Ex. LVIII.-THE THREE BEATS.

G. W. PATTEN

ROLL-roll!-How gladly swell the distant notes,
From where, on high, yon starry pennon floats!
Roll-roll!-On, gorgeously they come,

With plumes low-stooping, on their winding way,
With lances gleaming in the sun's bright ray-
"What do ye here, my merry comrades,-say ?"—
"We beat the gathering drum;

"Tis this which gives to mirth a lighter tone,
To the young soldier's cheek a deeper glow,
When stretched upon his grassy couch, alone,
It steals upon his ear,-this martial call
Prompts him to dreams of gorgeous war, with all
Its pageantry and show!"

Roll-roll!" What is it that ye beat ?"

"We sound the charge!-On with the courser fleet !— Where, 'mid the columns, red war's eagles fly, We swear to do or die !—

'Tis this which feeds the fires of fame with breath, Which steels the soldier's heart to deeds of death; And when his hand,

Fatigued with slaughter, pauses o'er the slain,
'Tis this which prompts him madly once again
To seize the bloody brand!"

Roll-roll!" Brothers, what do ye here,
Slowly and sadly as ye pass along,
With your dull march and low funereal song ?"
"Comrade! we bear a bier!

I saw him fall!

And, as he lay beneath his steed, one thought,
(Strange how the mind such fancy should have wrought!)
That had he died beneath his native skies,
Perchance some gentle bride had closed his eyes,
And wept beside his pall!"

O. W. HOLMES.

Ex. LIX.-OLD IRONSIDES.

AYE, tear her tattered ensign down!
Long has it waved on high;

Her deck,

-once red with heroes' blood,
Where knelt the vanquished foe,
When winds were hurrying o'er the flood,
And waves were white below,—
No more shall feel the victor's tread,
Or know the conquered knee;
The harpies of the shore shall pluck
The eagle of the sea!

Oh! better that her shattered hulk
Should sink beneath the wave;
Her thunders shook the mighty deep,
And there should be her grave;
Nail to the mast her holy flag,

Set every threadbare sail;
And give her to the god of storms,
The lightning and the gale!

Ex. LX.-ROYAL IGNORANCE.

As want of candor really is not right,
I own my satire too inclined to bite:
On kings behold it breakfast, dine, and sup
Now shall she praise, and try to make it up.

Why will the simple world expect wise things,
From lofty folk, particularly kings?

Look on their poverty of education!
Adored and flattered, taught that they are gods,
And by their awful frowns and nods,

Jove-like, to shake the pillars of creation!

They scorn that little useful imp called mind,
Who fits them for the circle of mankind!

WOLCOT.

Pride their companion, and the world their hate;
Immured, they doze in ignorance and state.

Sometimes, indeed, great kings will condescend
A little with their subjects to unbend!

An instance take :-A king of this great land,
In days of yore, we understand,

Did visit Salisbury's old church so fair:

An Earl of Pembroke was the monarch's guide; Incog. they traveled, shuffling side by side; And into the cathedral stole the pair.

The verger met them in his blue silk gown, And humbly bowed his neck with reverence down, Low as an ass to lick a lock of hay :

Looking the frightened verger through and through, And with his eye-glass-" Well, sir, who are you? What, what, sir?-hey, sir ?" deigned the king to say. "I am the verger here, most mighty king: In this cathedral I do every thing;

Sweep it, an't please ye, sir, and keep it clean."

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Hey? verger! verger!-you the verger ?-hey?"
Yes, please your glorious majesty, I be,"

The verger answered, with the mildest mien.

Then turned the king about toward the peer,
And winked, and laughed, then whispered in his ear,
"Hey, hey-what, what-fine fellow, 'pon my word:
I'll knight him, knight him, knight him-hey, my lord ?”
Then with his glass, as hard as eye could strain,
He kenned the trembling verger o'er again.

"He's a poor verger, sire," his lordship cried:

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Sixpence would handsomely requite him."

"Poor verger, verger, hey?" the king replied: "No, no, then, we won't knight him-no, won't knight him."

Now to the lofty roof the king did raise

His glass, and skipped it o'er with sounds of praise!
For thus his marveling majesty did speak:
"Fine roof this, Master Verger, quite complete;
High-high and lofty too, and clean, and neat:
What, verge, what? mop, mop it once a week ?"

"An't please your majesty," with marveling chops,
The verger answered, we have got no mops

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In Salisbury that will reach so high." "Not mop, no, no, not mop it," quoth the king"No, sir, our Salisbury mops do no such thing;

They might as well pretend to scrub the sky."

Ex. LXI.-INDIAN TRADITION OF THE ORIGIN OF

THE MAIZE.

LONGFELLOW.

HOMEWARD Weeping went Nokomis,

Sorrowing for her Hiawatha,

Fearing lest his strength should fail him,
Lest his fasting should be fatal.
He meanwhile sat weary waiting
For the coming of Mondamin,
Till the shadows, pointing eastward,
Lengthened over field and forest,
Till the sun dropped from the heaven,
Floating on the waters westward,
As a red leaf in the autumn
Falls and floats upon the water,
Falls and sinks into its bosom.

And behold! the young Mondamin,
With his soft and shining tresses,
With his garments green and yellow,
With his long and glossy plumage,
Stood and beckoned at the doorway,
And as one in slumber walking,
Pale and haggard, but undaunted,
From the wigwam Hiawatha

Came and wrestled with Mondamin.
Round about him spun the landscape,
Sky and forest reeled together,

And his strong heart leaped within him,
As the sturgeon leaps and struggles
In a net to break its meshes.

Like a ring of fire around him
Blazed and flared the red horizon,
And a hundred suns seemed looking
At the combat of the wrestlers.

Suddenly upon the greensward
All alone stood Hiawatha,

Panting with his wild exertion,
Palpitating with the struggle;
And before him, breathless, lifeless,
Lay the youth, with hair disheveled,
Plumage torn, and garments tattered,
Dead he lay there in the sunset.
And victorious Hiawatha

Made the grave as he commanded,
Stripped the garments from Mondamin,
Stripped his tattered plumage from him,
Laid him in the earth, and made it
Soft and loose and light above him;
And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,
From the melancholy moorlands,
Gave a cry of lamentation,
Gave a cry of pain and anguish!

Homeward then went Hiawatha
To the lodge of old Nokomis,
And the seven days of his fasting
Were accomplished and completed.
But the place was not forgotten
Where he wrestled with Mondamin;
Nor forgotten nor neglected

Was the grave where lay Mondamin,
Sleeping in the rain and sunshine,

Where his scattered plumes and garments
Faded in the rain and sunshine.

Day by day did Hiawatha

Go to wait and watch beside it;
Kept the dark mold soft above it,
Kept it clean from weeds and insects,
Drove away, with scoffs and shoutings,
Kahgahgee, the king of ravens.

Till at length a small green feather
From the earth shot slowly upward,
Then another and another,
And before the summer ended
Stood the maize in all its beauty,
With its shining robes about it,
And its long, soft, yellow tresses;
And in rapture Hiawatha
Cried aloud, "It is Mondamin!
Yes, the friend of man, Mondamin !”