younger years; and, in his more advanced age, for having cultivated piety towards the gods, justice towards men, gentleness, modesty, moderation, and all other virtues which constitute the good man. Then all the people shouted, and bestowed the highest eulogiums on the deceased, as one who would be received for ever into the society of the virtuous in 'Pluto's kingdom.

CHARLES ROLLIN.

XLVIII. THE BLIND PSALMIST.

The following lines were written on hearing a blind clergyman, aged eighty-six, sing hymns, accompanying himself on the bass viel:

He sang the airs of olden times,
In soft, low tones to sacred rhymes,
Devotional, but quaint:

His fingers touched the viol's strings,
And, at their gentle vibratings,
The glory of an angel's wings

Hung o'er that aged saint!

His thin, white locks, like silver threads
On which the sun its radiance sheds-
Or, like the moonlit snow—

Seemed with a lustre half divine
Around his saintly brow to shine,
Till every scar, or time-worn line,
Was gilded with its glow.

His sightless eyes to heaven upraised,
As through the spirit's lens he gazed
On things invisible-

Reflecting some celestial light-
Were like a tranquil lake at night,
On which two mirrored planets bright
The concave's glory tell.

Thus, while the patriarchal saint
Devoutly sang to music quaint,

I saw old Homer rise

With buried centuries from the dead

The laurel green upon his head,

As when the choir of bards he led,

With rapt, but blinded eyes!

And Scio's isle again looked green,
As when the poet there was seen,

And Greece was in her prime;
While Poesy with epic fire

Did once again the bard inspire,
As wher he swept his mighty lyre,
To vibrate through all time.

The vision changed to Albion's shore--
I saw a sightless bard once more
From dust of ages rise!

I heard the harp and deathless song
Of glorious Milton float along,

Like warblings from the birds that throng
His muse's Paradise!

And is it thus, when blindness brings
A veil before all outer things,

That visual spirits see

A world within, than this more bright,
Peopled with living forms of light,
And strewed with gems, as stars of night
Strew diamonds o'er the sea?

Then, reverend saint! though old and blind,
Thou with the quenchless orbs of mind
Canst natural sight o'erreach-
Upborne on Faith's triumphant wings,
Canst see unutterable things,

Which only through thy viol's strings,
And in thy songs, find speech.

E. C. R.

XLIX. JEFFERSON AT MONTICELLO.

THE mansion-house at Monticello was built and furnished in the days of his prosperity. In its dimensions, its architecture, its arrangements, and ornaments, it is such a one as became the character and fortune of the man. It stands upon an elliptic plain, formed by cutting down the apex of a mountain; and, on the west, stretching away to the north and the south, it commands a view of the Blue Ridge for a hundred and fifty miles, and brings under the eye one of the boldest and most beautiful horizons in the world: while, on the east, it presents an extent of prospect bounded only by the spherical

form of the earth, in which nature seems to sleep in eternal repose, as if to form one of her finest contrasts with the rude and rolling grandeur on the west. In the wide prospect, and scattered to the north and south, are several detached mountains, which contribute to animate and diversify this enchanting landscape; and among them, to the south, Willis's Mountain, which is so interestingly depicted in his Notes.

From this summit the philosopher was wont to enjoy that spectacle, among the sublimest of nature's operations, the looming of the distant mountains; and to watch the motions of the planets, and the greater revolution of the celestial sphere. From this summit, too, the patriot could look down, with uninterrupted vision, upon the wide expanse of the world around, for which he considered himself born; and upward, to the open and vaulted heavens which he seemed to approach as if to keep him continually in mind of his high °responsibility. It is indeed a prospect in which you see and feel, at once, that nothing mean or little could live. It is a scene fit to nourish those great and high-souled principles which formed the elements of his character, and was a most noble and appropriate post for such a sentinel over the rights and liberties of man.

Approaching the house on the east, the visitor instinctively paused to cast around one thrilling glance at this magnificent panorama; and then passed to the vestibule, where, if he had not been previously informed, he would immediately perceive that he was entering the house of no common man. In the spacious and lofty hall which opens before him, he marks no tawdry and unmeaning ornaments: but before, on the right, on the left, all around, the eye is struck and gratified with objects of science and taste, so classed and arranged as to produce their finest effect.

On one side, specimens of sculpture set out in such order as to exhibit, at a coup d'œil, the historical progress of that art; from the first rude attempts of the aborigines of our country, up to that exquisite and finished bust of the great patriot himself, from the master hand of Caracci. On the other side, the visitor sees displayed a vast collection of specimens of Indian art, their paintings, weapons, ornaments, and manufactures; on another, an array of the fossil productions of our country, mineral and animal; the polished remains of those colossal monsters that once trod our forests, and are no more; and a variegated display of the branching honors of those "monarchs of the waste," that still people the wilds of the American continent.

From this hall he was ushered into a noble saloon, from which the glorious landscape of the west again bursts upon his view; and which within is hung thick around with the finest productions of the pencil -historical paintings of the most striking subjects from all countries, and all ages; the portraits of distinguished men and patriots, both of

Europe and America, and medallions and engravings in endless °profusion.

While the visitor was yet lost in the contemplation of these treasures of the arts and sciences, he was startled by the approach of a strong and sprightly step, and, turning with instinctive reverence to the door of entrance, he was met by the tall, and animated, and stately figure of the patriot himself-his countenance beaming with intelligence and benignity, and his outstretched hand, with its strong and cordial pressure, confirming the courteous welcome of his lips. And then came that charm of manner and conversation that passes all description-so cheerful-so unassuming so free, and easy, and frank, and kind, and gay-that even the young, and overawed, and embarrassed visitor at once forgot his fears, and felt himself by the side of an old and familiar friend.

WILLIAM WIRT.

L-SANDT, THE MURDERER OF °KOTZEBUE.

THE night was stormy; yet the clang
Of hammers through the darkness rang,
And on the ramparts' vapory swamp
High hung one faint and °fitful lamp,-
And came upon the gusty swell
The challenge of the sentinel;
As if some deed were doing there,
Unfit for man to see or hear.

Morn broke on twilight, dim and slow;
By Manheim's gates were signs of woe—
A scaffold hung with black, a chain,
A sable bench-a sabre bâre,

Told, that before the setting sun

Some wretch's chains should be undone.

The gates roll back, and from the wall
Come chargers' tramp and trumpet call:
And in the horsemen's midst, the dawn
Gleams on a face lorn, wild, and wan.
The dazzled eye, the lip of blue,
Tell that to them the light is new;
Tell of the chain, the heavy air,
That damps the felon's sleepless lair.

The hand;-that pale, thin hand, which now
So feebly wanders o'er the brow,

By that was murder done: the stain
That left the hand has dyed the brain.

The troops have reached the fatal stair,
The headsman stands beside the chair;
The pale, uncovered multitude

Are hushed as death; now-blood for blood!

High Heaven! what burning thoughts must roll
Through man, beside that fearful goal!
Conscience has started from her sleep;
Now, man of sin! thy harvest reap.
He sees a traitor's step intrude
Upon an old man's solitude;

He sees the dagger in his heart—
The writhe, êre soul and body part-
The gasp, the dying gust of gore ;—
The murderer dares to think no more,
Curses the moment's frantic zeal,
And hurries to the headsman's steel.

.

Yet, when beneath the rising sun
His native mountains lovely shone ;—
He raised one eastward, eager glare,
Wildly inhaled the living air,
On sun and sky his eye-ball cast,
Like one who on them looks his last;

Gave to the world one dreary sigh,

Then summoned his sad strength to die.

The sword flashed round, the red blood sprang,
To heaven arose the trumpet clang-

And of the murderer, all that lay

Upon the floor was blood and clay.

REV. GEORGE Croly.

LI.-"I'LL TRY, SIR."

On the 25th of July, 1814, the bloody battle of Bridgewater and Lundy's Lane took place near the banks of the Niagara. It was six o'clock, and a sultry evening, when the British forces under General Drummond advanced to meet the American columns; and a more deadly contest never raged on the soil of our beloved country than that which then commenced; the roar of the neighboring cataract