rage, combated the fierce champion of direful mind. Iolunn turned to my son, who strenuously fought against the great boned, wounding, nimble, quick-handed, high-leaping hero. As a torrent of a river in a valley, the destruction of their blood was so violent: as firebrands from the hearth, such was the din of the bloody heroes. Oscar made a clean manly stroke towards the brave hero of undaunted heart, and by that stroke of his steel severed from the body the head of the king of Spain. Ulin, and all our bards, sung the lament of grief on the sloping side of the mountain: the victory and fame of Oscar was sung; and to him was given the right hand of the seven armies. The funeral of a king's son we gave to Iolunn, of the fiercest mind; and every one of the Fingalians lamented, with tears, the death of the maid.

Upon this sacred hill is his grave-stone, Patrick: it is a true tale: the maid's stone is on the other side. Good and great were they all in their time; every one of them was a valuable jewel. Peace be to their souls together; and may blessing attend you, Ossian.

ADDRESS TO THE RISING SUN.

O THOU that rollest above, round as the full-orbed hard shield of the mighty! whence is thy unsullied beam? whence, O Sun! thy everlasting light? Thou comest forth in the strength of thy beauty; the stars hide their motions from our view; the moon darkens in the sky, concealing herself in the eastern wave. Thou art on thy journey alone; who will presume to attend thy course? The oaks fall on the high precipice; the stony heap and the hoary cliff sink under age: Ocean ebbs and flows again; the moon herself is lost in the sky: Thou alone triumphest in the undecaying joys of thy light. When tempests darken round the world, with angry thunders, and sharp-edged lightnings, thou lookest in thy beauty from the storm, smiling amidst the disorder of the sky. But to me thy light is vain, whether thou spreadest thy gold-yellow curls on the face of the eastern cloud (banishing night from every place, except from the eye of the bard that never shall see thy light); or when thou tremblest in the west, at the dusky doors of the Ocean. (But thus aged, feeble, and gray, thou shalt yet be alone; thy progress in the sky shall be slow, and thou shalt be

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blind like me on the hill. Dark as the changeful moon, shall be thy wandering in the heavens; thou shalt not hear the awakening voice of the Morning, like the heroes that rise no more. The hunter shall survey the plain, but shall not behold thy coming form. Sad he will return, his tears pouring forth: My favorite hound! the sun has forsaken us!") - Perhaps thou art like me, at times strong, feeble at times; our years descending from the sky, and hastening together towards their end. Rejoice, O Sun! as thou advancest in the vigor of thy youth. Age is sad and unlovely: it is like the useless moon in the sky, gliding through a dark cloud on the field, when the gray mist is by the side of the stony heaps; the blast of the north is on the plain; the traveler is languid and slow. (The light of the night will then rejoice, when the Son of brightness has departed.)

ADDRESS TO THE SETTING SUN.

HAST thou left thy blue course in the sky, blameless Sun of the gold-yellow locks? the doors of Night open before thee; and the pavilion of thy repose is in the west. The billows crowd slowly around to view thy bright cheeks they lift their heads in fear, when they behold thee so lovely in thy sleep, and shrink away with awe from thy sides. Sleep thou on in thy cave, O Sun; and let thy return again be with joy.

[As a beam of the wintry Sun, swift-gliding over the plain of Leno, so are the days of Fingal's race, like the Sun gleaming by fits through the shower. The dark gray clouds of the sky have descended, and snatched the cheering beam from the hunter: the leafless branches of the wood are mourning, and the tender herbs of the mountain droop in sadness. But the Sun will yet revisit the fair grove, whose boughs shall bloom anew; and the trees of the young summer shall look up smiling, to the son of the sky.]

MOR-GLAN AND MIN-ONN.

WHO is this that descendeth from the mist, and poureth forth his wounds on the wind? Oh! deep is that wound in his breast, and dim is yonder deer by his side! Yonder is the ghost of the fair Mor-glan, the king of Lia'-glas of many streams; he came

to Morven with his love, the daughter of Sora, of the pleasant and gentle countenance. He ascended the mountain to the summit, and Min-onn he left behind in his house; thick mist descended with the night of the clouds; the streams roared, and the ghosts shrieked. The young maid again ascended the mountain, and saw the deer through the mist; with choice aim she drew the string, and the arrow is fixed in the breast of the youth. In the sacred hill, we entombed the hero, together with his arrow and dart in his narrow house, and gladly would Minonn lie under the same clod, but she returned with sorrow to her own land. Heavy was her grief and sad, but the stream of years have rolled along, and she is now cheerful with the virgins of Sora.

Fierce to me is the roaring of thy waves, and the gray-headed seas beating against the bottom of thy hills, and the swelling fierce blasts from the south; it is not for my profit that you have blown.

Now the heroes drew to close fight, like two opposite streams in strong conflict, and every wind strengthening their labor; their strokes were fierce, loud-sounding, and deadly; heavy, quick and bloody were the valiant heroes, like waves meeting from opposite sides, when they are driven to flight by the howling storm, upon a hard cliff half-way between two points. Their long tough spears were broke asunder, their darts fled off in pieces; their polished swords were in their hands, valiantly and bloodily they fought, like dangerous, leaping bears; like two fiery meteors nimbly running along the sky, or like two strong ghosts contending with one another. As falls the lofty green pine-tree by the strong blast of the desert in Morven, so the echoing rock yielded and shook, the earth moved underneath and trembled; thus did the noble hero fall under the hard-tearing steel of Ca-huil.

I fell in the beginning of the conflict, and my fame will not rise in the song; but it is by the sword of the hero I fell, and my valor shall become renowned by his fame; it was the sword of the king of Innis-tore, that wounded in the kidneys the mighty hero. Happy be thy soul, O bard, let me hear thy loud voice on high, and let me ride on thy storm, clothed with the gray mist of the forest. Yonder flat stone at the green morass, raise up at my head. Let it be carried over the sloping feeble rivulets, in which the aged shall sing when he shall not find it there.

Maid of Sora, my love, though in this field fell thy chosen

lover, let thy tears fall in streams; martial eye of the hot battles, my spear hang up in thy hall, the spear of my love, though it wounded me, upon which I sailed through the high billows of the ocean. When Ca-huil heard that speech, sadness and sorrow sat heavy on his mind: he fell upon the face of his son, for the shield of his forefathers he knew. Alas! and alas, my beloved son, thou shalt wake no more forever! Alas! and alas, alas! my tormenting pain, pity it is that it is I who remains after thee!

THE DEATH-Song of OSSIAN.

SUCH were the words of the bards in the days of song; when the king heard the music of harps, the tales of other times! The chiefs gathered from all their hills, and heard the lovely sound. They praised the Voice of Cona! the first among a thousand bards! But age is now on my tongue; my soul has failed! I hear at times the ghosts of the bards, and learn their pleasant song. But memory fails on my mind. I hear the call of years! They say, as they pass along, Why does Ossian sing? Soon shall he lie in the narrow house, and no bard shall raise his fame! Roll on, ye dark-brown years; ye bring no joy on your course! Let the tomb open to Ossian, for his strength has failed. The sons of song are gone to rest. My voice remains, like a blast that roars lonely on a sea-surrounded rock, after the winds are laid. The dark moss whistles there; the distant mariner sees the waving trees!

JAMES MADISON.

JAMES MADISON, fourth President of the United States, born at Port Conway, Va., March 16, 1751; died at Montpelier, Va., June 28, 1836. He entered the college at Princeton, N. J., where he was graduated in 1772.

Early in 1776 he was elected a member of the Virginia Convention. In 1777 he was elected a member of the Council of State; and in 1780 he was chosen delegate to Congress, in which body he remained until 1784.

Madison was one of the delegates to the Philadelphia Convention, which resulted in the formation of the present Constitution of the United States. He took copious notes of the debates in this Convention; and these form our best source of information respecting the proceedings.

For the ensuing twenty years Madison occupied a prominent place in our political history, and in 1809 became President of the United States, succeeding Thomas Jefferson and serving for two terms, ending in 1817. During his incumbency occurred the second war (1812-1815) with Great Britain. After the close of his second term he retired to his estate at Montpelier.

Madison was a voluminous writer, as is shown by the Madison Papers, a portion of which were published in 1840, by order of Congress, in 3 vols. 8vo. His "Life" has been written by William C. Rives (3 vols., 1859-1869), and more recently by Sidney H. Gay in the series of "American Statesmen" (1884). As a man of letters he is to be remembered mainly by his papers in The Federalist.

AN OBJECTION DRAWN FROM THE EXTENT OF COUNTRY ANSWERED.

(From The Federalist.)

WE have seen the necessity of the Union, as our bulwark against foreign danger; as the conservator of peace among ourselves; as the guardian of our commerce, and other common interests; as the only substitute for those military establishments which have subverted the liberties of the Old World;