For that to the treasures of knowledge gave birth,
And this sent them forth to the ends of the earth;
Their battles for truth were triumphant, indeed,
And the rod of the tyrant was snapped like a reed;
They were made to exalt us-to teach us to bless
Those invincible brothers-the PEN AND THE PRESS!
Ex. CCIII.-THE GRAY FOREST EAGLE.
WITH storm-daring pinion, and sun-gazing eye,
The Gray Forest Eagle is king of the sky!
Oh! little he loves the green valley of flowers,
Where sunshine and song cheer the bright summer hours,
But the dark, gloomy gorge, where down plunges the foam
Of the fierce, rocky torrent, he claims as his home;
There he blends his keen shriek with the roar of the flood,
And the many-voiced sounds of the blast-smitten wood.
A fitful red glaring, a low, rumbling jar,
Proclaim the storm-demon yet raging afar;
The black cloud strides upward, the lightning more red,
And the roll of the thunder, more deep and more dread:
The Gray Forest Eagle, where, where has he sped?
Does he shrink to his eyrie, and shiver with dread?
Does the glare blind his eyes? Has the terrible blast
On the wing of the sky-king a fear-fetter cast?
O, no, the brave Eagle! he thinks not of fright;
The wrath of the tempest but rouses delight;
To the flash of the lightning his eye casts a gleam,
To the shriek of the wild blast he echoes his scream,
And with front like a warrior that speeds to the fray,
And a clapping of pinions, he 's up and away!
Away, O away, soars the fearless and free!
What recks he the sky's strife ?—its monarch is he!
The lightning darts round him,-undaunted his sight;
The blast sweeps against him,-unwavering his flight;
High upward, still upward he wheels, till his form
Is lost in the dark scowling gloom of the storm.
The tempest glides o'er with its terrible train,
And the splendor of sunshine is glowing again;
And full on the form of the tempest in flight,
The rainbow's magnificence gladdens the sight!
The Gray Forest Eagle! O, where is he now,
While the sky wears the smile of its God on its brow?
There's a dark, floating spot by yon cloud's pearly wreath,
With the speed of the arrow 'tis shooting beneath;
Down, nearer and nearer, it draws to the gaze,-
Now over the rainbow,- -now blent with its blaze;-
'Tis the Eagle, the Gray Forest Eagle!-once more
He sweeps to his eyrie,—his journey is o'er!
Time whirls round his circle, his years roll away,
But the Gray Forest Eagle minds little his sway;
The child spurns its buds for youth's thorn-hidden bloom,
Seeks manhood's bright phantoms, finds age and a tomb;
But the Eagle's eye dims not, his wing is unbowed,
Still drinks he the sunshine, still scales he the cloud.
An emblem of freedom, stern, haughty, and high,
Is the Gray Forest Eagle, that king of the sky!
When his shadows steal black o'er the empires of kings,
Deep terror,--deep, heart-shaking terror, he brings;
Where wicked oppression is armed for the weak,
There rustles his pinion, there echoes his shriek ;
His eye flames with vengeance, he sweeps on his way,
And his talons are bathed in the blood of his prey.
O, that Eagle of Freedom! when cloud upon cloud
Swathed the sky of my own native land with a shroud,
When lightnings gleamed fiercely, and thunder-bolts rung,
How proud to the tempest those pinions were flung!
Though the wild blast of battle rushed fierce through the air
With darkness and dread, still the Eagle was there;
Unquailing, still speeding, his swift flight was on,
Till the rainbow of Peace crowned the victory won.
O, that Eagle of Freedom! age dims not his eye,
He has seen earth's mortality spring, bloom, and die!
He has seen the strong nations rise, flourish, and fall,
He mocks at time's changes, he triumphs o'er all;
He has seen our own land with forests o'erspread,—
He sees it with sunshine and joy on its head;
And his presence will bless this his own chosen clime,
Till the Archangel's fiat is set upon Time.
If ever you should come to Modena,
(Where, among other relics you may see
Fassoni's bucket,-but 'tis not the true one,)
Stop at a palace near the Reggio-gate,
Dwelt in, of old, by one of the Orsini.
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,
Will long detain you;-but, before you go,
Enter the house,-forget it not, I pray you,——
And look awhile upon a picture there.
'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth,-
The last of that illustrious family;
Done by Zampieri,-but by whom I care not.
He who observes it,- -ere he passes on,
Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again,
That he may call it up, when far away.
She sits inclining forward as to speak,
Her lips half open, and her finger up,
As though she said "Beware!" her vest of gold Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to foot,
An emerald-stone in every golden clasp;
And, on her brow, fairer than alabaster,
So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,
The overflowings of an innocent heart,—
It haunts me still,-though many a year has fled,-
Like some wild melody!
Over a moldering heir-loom, its companion,
An oaken chest, half eaten by the worms,
But richly carved by Antony of Trent,
With Scripture-stories from the life of Christ;
A chest that came from Venice, and had held
The ducal robes of some old ancestor,-
That by the way,-it may be true or false;-
But do n't forget the picture; and you will not,
When you have heard the tale they told me there.
She was an only child,―her name Ginevra,
The joy, the pride of an indulgent father;
And in her fifteenth year became a bride,
Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria,
Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.
Just as she looks there, in her bridal dress,
She was all gentleness, all gayety;
Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue.
But now the day was come, the day, the hour;
Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time,
The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum;
And, in the luster of her youth, she gave
Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.
Great was the joy; but at the nuptial feast,
When all sat down, the bride herself was wanting;
Nor was she to be found! Her father cried,
""Tis but to make a trial of our love!"
And filled his glass to all; but his hand shook,
And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.
'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco,
Laughing and looking back, and flying still,-
Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger.
But now, alas! she was not to be found;
Nor from that hour could any thing be guessed,
But that she was not!
Weary of his life,
Francesco flew to Venice, and, embarking,
Flung it away in battle with the Turk.
Orsini lived; and long might you have seen
An old man wandering as in quest of something,
Something he could not find, he knew not what.
When he was gone, the house remained awhile
Silent and tenantless, then went to strangers.
Full fifty years were past, and all forgotten,
When, on an idle day, a day of search
Mid the old lumber in the gallery,
That moldering chest was noticed; and 't was said
By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra,
Why not remove it from its lurking-place ?" 'Twas done, as soon as said; but on the way
It burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton,
With here and there a pearl, an emerald-stone,
A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold.
All else had perished, save a wedding-ring,
And a small seal, her mother's legacy,
Engraven with a name, the name of both,
“Ginevra."
There then had she found a grave!
Within that chest had she concealed herself,
Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy;
When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there,
Fastened her down for ever!
Ex. CCV.-MASSACHUSETTS AND NEW YORK.
WE can not forget, that it was Massachusetts that encountered first, and suffered most, from the tyranny which resulted in our national independence; that the first blood shed in that sacred cause flowed at Lexington; and that Liberty's earliest rampart was established upon Bunker's Hill. Nevertheless, the struggles and sacrifices of Massachusetts, have, until now, been known to us through traditions not her own; and seem to be those of a distant, though an allied people,of a country separated from us by mountain barriers, such as divide every continent into states and empires.
But what a change is here! This morning's sun was just greeting the site of old Fort Orange, as we took our leave; and now, when he has scarcely reached the meridian, we have crossed that hitherto impassable barrier, and met you here, on the shore of the Connecticut, the battle ground of King Philip's cruel wars; and, before that sun shall set, we might ascend the heights of Charlestown, or rest upon the rock that was wet with blood flowing from the weary feet of the pilgrim fathers.
New York has been addressed here in language of magnanimity. It would not become me to speak of her position, her resources, or her influence. And yet I may, without of fending against the delicacy of her representatives here, and of her people at home, claim that she is not altogether unworthy of admiration. Our mountains, cataracts, and lakes,
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