'Twas but a moment, for that respect
Which clothes all courage their voices checked;
And something the wildest could understand
Spake in the old man's strong right hand;
And his corded throat, and the lurking frown
Of his eyebrows under his old bell-crown;
Until, as they gazed, there crept an awe
Through the ranks in whispers, and some men saw,
In the antique vestments and long white hair,
The Past of the Nation in battle there;
And some of the soldiers since declare
That the gleam of his old white hat afar,
Like the crested plume of the brave Navarre,
That day was their oriflamme of war.

So raged the battle. You know the rest:
How the rebels, beaten, and backward pressed,
Broke at the final charge, and ran.

At which John Burns

a practical man

Shouldered his rifle, unbent his brows,
And then went back to his bees and cows.

That is the story of old John Burns;
This is the moral the reader learns:

In fighting the battle, the question 's whether
You'll show a hat that 's white, or a feather.

Bret Harte.

Hudson, the River, N. Y.

THE HUDSON.

THROUGH many a blooming wild and woodland

green

The Hudson's sleeping waters winding stray; Now 'mongst the hills its silvery waves are seen, Through arching willows now they steal away; Now more majestic rolls the ample tide,

Tall waving elms its clovery borders shade, And many a stately dome, in ancient pride

And hoary grandeur, there exalts its head. There trace the marks of culture's sunburnt hand, The honeyed buckwheat's clustering blossoms view,· Dripping rich odors, mark the beard-grain bland, The loaded orchard, and the flax-field blue; The grassy hill, the quivering poplar grove, The copse of hazel, and the tufted bank, The long green valley where the white flocks rove, The jutting rock, o'erhung with ivy dank;

The tall pines waving on the mountain's brow,

Whose lofty spires catch day's last lingering beam; The bending willow weeping o'er the stream, The brook's soft gurglings, and the garden's glow. Margaretta V. Faugeres.

A SCENE ON THE BANKS OF THE HUDSON.

HOOL shades and dews are round my way,

COOL

And silence of the early day;

Mid the dark rocks that watch his bed,
Glitters the mighty Hudson spread,
Unrippled, save by drops that fall

From shrubs that fringe his mountain wall;
And o'er the clear still water swells
The music of the Sabbath bells.

All, save this little nook of land,
Circled with trees, on which I stand;
All, save that line of hills which lie
Suspended in the mimic sky,-

Seems a blue void, above, below,

Through which the white clouds come and go;
And from the green world's farthest steep
I gaze into the airy deep.

Loveliest of lovely things are they,
On earth, that soonest pass away.
The rose that lives its little hour

Is prized beyond the sculptured flower.
Even love, long tried and cherished long,
Becomes more tender and more strong,
At thought of that insatiate grave
From which its yearnings cannot save.

River! in this still hour thou hast
Too much of heaven on earth to last;