devoted his life in the maturity of his powers, in the field; to which again he offered the counsels of his wisdom and experience, as President of the Convention that framed our Constitution; which he guided and directed vhile in the Chair of State, and for which the last prayer of his earthly supplication was offered up, when it came the moment for him so well, and so grandly, and so calmly, to die. He was the first man of the time in which he grew. His memory is first and most sacred in our love; and ever hereafter, till the last drop of blood shal freeze in the last American heart, his name shall be a spell of power and of might.

Yes, there is one personal, one vast felicity which no man can share with him. It was the daily beauty and towering and matchless glory of his life, which enabled him to create his country, and, at the same time, secure an undying love and regard from the whole American people. "The first in the hearts of his countrymen !"' Yes, first. He has our first and most fervent love. Undoubtedly there were brave and wise and good men, before his day, in every colony. But the American Nation, as a Nation, I do not reckon to have begun before 1774. And the first love of that young America was Washington. The first word she lisped was his name. Her earliest breath spoke it. It still is her proud ejaculation; and it will be the last gasp of her expiring life! Yes! Others of our great men have been appreciated, many admired by all. But him we love. Him, we all love. About and around him we call up no dissentient and discordant and dissatisfied elements,-no sectional prejudice nor bias; no party, no creed, no dogma of politics. None of these shall assail him. Yes. When the storm of battle blows darkest and rages highest, the memory of Washington shall nerve every American arm, and cheer every American heart. It shall re lume that Promethean fire, that sublime flame of pat

riotism, that devoted love of country, which his words nave commended, which his example has consecrated.

66

Where may the wearied eye repose,

When gazing on the great,

Where neither guilty glory glows,
Nor despicable state ?—
Yes-one--the first, the last, the best,
The Cincinnatus of the West,

Whom Envy dared not hate,
Bequeathed the name of Washington."

THE FLAG OF WASHINGTON.

F. W. GILLETT.

DEAR banner of my native land! ye gleaming, silver stars, Broad, spotless ground of purity, crossed with your azure bars

Clasped by the hero-father's hand-watched over in his might,

Through battle-hour and day of peace, bright morn and moonless night,

Because, within your clustering folds, he knew you surely bore

Dear Freedom's hope for human souls to every sea and

shore !

O precious Flag! beneath whose folds such noble deeds are done

The dear old Flag! the starry Flag! the Flag of Washington!

Unfurl, bright stripes--shine forth, clear stars-swing outward to the breeze

Go bear your message to the wilds-go tell it on the seas, That poor men sit vithin your shade, and rich men in their pride

That beggar-boys and statesmen's sons walk 'neath you, side by side;

You guard the school-house on the green, the church upon the hill,

And fold your precious blessings round the cabin by the

rill,

While weary hearts from every land beneath the shining

sun

Find work, and rest, and home beneath the Flag of Washington.

And never, never on the earth, however brave they be, Shall friends or foes bear down this great, proud standard of the Free,

Though they around its staff may pour red blood in rushing waves,

And build beneath its starry folds great pyramids of

graves;

For God looks out, with sleepless eye, upon his children's deeds,

And sees, through all their good and ill, their sufferings and their needs;

And He will watch, and He will keep, till human rights have won,

The dear old Flag! the starry Flag! the Flag of Washington!

PAUL REVERE'S RIDE.

LISTEN, my children, and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive

Who remembers that famous day and year,
He said to his friend, if the British march
By land or sea, from the town to-night,

Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch

Of the North Church tower, as a signal light, One if by land, and two if by sea;

And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country folk to be up and arm.

Then he said good night, and, with muffled oar,
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where, swinging wide at her moorings, lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war,

A phantom-ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon, like a prison-bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile his friend, through alley and street,
Wanders and watches with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack-door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers
Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Then he climbed to the tower of the Church-

A moment only he feels the spell

Of the place and the hour-the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead ;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something, far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,
A line of black, that bends and floats
On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats:

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride.
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride,
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere :
Now he patted his horse's side;

Now gazed on the landscape far and near
Then impetuous stamped the earth,

And turned and tightened his saddle girth ;
But mostly he watched, with eager search,
The belfry tower of the old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral, and sombre and still.

And lo! as he looks on the belfry's height.
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns.

A hurry of hoofs in a village street,

A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed that flies fearless and fleet;
That was all! and yet, through the gloom and light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;

And the spark struck out by that steed in his flight
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.

You know the rest. In the books you have read,
How the British regulars fired and fled-

How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farm-yard wall,
Chasing the red-coats down the lane,
When crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere;