He had a power; in his eye
There was a quenchless energy,
A spirit that could dare

The deadliest form that death could take,
And dare it for the daring's sake.

He stood, the fetters on his hand-
He raised them haughtily;

And had that grasp been on the brand
It could not wave on high

With freer pride than it waved now.
Around he looked, with changeless brow
On many a torture nigh:

The rack, the chain, the axe, the wheel,
And, worst of all, his own red steel.

I saw him once before; he rode
Upon a coal-black steed,

And tens of thousands thronged the road,
And bade their warrior speed.

His helm, his breastplate, were of gold,
And graved with many a °dint, that told
Of many a soldier's deed;

The sun shone on his sparkling omail,
And danced his snow-plume on the gale.

But now he stood, chained and alone,
The headsman by his side;

The plume, the helm, the charger, gone;
The sword, which had defied
The mightiest, lay broken near;
And yet no sign or sound of fear
Came from that lip of pride;
And never king or conqueror's brow
Wore higher look than his did now.

He bent beneath the headsman's stroke
With an uncovered eye;

A wild shout from the numbers broke
Who thronged to see him die.

It was a people's loud acclaim,
The voice of anger and of shame,
A nation's funeral cry,
Rome's wail above her only son,
Her patriot, and her latest one.

MISS L. E. LANDON.

XXXV. “I HAVE SEEN AN END OF ALL PERFECTION."

I have seen a man in the glory of his days, and the pride of his strength. He was built like the tall cedar that lifts its head above the forest trees; like the strong oak that strikes its root deeply into the earth. He feared no danger; he felt no sickness, he wondered that any should groan or sigh at pain. His mind was vigorous, like his body he was perplexed at no °in'tricacy, he was °däunted at no difficulty; into hidden things he searched, and what was crooked he nade plain.

He went forth fearlessly upon the face of the mighty deep; he surveyed the nations of the earth; he measured the distances of the stars, and called them by their names; he gloried in the extent of his knowledge, in the vigor of his, understanding, and strove to search even into what the Almighty had concealed. And when I looked on him I said, “What a piece of work is man! how noble in reason! how infinite in faculties! in form and moving how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension how like a God !"

I returned his look was no more lofty, nor his step proud; his broken frame was like some ruined tower; his hairs were white and scattered; and his eye gazed vacantly upon what was passing around him. The vigor of his intellect was wasted, and of all that he had gained by study, nothing remained. He feared when there was no danger, and when there was no sorrow he wept. His memory was decayed and treacherous, and showed him only broken images of the glory that was departed.

His house was to him like a strange land, and his friends were counted as his enemies; and he thought himself strong and healthful while his foot tottered on the verge of the grave. He said of his son, "He is my brother;" of his daughter, "I know her not;" and he inquired what was his own name. And one who supported his last steps, and ministered to his many wants, said to me, as I looked on the melancholy scene, "Let thine heart receive instruction, for thou hast seen an end of all earthly perfection."

I have seen an infant with a fair brow, and a frame like polished ivory. Its limbs were pliant in its sports; it rejoiced, and again it wept; but whether its glowing cheek 'dimpled with smiles, or its blue eye was brilliant with tears, still I said to my heart, "It is beautiful." It was like the first pure blossom, which some cherished plant has shot forth, whose cup is filled with a dewdrop, and whose head reclines upon its parent stem.

I again saw this child when the lamp of reason first dawned in its mind. Its soul was gentle and peaceful; its eye sparkled with joy,

as it looked round on this good and pleasant world. It ran swiftly in the ways of knowledge; it bowed its ear to instruction, it stood like a lamb before its teachers. It was not proud, or envious, or stubborn; and it had never heard of the vices and vanities of the world. And when I looked upon it I remembered that our Saviour had said, "Except ye become as little children, ye cannot enter into the kingdom of heaven."

But the scene was changed, and I saw a man whom the world called honorable, and many waited for his smile. They pointed out the fields that were his, and talked of the silver and gold he had gathered; they admired the stateliness of his domes, and extolled the honor of his family. And his heart answered secretly, "By my wisdom have I gotten all this." So he returned no thanks to God, neither did

he fear or serve him.

And as I passed along, I heard the complaints of the laborers who had reaped down his fields, and the cries of the poor, whose covering he had taken away, but the sound of feasting and revelry was in his apartments, and the unfed beggar came tottering from his door. But he considered not that the cries of the oppressed were continually entering the ears of the Most High. And when I knew that this man was once the teachable child that I had loved, the beautiful infant that I had gazed upon with delight, I said in my bitterness, "I have seen an end of all perfection ;" and I laid my mouth in the dust. MRS. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.

XXXVI. "I OWE NO MAN A DOLLAR."

CH! do not envy, my own dear wife,

The wealth of our next-door neighbor,

But bid me still be stout of heart,

And cheerfully follow my labor.

You must know, the last of those little debts
That have been our lingering sorrow,
Is paid this night! so we'll both go forth,

And shake hands with the world to-morrow!
Oh! the debtor is but a shame-faced dog

With the creditor's name on his collar;
While I am a king, and you are a queen,
For we owe no man a dollar!

Our neighbor you saw in the coach to-day,
With his wife and °fläunting daughter,

While we sat down to our coverless board,
To a crust and a cup of water.

I saw that the tear-drop stood in your eye,
Though you tried your best to conceal it;
I knew that the contrast reached your heart,
And you could not help but feel it;
But knowing now that our scanty fare
Has freed my neck from the collar,
You'll join my läugh, and help me shout
That we owe no man a dollar!

This neighbor, whose show has dazzled your eyes, In fact is a wretched debtor;

I pity him oft, from my very heart,

And I wish that his lot were better.
Why, the man is the °veriest slave alive,
For his dashing wife and daughter
Will live in style though ruin should come,
So he goes like a lamb to the slaughter-
But he feels it the tighter every day,

That terrible debtor's collar!

Oh! what would he give could he say with us
That he owed no man a dollar!

You seem amazed, but I'll tell you more-
Within two hours I met him,
Sneaking along with a frightened air,

As if a fiend had beset him.

Yet he fled from a very worthy man,

Whom I met with the greatest pleasure-
Whom I called by name and forced to stop,
Though he said he was not at leisure.
He held my last note! so I held him fast
Till he freed my neck from the collar;
Then I shook his hand, and proudly said,
"Now I owe no man a dollar."

Ah! now you smile, for you feel the force
Of the truths I've been repeating;
I knew that a downright honest heart
In that gentle breast was beating!
To-morrow I'll rise with a giant's strength
To follow my daily labor;

But êre we sleep, let us humbly pray
For our wretched next-door neighbor.

And we'll pray for the time when ALL shall be free
From the weight of the debtor's collar;

When the poorest will lift up his voice and say
"Now I owe no man a dollar!"

C. P. SHIRAS.

XXXVII.-ECHOES.

ECHOES reside, for the most part, in ruined abbeys, in caverns, and in grottos: they reverberate among mountains, whisper in the areas of antique halls, in the windings of long passages, and in the melancholy aisles of arched cathedrals.

There is an ancient portico near the temple of Clymenos, in the district of Cthonia, which repeats three times, on which account it is called THE ECHO." At °Woodstock there was one which returned seventeen syllables during the day, and twenty in the night. In the sep'ulcher of Metella, the wife of Crassus, an echo repeated five different times in five different okeys; and oBarthius, in his notes on Statius, relates that on the bank of the Nache, between "Bingen and Coblentz, an echo recited seventeen times. He who spoke or sung could scarcely be heard, and yet the responses were loud and distinct, clear and various; sometimes appearing to approach, at other times to come from a great distance, much after the manner of an Æolian harp.

о

In the cemetery of the Abercorn family at Paisley, in the county of Renfrew, there is an echo exceedingly beautiful and romantic. When the door of the chapel is shut, the reverberations are equal to the sound of thunder. Breathe a single note in music, and the tone ascends gradually, with a multitude of echoes, till it dies in soft and most bewitching murmurs. If the effect of one instrument is delightful, that of several in concert is captivating, exciting the most tumultuous and rapturous sensations! In this chapel, lulled by ethereal echoes, sleeps Margery, the daughter of Bruce, the wife of Wallace, and the mother of Robert, king of Scotland.

A singular echo is heard in a grotto near Castle Comber in Ireland. No reverberation is observed till the listener is within fifteen or sixteen feet of the extremity of the grotto, at which place a most delightful echo enchants the ear. Does there exist any one who has not heard of the Eagle's Nest, near Mucross Abbey, on the banks of the Lake of Killarney? This celebrated rock sends forth the most