Mary turned her head to wipe the tear she could no longer detain in the fountain, and to summon resolution to reply, for he had touched a cord the most tender and secret in her whole heart; and not thoughtlessly or inadvertently had he so done-so far from it, he had resolved on searching out the mystery of some of her late misgivings, which she supposed had been concealed by a smile of compulsion in his presence, before he left the city; and, in truth, his very errand this evening had been, to learn if he were the cause, and if he was, to offer his heart, his hand, and his whole soul most publicly to her service. That she entertained the warmest interest in his welfare, he could not doubt—and that she wished him life and health and prosperity, and loved his society; but all this might be, he thought, and the heart still inaccessible to his love. The tearful eye, the tender tone, the half-smothered sigh, had never to him fully revealed the truth. While she was rallying for a reply, he had carelessly taken from her portfolio which had not yet been replaced, the sheet on which she was writing when he entered, and without appearing to notice her hesitation, he commenced reading to himself.

While he was earnestly tracing the half-illegible lines, Mary had recovered herself so as to be able in part to answer his question-for she would not for the whole world he should have read its full reply, which would have been but a tale of fearful, quenchless love. She turned and crushed the paper in his hands, remarking:

"Come, Horace, that is mere nonsense, and savors but of the same spirit you are so curious to scan. It aims at nothing-means nothing, no more than these foolish tears, which rise uncommissioned and fall unbidden."

For a moment the lovers sat in an awkward silence, which one dared not trust herself, and the other felt no disposition to break, for the poem together with her appearance had told the whole secret. He was doubtful now, more than ever, what course to pursue, much as he loved her and desired her love in return. To "declare himself," as the phrase is, and leave her to months of painful anxiety and suspense, with

WASHINGTON CROSSING THE DELAWARE.

73

the almost certain prospect that the grave alone could unite them, and therefore to find widowhood of heart; or to return to the South, leaving her free to forget or remember him, were at this moment contending purposes in his mind-to the former of which, for his own happiness, he was almost resolved to lean, while reason urged him to the latter. He was, indeed, completely unmanned, and his firmest and best resolutions had left him. He did not know the strength of woman's affection, and that forgetfulness of an object once beloved is among the impossibilities of her true nature, and that at any time she would rather consign the subject of her love to the grave, than to be the object of his final neglect. At length, being all as yet undecided, he broke the silence by saying:

“Mary, you will write to me when I am absent, will you not? for, obliged to lay at my oars for many months perhaps, with little to amuse me but this racking pain in my side, I shall need all the stimulants of friendship to keep me in spirits."

Least of all shall I be able to cheer you, thought Mary, as she replied: "You have many warm friends where you go, doubtless, in whose presence you will forget the ephemera with whom you have sported while here." And another silence ensued, the embarrassment and painfulness of which was broken by the entrance of Hope Grayson.

Immediately Baker arose, as if glad to escape from a scene where conflicting feelings had held him spell-bound; and with a kind expression to each, bade them good night, and departed.

(To be concluded in our next.)

Original.

WASHINGTON CROSSING THE DELAWARE.

BY MRS. M. L. GARDINER.

The hero walked the guarded tent dismayed;

A nation's pulse within his bosom played;

War's dreaded legions lay encamped around,

Like thirsty bloodhounds on the embattled ground.
Cold was the day-dark the portentous hour,
And Freedom wept within her lonely bower;
Around her form Despair her mantle cast,

While Hope stood trembling 'mid the furious blast.
Winter's white ermine dressed each hill and dale,
Each mountain top, each dew-bespangled vale;

The lakes and streams were chilled by Boreas's breath;

All nature seemed consigned to instant death.

The sun, affrighted at th' appalling scene,

Behind a cloud hid his enlivening beam.

Loud howled the storm; pale Famine stalked around,

And hope deferred kept Roman spirits bound.

Pursued and hunted by th' invading foe,

O'er ice-clad plains and mounds of drifted snow,
Hungry and sad, no cheering prospect near,

They sank exhausted, like the stricken deer.

New Jersey's shore with Hessians lay o'erspread,
Sure of success, by British chieftains led,
Boasting of conquest, heedless of the spy,

Who gazed upon them with an eagle eye-
Mixed with the soldiers, marked their cantonments,
Counted their hosts and rambled round their tents:
Then to our chief quickly the tidings brings.
"Now is the time," he cries, " to clip their wings!"
Fleeting his joy, as round the conqueror threw
His piercing eyes-all cheerless was the view.
A few disheartened soldiers lay around,
Weary and sad, upon the ice-clad ground,
Waiting, impatient for the hour to come,

When they should leave war's blood-stained fields for home.

Hark! 'mid the gloom a voice breaks on his ear:

"Our cause is desperate, but we do not fear.
Strike now the blow-let death or victory come-
Unfurl the banner-beat the stirring drum.
To arms to arms! let each true patriot rise,
Till our artillery rend the vaulted skies.
We can but die-like men we'll meet our doom
The cannon's flash shall light us to the tomb!"
The tide of war rolled high its dashing wave-
They seized its flood, and floated o'er their grave.
To heaven their chief raised his imploring eye;
Then through the ranks was heard his thrilling cry:
"To arms! to arms!-now comes the trying hour.
Soldiers, awake! once more exert your power.
Lo! your commander leads you on to fame,
Immortal glory, or a martyr's name!"

"Twas night; the east wind with its murmuring roar,
Swept hoarsely down the Delaware's icy shore.
"Twas night; and 'mid the deep, broad vault on high,
No starlight gleamed athwart the troubled sky.
Down to the stream which forced its winding way
Through hills and valleys where the foeman lay,.
Onward they strode. 'Twas hope's last glimmering hour.
With spirits nerved by a mysterious power,
Down to the stream with naked feet they sped;
The crimson current followed in their tread.
No moon's pale beams illumed their weary way,
Lighting them onward to the direful fray.
Inspired alone by that heroic flame
Which burned the brighter as the battle came,
Led by their loved commander, lo! they brave
The hail, the snow, and e'en the crested wave.
The cannon's roar, the martial tramp, the drum,
Their floating banners, and bright thoughts of home
Allure them onward; while each fleeting breath
Quickens their steps for liberty or death!

Not such the scene within the foeman's tent-
On mirth and sport each daring soul was bent.
Sure of success, their joyous laugh resounds,
While at the wine cup every bosom bounds.
"Come, bring the viol-sweep the breathing lyre-
Let war's dread tumults for a while retire;
Fill high the bowl, and sing of Beauty's charms,

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WASHINGTON CROSSING THE DELAWARE.

Until once more we feel her clasping arms;

Till home and children on our visions rise
In vine-clad bowers beneath our sunny skies.
Renew the fire, and trim each flickering light-
Let the storm howl, we'll keep our spirits bright;
In mirth and joy and revelry we'll spend
This wintry night-let wine and music blend;
Furl the red banner-wrap its folds around,
And let our arms lay harmless on the ground;
The rebels fly-the day is now our own,

Our souls shall riot on a nation's groan.

How the scene brighters!-wine and mirth and glee!
Haste-spread the banquet-England's boys are we!"

Thus spake the haughty sons of Britain's isle,
Then laid them down, a vain, inglorious pile-
Their senses deadened by the poisonous bowl,
Which o'er them threw its deep, but short control.

Lo! the loud cannon rend the earth and sky!
While pealing sounds from lighter muskets fly.
The martial notes, as from the "spirit land,"
Break on their ear. A wild, distracted band
They rise-they rush-and on each other fall,
While echoing groans answer each other's call.
"The rebels, ho! the rebels-lo! they're here!
List their commander's voice, so shrill and clear!"
"Strike now, my boys-let every bullet tell!
Strike now, my boys, till e'en the desert swell
With the loud echo of our victory!

Now is your time-be true, and we are free!"

Loud through the air the dread artillery play'd—
The electric flash their onward footsteps stay'd.
Amid the roar of elemental strife,

Again was heard their General's voice, all rife
With martial ardor, and a nation's fame :
"Come on, my boys-ours is a deathless name.
Fight, till our flag shall wave in triumph here—
Fight, till our arms shall every traitor clear-
Fight, till the earth on which our spirits burn
Shall be our own, or prove a nation's urn!"

Close was the conflict-hot the battle came,

Shoulder to shoulder-lo! the sword-the flame!

Mowed down their ranks, the frightened Hessians fled,

While death's dark angel muttered o'er the dead.

Again the cannon with its thundering roar,

Swept through their ranks-the thick'ning volleys pour;
Again was heard the battle cry,
the moan,

'The clashing sword, the foeman's final groan.
Aghast with fear, they fought, they fell, they ran,
They knew not whither-ho! their broken van!
'Mid fire and smoke, upon th' ensanguined plain,
They lay in heaps, the dying and the slain.
Their dreams of joy fled like the morning light,
And hope's bright visions vanished from their sight.
Sag Harbor, L. I., April 18, 1842.

"THE Courtship of the Calmucks is a horse race. The lady whose good will is solicited, is mounted on horseback, and the wooer follows. If he is favored, he is permitted to overtake; if not, whip and spur are vain, for the lady is too good an equestrian, and has too much at stake, to be overtaken. Among the Crim Tartars, courtship and marriage are cumbered with ceremony, and the contract is made with the heads of the tribe. At the period of the wedding, the villages near are feasted for several days. Much ceremony is used in preparing the bride, who is bound to show every symptom of reluctance. The priest asks the bride if she consents, and on the affirmative, blesses the couple in the name of the prophet, and retires. There is a great ceremony and cavalcade, when the bride is carried to her future home. She is carried in a close carriage, under the care of her brothers, while the bridegroom takes a humble station in the procession, dressed in his worst apparel, and badly mounted. A fine horse, however, is led for him by a friend, who receives from the mother of the bride a present of value, as a shawl."-Selected.

SYMPATHY. It is from having suffered ourselves, that we learn to appreciate the misfortunes and the wants of others, and become doubly interested in preventing or relieving them. "The human heart," as an elegant French author observes, "resembles certain medicinal trees, which yield not their healing balm until they have themselves been wounded."