that the executive, through the secretary of the Treasury, sent to Congress a tariff bill which would have destroyed numerous branches of our domestic industry; and, to the final destruction of all, that the veto has been applied to the bank of the United States, our only reliance for a sound and uniform currency; that the Senate has been violently attacked for the exercise of a clear constitutional power; that the House of Representatives have been unnecessarily assailed; and that the President has promulgated a rule of action for those who have taken the oath to support the constitution of the United States, that must, if there be practical conformity to it, introduce general nullification and end in the absolute subversion of the government.

Henry Clay.

Marco Bozzaris.

At midnight, in his guarded tent,

The Turk was dreaming of the hour
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,
Should tremble at his power:

In dreams, through camp and court, he bore
The trophies of a conqueror;

In dreams his song of triumph heard;
Then wore his monarch's signet ring:

Then pressed that monarch's throne - - a king;
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,
As Eden's garden bird.

At midnight, in the forest shades,

Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band,

True as the steel of their tried blades,
Heroes in heart and hand.

There had the Persian's thousands stood,
There had the glad earth drunk their blood

On old Platæa's day;

And now there breathed that haunted air

The sons of sires who conquered there,
With arm to strike and soul to dare,
As quick, as far as they.

"To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!"
He woke to die midst flame, and smoke,
And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke,
And death shots falling thick and fast
As lightnings from the mountain-cloud;
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud,
Bozzaris cheer his band:

"Strike-till the last armed foe expires;
Strike for your altars and your fires;

Strike

for the green graves of your sires, God, and your native land!”

They fought-like brave men, long and well;
They piled that ground with Moslem slain,
They conquered-but Bozzaris fell,

Bleeding at every vein.

His few surviving comrades saw

His smile when rang their proud burrah,

And the red field was won;

Then saw in death his eyelids close
Calmly, as to a night's repose,

Like flowers at set of sun.

Come to the bridal-chamber, Death!

Come to the mother's, when she feels,
For the first time, her first-born's breath:
Come when the blessed seals

That close the pestilence are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke;
Come in consumption's ghastly form,
The earthquake shock, the ocean-storm;
Come when the heart beats high and warm,
With banquet-song, and dance and wine:

But to the hero, when his sword

Has won the battle for the free,

Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word;
And in its hollow tones are heard

The thanks of millions yet to be.
Come, when his task of fame is wrought-
Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood bought-
Come in her crowning hour-and then
Thy sunken eye's unearthly light
To him is welcome as the sight

Of sky and stars to prisoned men:
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand
Of brother in a foreign land;
Thy summons welcome as the cry
That told the Indian isles were nigh

To the world-seeking Genoese.
When the land wind, from woods of palm,
And orange-groves, and fields of balm,
Blew o'er the Haytian seas.

Bozzaris! with the storied brave

Greece nurtured in her glory's time, Rest thee there is no prouder grave,

Even in her own proud clime.

She wore no funeral-weeds for thee,

Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume Like torn branch from death's leafless tree In sorrow's pomp and pageantry,

The heartless luxury of the tomb: But she remembers thee as one Long loved and for a season gone; For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed, Her marble wrought, her music breathed; For thee she rings the birthday bells; Of thee her babes' first lisping tells; For thee her evening prayer is said At palace-couch and cottage-bed; Her soldier, closing with the foe, Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow:

His plighted maiden, when she fears
For him the joy of her young years,
Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears:
And she, the mother of thy boys,
Though in her eye and faded cheek
Is read the grief she will not speak,

The memory of her buried joys,
And even she who gave thee birth,
Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth,
Talk of thy doom without a sigh:
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's,
One of the few, the immortal names,

That were not born to die.

Fitz-Greene Halleck

The Teetotal Mill.

Two jolly old topers sat once in an inn,
Discussing the merits of brandy and gin;
Said one to the other, "I'll tell you what, Bill,
I've been learning to-day of the Teetotal Mill.

"You must know that this comical Mill has been built
Of old broken casks, where the liquor 's been spilt;
You go up some high steps, and when at the sill,
You've a paper to sign at the Teetotal Mill.

"You promise, by signing this paper (I think),
That ale, wine and spirits you never will drink,
You give up (as they call it) such rascally swill,
And then you go into the Teetotal Mill.

"There's a wheel in this Mill that they call 'self-denial,' They turn it a bit, just to give you a trial;

Old clothes are made new, and if you've been ill,
You are very soon cured at the Teetotal Mill.”

Bill listened and wondered

at length he cried out,

"Why, Tom, if its true, what you're telling about,
What fools we must be to be here sitting still,
Let us go and we 'll look at this Teetotal Mill."

They gazed with astonishment; there came in a man,
With excess and disease his visage was wan;

He mounted the steps, signed the pledge with good will,
And went for a turn in the Teetotal Mill.

He quickly came out, the picture of health,
And walked briskly on the highway to wealth;
And, as onward he pressed, he shouted out still,
"Success to the wheel of the Teetotal Mill."

The next that went in were a man and his wife,
For many long years they 'd been living in strife;
He had beaten her shamefully, swearing he'd kill,
But his heart took a turn in the Teetotal Mill.

And when he came out how altered was he,
Steady, honest, and sober—how happy was she;
They no more contend, "No you shan't;" "Yes I will."
They were blessing together the Teetotal Mill.

Next came a rough fellow, as grim as a Turk,
To curse and to swear seemed his principal work;
He swore that that morning himself he would fill,
And drunk as he was he reeled into the Mill.

And what he saw there, I never could tell,
But his conduct was changed, and his language as well;
I saw, when he turned round the brow of the hill,
That he knelt and thanked God for the Teetotal Mill.

The poor were made rich, the weak were made strong, The shot was made short, and the purse was made long — These miracles puzzled both Thomas and Bill,

At length they went in for a turn in the Mill.

A little time after, I heard a great shout,

I turned round to see what the noise was about;

A flag was conveyed to the top of the hill,

And a crowd, amongst which were both Thomas and Bill, Were shouting, "Hurrah for the Teetotal Mill.”