As the spirit escaped with a mighty power
From the mortal cord that bound her.

For, the delicate clay lay pale and chill,
Its painful conflict over;

And we heard a voice pronounce, "Be still,
And know I AM JEHOVAH !

"The bars of the grave through time must be

This sacred dust's protection;

But they who trust, shall find in me
The life and the resurrection!"

THERE's blood on the laurel that wreathes his brow,
And the death-cry delights his ear!
The widow is wailing his victory, now,
And his meed is the orphan's tear!

But the might of his arm shall lose its dread,
For a mightier foe comes near;

The plume must be stripp'd from the conqueror's head,

To nod o'er the conqueror's bier!

Alone he must march to the terrible fight,
For there is no army to save!

His glory must set in an endless night,
And his honors shall hide in the grave!

He must measure the darksome valley alone,
Assail'd by remorse and fear;

Nor rod, nor staff help the traveller on,
Nor is there a comforter near.

He sinks! and none shall his requiem sound,
Nor sprinkle his turf with tears;

His head with a clod of the vale is crown'd,
And a shroud is the buckler he wears.

His terrible spirit has spurn'd its clay,
As a rampart, too weak and thin,

And shivering, and naked hath past away
From the house where it dwelt to sin,

But who shall follow the fugitive home
When his last great battle is o'er;

Or, the curtain remove, when it veils the doom
Of the soul on an untried shore!

"Oh! pull away,"

Did the maiden say,

"For who is the coward to mind
A shaft that's flung by a boy so young,
When both of his eyes are blind,
Are blind, are blind,
When both of his eyes are blind?"

His bow he drew;

And the shafts they flew

Till the maiden was heard to cry,

"Oh! take this dart from my aching heart,

Dear Cupid! or else I die,

I die, I die,

Dear Cupid, or else I die!"

He said, and smiled,

"I am but a child,

And should have no skill to find,

E'en with both my eyes, where the dart now lies, Then, you know, fair maid, I'm blind,

I'm blind, I'm blind,

You know, fair maid, I'm blind!

But pray, be calm,

And I'll name a balm

That's brought by an older hand,

And I'm told is sure these wounds to cure ; 'Tis Hymen applies the band;

The band, the band, "Tis Hymen applies the band!

Now, I must not stay-
I must haste away-
For my mother has bid me try

These fluttering things, my glistening wings,
Which she tells me were made to fly,

To fly, to fly,

She tells me were made to fly!"

TO THE AUTOMATON CHESS PLAYER.

THOU wond'rous cause of speculation-
Of deep research and cogitation,

Of many a head, and many a nation-
While all in vain

Have tried their wits to answer whether
In silver, gold, steel, silk, or leather,
Or human parts, or all together,
Consists thy brain!

When first Iview'd thine awful face,
Rising above that ample case
Which gives thy cloven foot a place,
Thy double shoe,

I marvell'd whether I had seen
Old Nick himself, or a machine,
Or something fix'd midway between
The distant two!

A sudden shuddering seized my frame;
With feeling that defies a name,
Of wonder, horror, doubt and shame,
The tout ensemble.

I deem'd thee form'd with power and will;
My hair rose up-my blood stood still,

And curdled with a fearful chill,

Which made me tremble.

I thought if, e'en within thy glove,
Thy cold and fleshless hand should move
To rest on me, the touch would prove
Far worse than death ;—

That I should be transform'd, and see
Thousands, and thousands, gaze on me,
A living, moving thing, like thee,
Devoid of breath.

When busy, curious, learn'd, and wise,
Regard thee with inquiring eyes
To find wherein thy mystery lies,
On thy stiff neck,
Turning thy head with grave precision,
Their optic light and mental vision
Alike defying, with decision,

Thou giv'st them “check!"

Some say a little man resides

Between thy narrow, bony sides,

And round the world within thee rides:
Absurd the notion !

For what's the human thing 't would lurk
In thine unfeeling breast, Sir Turk,
Performing thus, thine inward work,
And outward motion?

Some whisper that thou 'rt him who fell
From heaven's high courts, down, down to dwell
In that deep place of sulphury smell

And lurid flame.

Thy keeper, then, deserves a pension
For seeking out this wise invention,
To hold thee harmless, in detention,
Close at thy game.

Now, though all Europe has confest
That in thy master Maelzel's breast
Hidden, thy secret still must rest,
Yet, 't were great pity,

With all our intellectual sight,

That none should view thy nature right—
But thou must leave in fog and night

Our keen-eyed city.

Then just confide in me, and show,
Or tell how things within thee go,
Speak in my ear so quick and low
None else shall know it.

But, mark me! if I should discover
Without thine aid, thy secret mover,
With thee for ever all is over;
I'll quickly blow it!

H. W. LONGFELLOW

Is a native of the State of Maine, and one of the Professors in Bowdoin College. He is now in Europe.

HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS, AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S BANNER.

The standard of Count Pulaski, the noble Pole who fell in the attack upon Savannah, during the American Revolution, was of crimson silk, embroidered by the Moravian Nuns of Bethlehem, in Pennsylvania.

WHEN the dying flame of day
Through the chancel shot its ray,
Far the glimmering tapers shed
Faint light on the cowled head,
And the censer burning swung,
Where before the altar hung
That proud banner, which with prayer
Had been consecrated there.

And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard the while,
Sung low in the dim mysterious aisle.

Take thy banner!—may it wave
Proudly o'er the good and brave,
When the battle's distant wail
Breaks the sabbath of our vale,—
When the clarion's music thrills
To the hearts of these lone hills,-
When the spear in conflict shakes,
And the strong lance shivering breaks.