bull-dog spirit-their readiness to fight for anybody, and on any occasion. Sir, England has been for centuries the game-cock of Europe. It is impossible to specify the wars in which she has been engaged for contrary purposes; -and she will, with great pleasure, see us take off her shoulders the labour of preserving the balance of power. We find her fighting, now, for the Queen of Hungary-then, for her inveterate foe, the King of Prussia-now at war for the restoration of the Bourbons and now on the eve of war with them, for the liberties of Spain. These lines on the subject were never more applicable than they have now become

"Now Europe's balanced-neither side prevails-
For nothing's left in either of the scales."

If we pursue the same policy, we must travel the same road, and endure the same burdens, under which England now groans. But, glorious as such a design might be, a president of the United States would, in his apprehension, occupy a prouder place in history, who, when he retires from office, can say to the people who elected him, I leave you without a debt, than if he had fought as many pitched battles as Cæsar, or achieved as many naval victories as Nelson. And what is debt? In an individual, it is slavery. It is slavery of the worst sort, surpassing that of the West India islands, for it enslaves the mind as well as it enslaves the body; and the creature who can be abject enough to incur and to submit to it, receives in the condition of his being an adequate punishment. Of course, I speak of debt, with the exception of unavoidable misfortune. I speak of debt caused by mismanagement, by unwarrantable generosity, by being generous before being just. I know that this sentiment was ridiculed by Sheridan, whose lamentable end was the best commentary upon its truth. No, sir: let us abandon these projects. Let us say to those seven millions of Greeks, "We defended ourselves, when we were but three millions, against a power, in comparison to which the Turk is but as a lamb. Go, and do thou likewise." And so with respect to the governments of South America. If, after having achieved their independence, they have not valour to maintain it, I would not commit the safety and independence of this country in such a cause. I will, in both these cases, pursue the same line of conduct which I have ever pursued, from the day I took a seat in this house in '99; from which, without boasting, I challenge any gentleman to fix upon me any colourable charge of departure. RANDOLPH.

107.-AN INDIAN AT THE BURYING-PLACE OF HIS FATHERS

It is the spot I came to seek,-

My fathers' ancient burial-place,
Ere from these vales, ashamed and weak,
Withdrew our wasted race.

It is the spot-I know it well--
Of which our old traditions tell.

For here the upland bank sends out
A ridge toward the river side;
I know the shaggy hills about,

The meadows smooth and wide;
The plains that, toward the southern sky,
Fenced east and west by mountains lie.

The sheep are on the slopes around,
The cattle in the meadows feed,
And labourers turn the crumbling ground
Or drop the yellow seed,
And prancing steeds, in trappings gay,
Whirl the bright chariot on its way.

Methinks it were a nobler sight
To see these vales in woods array'd,
Their summits in the golden light,
Their trunks in grateful shade,
And herds of deer, that bounding go
O'er rills and prostrate trees below.

And then to mark the lord of all,

The forest hero, train'd to wars,
Quiver'd, and plumed, and lithe and tall,

And seam'd with glorious scars,
Walk forth, amid his reign, to dare
The wolf, and grapple with the bear.

This bank, in which the dead were laid,
Was sacred when its soil was ours;
Hither the artless Indian maid

Brought wreaths of beads and flowers,
And the gray chief and gifted seer
Worshipp'd the God of thunders here.

But now the wheat is green and high
On clods that hid the warrior's breast,
And scatter'd in the furrows, lie
The weapons of his rest;
And there, in the loose sand, is thrown
Of his large arm the mouldering bone.

Ah little thought the strong and brave,
Who bore their lifeless chieftain forth;
Or the young wife, that weeping gave
Her first-born to the earth,
That the pale race, who waste us now,
Among their bones should guide the plough

They waste us-ay-like April snow

In the warm noon, we shrink away;
And fast they follow, as we go
Towards the setting day, -
Till they shall fill the land, and we
Are driven into the western sea.

But I behold a fearful sign,

To which the white men's eyes are blind;
Their race may vanish hence, like mine,
And leave no trace behind,
Save ruins o'er the region spread,
And the white stones above the dead.

Before these fields were shorn and till'd,
Full to the brim our rivers flow'd;

The melody of waters fill'd

The fresh and boundless wood;
And torrents dash'd, and rivulets play'd,
And fountains spouted in the shade.

Those grateful sounds are heard no more,
The springs are silent in the sun,

The rivers, by the blackening shore,
With lessening current run;
The realm our tribes are crush'd to get
May be a barren desert yet.

BRYANT

108.-THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP.

WHAT hidest thou in thy treasure-caves and cells ?
Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main !
Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow-colour'd shells,
Bright things which gleam unreck'd of and in vain.
Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea!

We ask not such from thee.

Yet more, the depths have more ! What wealth untold,
Far down, and shining through their stillness, lies!

Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold,
Won from ten thousand royal argosies.

Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main!

Earth claims not these again !

Yet more, the depths have more!-Thy waves have roll'd

Above the cities of a world gone by!

Sand hath fill'd up the palaces of old,

Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry !
Dash o'er them, ocean! in thy scornful play,
Man yields them to decay !

Yet more! the billows and the depths have more !
High hearts and brave are gather'd to thy breast!
They hear not now the booming waters roar, -
The battle-thunders will not break their rest.
Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave!
Give back the true and brave!

Give back the lost and lovely!-Those for whom
The place was kept at board and hearth so long;
The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom
And the vain yearning woke midst festal song!
Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown,

--But all is not thine own!

HEMANS.

109. THE CLOSE OF AUTUMN.

THE melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown

and sere.

Heap'd in the hollows of the grove, the wither'd leaves lie dead,

They rustle to the eddying gust and to the rabbit's tread, The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay,

And from the wood top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day.

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprung and stood

In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood! Alas! they all are in their graves-the gentle race of

flowers

ours:

Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of
The rain is falling where they lie-but the cold November
rain
Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.
The wind-flower and the violet, they perish'd long ago,
And the brier-rose, and the orchis died, amid the summer's

glow;

But on the hill the golden rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn beauty

stood,

Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men,

And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade, and glen.

And now when comes the calm mild day-as still such days will come,

To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home;

When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,

And twinkle in the hazy light the waters of the rill,