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theme of the nation! It was plain that Kitty knew more than she chose to tell him. But when on the last meeting, he mentioned the mysterious death of his companions, she became sober; and when he announced that he proposed to take the dangerous post that night, she most earnestly besought him not to do so, even with tears. When she found that nothing would deter him, she merely hinted that if she were to stand there, she would shoot the first thing that came in sight, whether it were a dog, a hog, or any other animal. The hint was apparently undesigned, and yet it was pondering on that hint, probably, which led him to do as he did, and thus save his life.

Some days after the event mentioned, Buel was out as a scout in the deep forest. He had been to the lines of the enemy and obtained all the information in his power, and was on his return. He had halted by a small brook, and had set his rifle against a tree, that he might eat his light dinner, when the rattle of the rattlesnake struck his ear. It was intermitted a few moments, and then repeated. Buel gave three very low whistles, when an Indian rose up from a thick bunch of bushes and came to him, looking sharply and cautiously in every direction. At the motion of the Indian, Buel filled his canteen with water from the rivulet, and in silence followed up to the top of a steep hill, from which they could see in every direction. Having made a screen with the boughs of the hemlock so that no one could sec them first, they sat down together. Not a word had been spoken.

"Well, Cassiheeno, I thought we had lost you. I have not seen you for nearly three weeks! Where have you been?" In saying this, Buel kept his eye on the face of the Indian, while his hand drew his rifle nearer to him. The motion did not escape the quick eye of the Indian. He was silent an instant, and then merely said,

"I very sick. I so sick again, I will die."

"Sick, sick! What was the matter?" And now for the first time, Buel saw that he looked pale and feeble. Lifting his blanket, and showing a terrible wound in his left shoulder, he replied,

"I try come to you, and tell you great thing, secret thing, and they see me and shoot at me. I most die. I lie lone in woods. I just creep out now to find you, and tell you more strange thing."

"Well, my good fellow,"—every suspicious look gone from his face,—"eat my dinner. You look faint. Havo you had any food today V

"No, nor three more day."

"Then, for mercy's sake, eat."

But the Indian would not eat, till Buel had

agreed to share the scanty provisions with him. When they had concluded their hasty repast, the Indian proceeded:

"When I leave you, I soon learn from Canada Indian about kill soldier. I go like one strange Indian 'mong 'em. I talk St. Francais language. I hear 'em talk how Big Moose, Lorette Indian, put on hog-skin, catch sentinel, choke him, get scalp, get plenty money. Then I come towards you; when English see me, think belong to you, and shoot at me. I run, and he never know he hit me. But I no could come and tell you about Big Moose."

"Well, Cassiheeno, Big Moose was shot, and that's all over now."

"No, not all over—not all over yet," said he sorrowfully.

"Why, what's to pay now? A soldier of our guard shot the fool in the hog-skin." "And that soldier was you." "How did you know that?" said Buel in surprise.

"I tell you. Last night I creep up 'mong Indians. I hear 'em talk, and plan. They swear hard. They say Miss Kitty tell you about hog-skin, for they watch and see you talk with him in alder bush. They say they kill you, and take Miss Kitty, carry him off prisoner, (make father believe they Mohawks,) get him in woods, then kill him with tomahawk. They terrible Indians, take revenge when much mad. Very much mad now!"

The soldier and the Indian parted. The former hastened to his own camp, while the latter crept away among the thick bushes. On reaching the camp, Buel found the men all under arms. As he came near, the Colonel beckoned to him to advance. He came near, made the military movement with his rifle and stood erect.

"Buel," said the good Colonel, "for your long, tried, and faithful services, the American Congress, have been pleased to promote you. Soldiers, salute Lieutenant Buel."

The'drums beat a hearty salute, and his own company cheered. Tears stood in the eyes of the young officer. He was immediately summoned to the tent of the commander.

"Lieutenant Buel, I must now send you on a secret, important, and rapid despatch to Boston. No time must be lost. You must set out this very night. Can you be ready?"

"Yes, sir,—though I have some things to communicate to you, sir, and ask your advioe and aid."

"What now? No folly, I hope!" The Lieutenant then went into a history of his life, of that of the Hamiltons, and ended by telling him how he got the hint from Kitty about the hog, and the danger that now surrounded the poor girl in consequence, and no less earnestly he sought the kindness of the Colonel in behalf of Cassiheeno. Very patiently did the officer hear it all through, and then said:

"Buel, this is a bad business. But I don't ■ee that any one has been to blame. I might have known that some woman must have put it into your head about that Indian's disguise. Stay; can you say upon the honour of a soldier, that this is no love affair between you and the girl?"

"I assure you, sir, that no allusion to any such thing has ever passed between us."

"Very well. I only wonder how the daughter of a high Tory can be so much of a Whig; that's all. Now there is, to my mind, but one oourse. You must go and persuade that girl to save her life by going with you to the East. Mind, now, this must be no runaway match between you and the girl; first, because we oan't spare you a day for such affairs; and, second, because I have too much regard for the fifth commandment to encourage or countenance such doings. I am a father of daughters myself. Take her to her and your friends at or near Boston, for these savages will have no mercy on her. If you can persuade her to go, the carriage that came this morning to the camp, to convey the sick lieutenant to his home, but which, as you know, is too late, he being dead, and you in his place, shall carry you to Albany, and thence you will go on horseback. Now hasten about this business."

Lieutenant Buel drew his girdle tight about him, and in five minutes was taking the Indian lope, on his way to the log house. By means of his own, he obtained an interview with the poor girl.

Our readers must understand that between Troy and the beautiful village of Glen's Falls, the tree still stands, under which Miss M'Crea was so inhumanly murdered by the Indians, and whose history will long thrill the human heart. That one murder sent a shudder through the land, and made the impression deep, that no innocence or loveliness could protect from the terrible tomahawk and scalping-knife. The mother clasped her babe to her bosom in terror, lest on the morrow she should be called to see it dashed against the wall, or writhing on the arrow; and the maiden drew her zone tight about her, not knowing but she was girding

herself up for death. I mention this to account for the terror into which the tidings of the young officer threw Kitty; for it was just after Miss M'Crea's terrible fate, that she was informed that a similar fate awaited her. She saw at a glance that she could not reveal anything to her father without endangering his life. She hoped that things would come to a orisis in a few weeks, when she could return safe and sound, and tell him all. What seemed to be the most dreadful part of her trial was, that she must leave him ignorant of her motives, her course, her protection, or her plans. With many tears, she at last yielded—for "all that a man hath will he give for his life"—and agreed that at midnight she would be ready to go with her old schoolmate and friend. She knew nothing of his promotion.

A little past midnight, the old carriage which had so opportunely come from Albany, stood near the door of the cabin, among the thick trees. But it took all the power of persuasion of which Buel was master, to get the poor girl into the carriage. Noiselessly she placed her bare feet on the rough floor, and with tears, kissed the forehead of her sleeping father; while Buel laid his hand upon her, determined to force her away, and into the carriage, the moment the old man should show signs of awaking. In her little room she had left a note for her father, assuring him of her unbounded love and reverence, and begging him to believe that nothing but the most important of all considerations, could induce her to do as she had done; that she was in safety, and that if his thoughts took the direction of surmising that she had run away to be married, he might rest assured that it was not so, and closed her note by beseeching him to take good care of himself till her return, and by a most fervent and beautiful prayer, that God would cover his gray head with his protecting care and mercy.

At length the weeping maiden was in the carriage with her friend. She hoped and expected that in a few weeks she should again see her father.

"Oh! Henry," said she, "this is sad. May God forgive me, if I am wrong. But let us hope that this sorrowful Departure—"

"Will surely be followed," said he, "by a happy Return."

SLEEP.

BY sULLA.

Upon the pillow of Thy love

I press my weary head, Thy angels bathe my wounded feet, Thy angola make my bed.

A soothing sense of Ioto la near,

I sink in blissful calm, And in my loneliness repose

Upon my Father's arm.

My lapsing senses lose their spell,—
How pure the tranquil tides,

As o'er the crystal sea of life
My unveiled spirit glEdess

I gaxe through its mysterious depths,
How still and clear they seem I

Dear angels, keep this mortal pulse, Dear angels, guide my dream!

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He night was dark, the winds

were loud, The storm hung low in a

swinging cloud; The blaze on my chamber

lamp wan dim, And athwart my brain began

to swim Those visions that only swim

and sweep Under the wavering wings of

sleep:—-
And smidenly into my pre-
sence camo
A Spectre, thin as that dismal tlame
That burns and beams, a moving lamp,
Where the dreary fogs of night encamp.
Her lips were pale, her checks were white,
Her eyes were full of phantom light—.

Once, twice, thrice,
A goblet wrought to a rare device
She held to fevered lips of mine;
But mocked them with its frozen wine,
Till they were numb on the dusky ice.

I could not speak, I could not stir,

I could do nought but look at her;

Nought but look in her wonderful eyes

And loose me in their mysteries.

The goblet shone, the goblet glowed,

But from its rim no liquid flowed.

Its sides were bright with pictures rare

Of demons foul and angels fair,

And Life and Death o'er Youth contending,

And Love on luminous wings descending,

Celestial cities with golden domes,
And caverns full of labouring gnomes.

Once, twice, thrice,
That goblet wrought to a rare device
She held to fevered lips of mine,
But mocked them with its frozen wine,
Till they were numb on the dusky ice.

Loud rang the bell through the stormy air,
And the clock replied on the shadowy stair,
And Chanticleer awoke and flung
The echo from his silvery tongue.
All nature with a sudden noise
Proclaimed the momentary poise
Of that invisible beam, that weighs
At midnight the divided days.
The Phautom beckoned and turned away,
I had no power to speak or stay :—
We passed the dusky corridor,
Her sandal gems illumed the floor,
And with a ruddy, phosphor light,
The frozen goblet lit the night.

Once, twice, thrice,
That goblet wrought to a rare device
She held to fevered lips of mine,
But mocked them with its frozen wine,
Till they wcro numb on the dusky ice.

She led me through enchanted woods,
Through deep and haunted solitudes,
By threatening cataracts, and the edgos
Of high and dizzy mountain ledges,
And over bleak and perilous ridges,
To frail and air-suspended bridges.
Where, in the muffled dark beneath,
Invisible rivers talked of death,

Until, for very sympathy
With the uiifathomed mystery,
I cried, "Here I resign my breath,
Here let me taste the cup of Death I"

Once, twice, thrico,
That goblet wrought to a rare device
She held again to lips of mine,
But mocked them with ita frozen wine,
Till they were numb of the dusky Ice.

And then a voice within mo said,
"Wouldst thou journey to the dead?—
Shed this mantle, and pass for ever
Into the black, eternal river?—
For very sympathy, depart
From the tumult of this heart?
Knowst thou not that mightier river.
Rolling on in darkness ever,
Ever sweeping, coiling, boiling,
Howling, fretting, wailing, toiling,
Where every wave that breaks on shore
Is a human heart that can bear no more?''

Once, twice, thrice,
That goblet wrought to a rare device
She held to fevered lips of mine,
But mocked them with the frozen wine,
Till they were numb on the dusky ice.

And then In sorrow and shame I cried,
"Oh, take me to that river's sido,
And I will shun the languid shore,
And plunge me into the dark uproar,

And drink of the waters till they impart

A generous sense, and a human heart."

And all at once, around me rose

A mingled mutiny of woes,

And my soul discerned these sounds to he

The wail of a wide humanity;

Till my bosom heaved responsive sighs,

And tremulous tears were in my eyes.

Once, twice, thrice,
That goblet wrought to a rare device
She held to fevered lips of mine,
And at their instant touch, the wine
Flowed freely from the dusky ice.

I drank new life, I could not stop,

But drained it to its latest drop,

Till the Phantom with the goblet rare

Dissolved Into the shadowy air—

Dissolved into the outer gloom,

And once more I was in my room;

Yet oft before my waking eyes

The figures of that goblet rise—

The angels and the fiends at strife,

And Youth 'twixt warring Death and Life—

The domes—the gnomes—mysterious things!

And Love descending on luminous wings.

Once, twice, thrice,
That goblet wrought to a rare device
Fair Memory holds to lips of mine,
And bathes them with the sacred wine,
The tribute of that dusky ice.

THE CITY ROSE TO THE WILD ROSE.

BY 8ARAH ROBERTS.

Tur wild bee brought your message,

Just at the peep of day,
Tapping, buzzing at my window,

Then gaily flew away.
I thank you, fair young sister,

Bui 'twould break my heart to roam. So many, many love me,

In my dusty city home.

You tell of fresh green meadows,

Of upland, hill, and glade, Of the many merry sisters,

And the still and pleasant shade; Of fragrant flowers around you,

Of a laughing, noisy brook, Tripping gaily at your feet all day,

Reflecting every look.

You say we'll have sweet music

With the early morning light, That the nightingale will cheer us,

Through all the summer night; That the humming-bird and bee

Shall do my bidding every day, Bring all the city news to me

From friends so far away.

You say I must be lonely,

That you tremble for my health, That the fresh and fragrant breezes

Are worth the city's wealth;
But could you see the fair young girl

That ministers to me,
You'd say how happy was my lot,

Cherished so tenderly.

There are but few to love her,

And why? alas, she's poor! And toiling, toiling all the day,

She loveth me the more. She smiles to see my beauty,

She'll weep when I am dead; Wild sister, who will weep for you

When winter bows your head?

She opes the window early,

To give me air and sun, Then sitteth sadly at my side

To toil till day is done;
And when she rests her weary hands,

And drops a tear on me,
My sweetest fragrance I impart

And cheer her gratefully.

The children, poor and wretched,

Smile as they gaxe on me,
And often stop in passing

And praise me timidly;
So I cannot leave my noisy home,

Though brighter are your hours;
I have the love of many hearts,

You've but the love of flowers.

My gentle mistress sccmeth ill,

I sometimes think she'll die; Then send the robin and the thrush,

To bear me where she'll lie; And come to me, sweet sister,

Whero sombre willows wave, And side by side, we'll weep and watch

Over her early grave.

A NIGHT WITH THE LATER FRENCH LYRIC POETS.

BY WILLIAM POWI, E 8 Q.
LATK CONTRIBUTOR TO THE DUBLIN UNIVERSITY MAGAZINE, ETC., ETC

It is a fact that it is with the inferior portions of French literature we are most extensively acquainted in a popular way. Everybody has read the high-flavoured novels and stories of Sue, Dumas, Dudevant, De Kock, and the rest of that school—very clever and very talented—but dashed and blended with the melodramatic and the extravagant to an unwholesome degree. Suiting the tastes of the many, the publication of their works is a good speculation, and hence the facility with which English-speaking people arc introduced to them. For these reasons of trade, acting in a circle, the better literature of our sister republic is comparatively unappreciated. And it may naturally be a received impression, therefore, that the literature of modern France is an affair of sentiment and passion, chiefly— champagne and gunpowder—in keeping with the social and political character the people there have earned, for all sorts of exciting and terrible things. However true this idea may be to the nature of the " literary lower empire" we have spoken of, it is a mistaken one, as regards modern French literature. In the departments of History, Poetry, Ethics, and Science they exhibit qualities and tendencies as excellent as those of any other literature— ancient or modern. Perhaps of these denominations French Poetry is that which is least appreciated by foreigners. The robust and massive elements of prose are more easily transfused than the subtile and unaccommodating spirit of poesy—racy on its own soil, and evaporating, in a more or less degree, in a strange atmosphere. And this is the case when verse is even well translated. An intimacy with a language—not a mere knowledge of it—is necessary to comprehend it; and then there are the equivalent parallel thought, tone and word to be premised. Nevertheless, though these are good reasons why foreign poetry cannot necessarily be so favourably or generally appreciated as prose, they are not always conclusive against the wish to appropriate what is another's, which would seem to be an instinct, and to animate human nature, from Queens, Kings, and Presidents, down to translators and others, whom we scruple to name along with such respectable people. But it is difficult for a man to keep the knowledge of a good thing to himself; and there's a gos

vot. vi. 20

siping amiability in sharing it, which may be fairly set down to his account.

Who can behold the ripened rose nor seek
To wear it t—

though it may afterwards wither in his handling.

In the following we would merely presume to indicate some of the more sparkling fountains of French literature—directing to them the attention of our young and intellectual readers, that they may " better the instruction," and in the way of reading and study, enjoy what a certain old king—we forget his name— offered a reward for,—a new pleasure.

Glancing along the array of French poetry, the eye is first attracted by the picturesque muse of Victor Hugo—Baron Victor Hugo.

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