She must not fall; her better fate
Here gives her an immortal date.

Few were the numbers she could boast,
But every freeman was a host,

And felt as 'twere a secret known

That one should turn the scale alone,

While each unto himself was he
On whose sole arm hung victory.

It did depend on one, indeed;
Behold him,-Arnold Winkelried!

There sounds not to the trump of fame
The echo of a nobler name.

Unmarked he stood amid the throng,
In rumination deep and long,

Till you might see, with sudden grace,
The very thought come o'er his face;
And, by the motion of his form,
Anticipate the bursting storm;

And, by the uplifting of his brow,

Tell where the bolt would strike, and how.

But 'twas no sooner thought than done,-
The field was in a moment won.

"Make way for liberty!" he cried,
Then ran, with arms extended wide,
As if his dearest friend to clasp;
Ten spears he swept within his grasp.
"Make way for liberty!" he cried,

Their keen points crossed from side to side:
He bowed amongst them like a tree,

And thus made way for liberty.

Swift to the breach his comrades fly,"Make way for liberty!" they cry,

And through the Austrian phalanx dart,
As rushed the spears through Arnold's heart;
While, instantaneous as his fall,

Rout, ruin, panic, seized them all:
An earthquake could not overthrow
A city with a surer blow.

Thus Switzerland again was free,
Thus death made way for liberty.

THE CHARCOAL MAN TROWBRIDGE.

Though rudely blows the wintry blast,
And sifting snows fall white and fast,
Mark Haley drives along the street,
Perched high upon his wagon seat;
His sombre face the storm defies,
And thus from morn till eve he cries,-
"Charco'! charco'!"

While echo faint and far replies,-
"Hark, O! hark, O!"

"Charco'!"-"Hark, O!"-Such cheery sounds
Attend him on his daily rounds.

The dust begrimes his ancient hat;
His coat is darker far than that;

'Tis odd to see his sooty form

All speckled with the feathery storm;
Yet in his honest bosom lies

Nor spot nor speck, though still he cries:
"Charco'! charco'!"

And many a roguish lad replies,—

"Ark, ho! ark ho!"

"Charco'!"-"Ark, ho!"-Such various sounds Announce Mark Haley's morning rounds.

Thus all the cold and wintry day
He labors much for little pay;
Yet feels no less of happiness
Than many a richer man, I guess,
When through the shades of eve he spies
The light of his own home, and cries,-
"Charco'! charco'!"

And Martha from the door replies,—
"Mark, ho! Mark, ho!"

"Charco'!"—"Mark, ho!" Such joy abounds
When he has closed his daily rounds.

The hearth is warm, the fire is bright,
And while his hand, washed clean and white,
Holds Martha's tender hand once more,

His glowing face bends fondly o'er
The crib wherein his darling lies,
And in a coaxing tone he cries,-
"Charco'! charco'!"

And baby with a laugh replies,―
"Ah, go! ah, go"

"Charco'!"-"Ah, go!"—while at the sounds The mother's heart with gladness bounds.

Then honored be the charcoal man!

Though dusky as an African,

'Tis not for you, that chance to be

A little better clad than he,
His honest manhood to despise,
Although from morn till eve he cries,-
"Charco'! charco'!"

While mocking echo still replies,

"Hark, O! hark, O!"

"Charco'!"-"Hark, O!"-Long may the sounds Proclaim Mark Haley's daily rounds!

EXCELSIOR-LONGFELLOW.

The shades of night were falling fast,
As through an Alpine village passed
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,
A banner with the strange device,

Excelsior!

His brow was sad; his eye beneath
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath;
And like a silver clarion rung

The accents of that unknown tongue,
Excelsior!

In happy homes he saw the light
Of household fires gleam warm and bright;
Above, the spectral glaciers shone;
And from his lips escaped a groan,

Excelsior!

"Try not the Pass!" the old man said,
"Dark lowers the tempest overhead;
The roaring torrent is deep and wide!"
And loud that clarion voice replied,
Excelsior!

"Beware the pine-tree's withered branch!
Beware the awful avalanche!"

This was the peasant's last good-night;
A voice replied, far up the height,

Excelsior!

At break of day, as heavenward

The pious monks of Saint Bernard
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer,

A voice cried, through the startled air,
Excelsior!

A traveller by the faithful hound,
Half-buried in the snow was found,
Still grasping in his hand of ice
That banner with the strange device,
Excelsior!

There in the twilight cold and gray,
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay;

And from the sky, serene and far,
A voice fell, like a falling star,

Excelsior!

THE INCORRUPTIBLE PATRIOT-JONES.

I spurn your gilded bait, oh king! My faith you cannot buy.

Go, tamper with some craven heart, and dream of

victory.

My honor never shall be dimmed by taking such a

bribe:

The honest man can look above the mercenary

tribe.

Carlisle and Eden may consort to bring about a

peace;

Our year of jubilee will be the year of our release. Until your fleets and armies are all remanded back, Freedom's avenging angel will keep upon your

track.