahawk ? was it the deep malady of a blighted hope, a ruined enterprise, and a broken heart, aching, in its last moments, at the recollection of the loved and left, beyond the sea ?-was it some or all of these united, that hurried this forsaken company to their melancholy fate? And is it possible that neither of these causes, that not all combined, were able to blast this bud of hope! Is it possible that from a beginning so feeble, so frail, so worthy, not so much of admiration as of pity, there has gone forth a progress so steady, a growth so wonderful, an expansion so ample, a reality so important, a promise, yet to be fulfilled, so glorious!

THE GREAT BELL ROLAND.-By Theodore Tilton.

TOLL! Roland, toll!

In old St. Bavon's tower,

At midnight hour,

The great bell Roland spoke!

All souls that slept in Ghent awoke!
What meant the thunder-stroke?
Why trembled wife and maid?
Why caught each man his blade?
Why echoed every street
With tramp of thronging feet?

All flying to the city's wall!
It was the warning call
That Freedom stood in peril of a foe!
And even timid hearts grew bold
Whenever Roland tolled,

And

And every hand a sword could hold!
So acted men

Like patriots then

Three hundred years ago!

Toll! Roland, toll!

Bell never yet was hung,
Between whose lips there swung
So grand a tongue!

If men be patriots still,
At thy first sound

True hearts will bound,
Great souls will thrill!
Then toll and strike the test
Through each man's breast,

Till loyal hearts shall stand confest,-
may God's wrath smite all the rest!

Toll! Roland, toll!

Not now in old St. Bavon's tower

Not now at midnight hour

Not now from River Scheldt to Zuyder Zee

But here, this side the sea!

Toll here, in broad, bright day!—

For not by night awaits

A noble foe without the gates,

But perjured friends within betray,

And do the deed at noon!

Toll! Roland, toll!

Thy sound is not too soon!

To arms! Ring out the leader's call!
Re-echo it from East to West

Till every hero's breast

Shall swell beneath a soldier's crest!