Thy name, thy verse, thy language, shall they bear,
And deck for thee the vaulted temple there.

Our Roman-hearted fathers broke
Thy parent empire's galling yoke;

But thou, harmonious master of the mind,
Around their sons a gentler chain shalt bind;
Once more in thee shall Albion's sceptre wave,

And what her Monarch lost her Monarch-Bard shall save.

THE BROTHERS.

We are but two-the others sleep
Through Death's untroubled night;
We are but two-0, let us keep
The link that binds us bright!

Heart leaps to heart-the sacred flood
That warms us is the same;

That good old man-his honest blood
Alike we fondly claim.

We in one mother's arms were locked-
Long be her love repaid;

In the same cradle we were rocked,
Round the same hearth we played.

Our boyish sports were all the same,
Each little joy and woe:-

Let manhood keep alive the flame,
Lit up so long ago.

We are but two-be that the band
To hold us till we die;

Shoulder to shoulder let us stand,

Till side by side we lie.

THE FAMILY MEETING.1

We are all here!

Father, mother,

Sister, brother,

All who hold each other dear.
Each chair is filled-we're all at home;
To-night let no cold stranger come;
It is not often thus around

Our old familiar hearth we're found.

These lines were written on occasion of the accidental meeting of all the surviving members of a family, the father and mother of which, one eightytwo, the other eighty years old, have lived in the same house fifty-three years.

Bless, then, the meeting and the spot;
For once be every care forgot;
Let gentle Peace assert her power,
And kind Affection rule the hour;
We're all-all here.

We're not all here!

Some are away-the dead ones dear,
Who thronged with us this ancient hearth,
And gave the hour to guiltless mirth.
Fate, with a stern, relentless hand,
Looked in and thinned our little band;
Some like a night-flash passed away,
And some sank, lingering, day by day:
The quiet graveyard-some lie there-
And cruel Ocean has his share-
We're not all here.

We are all here!

Even they-the dead-though dead, so dear.
Fond Memory, to her duty true,

Brings back their faded forms to view.
How life-like, through the mist of years,
Each well-remembered face appears!
We see them as in times long past;
From each to each kind looks are cast;
We hear their words, their smiles behold,
They're round us as they were of old-
We are all here.

We are all here!
Father, mother,

Sister, brother,

You that I love with love so dear.
This may not long of us be said;
Soon must we join the gathered dead;
And by the hearth we now sit round
Some other circle will be found.
O, then, that wisdom may we know
Which yields a life of peace below!
So, in the worlds to follow this,
May each repeat, in words of bliss,
We're all-all here!

THE WINGED WORSHIPPERS.

ADDRESSED TO TWO SWALLOWS THAT FLEW INTO CHAUNCEY PLACE CHURCH DURING DIVINE SERVICE.

Gay, guiltless pair,

What seek ye from the fields of heaven!

Ye have no need of prayer,

Ye have no sins to be forgiven.

I see thee still,

In every hallowed token round;
This little ring thy finger bound,
This lock of hair thy forehead shaded,
This silken chain by thee was braided,
These flowers, all withered now, like thee,
Sweet Sister, thou didst cull for me;
This book was thine; here didst thou read;
This picture-ah! yes, here, indeed,
I see thee still.

I see thee still;

Here was thy summer noon's retreat,
Here was thy favorite fireside seat;
This was thy chamber-here, each day,
I sat and watched thy sad decay:
Here, on this bed, thou last didst lie;
Here, on this pillow-thou didst die.
Dark hour!-once more its woes unfold;
As then I saw thee, pale and cold,
I see thee still.

I see thee still;

Thou art not in the grave confined-
Death cannot claim the immortal Mind;
Let Earth close o'er its sacred trust,
But Goodness dies not in the dust;
Thee, O my Sister! 'tis not thee
Beneath the coffin's lid I see;
Thou to a fairer land art gone;
There, let me hope, my journey done,
To see thee still!

THE OCCASIONS OF INTEMPERANCE.

It is truly astonishing to behold how completely the habit of unnecessary drinking pervades the various classes of our community. In one way or another, it is their morning and evening devotion, their noonday and midnight sacrifice. From the highest grade to the lowest, from the drawing-room to the kitchen, from the gentleman to the laborer, down descends the universal custom: from those who sit long at the wine that has been rocked upon the ocean, and ripened beneath an Indian sky, down to those who solace themselves with the fiery liquor that has cursed no other shores than our own-down, till it reaches the miserable abode, where the father and mother will have rum, though the children cry for bread-down to the bottom, even to the prison-house, the forlorn inmate of which

hails him his best friend, who is cunning enough to convey to him, undiscovered, the all-consoling, the all-corroding poison.

Young men must express the warmth of their mutual regard, by daily and nightly libations at some fashionable hotel-it is the custom. The more advanced take turns in flinging open their own doors to each other, and the purity of their esteem is testified by the number of bottles they can empty togetherit is the custom. The husband deems it but civil to commemorate the accidental visit of his acquaintance by a glass of ancient spirit, and the wife holds it a duty to celebrate the flying call of her companion with a taste of the latest liqueur— for this, also, is the custom. The interesting gossipry of every little evening coterie must be enlivened with the customary cordial. Custom demands that idle quarrels, perhaps generated over a friendly cup, another friendly cup must drown. Foolish wagers are laid, to be adjusted in foolish drinkingthe rich citizen stakes a dozen, the poor one'a dram. "The brisk minor panting for twenty-one" baptizes his new-born manhood in the strong drink to which he intends training it up. Births, marriages, and burials are all hallowed by strong drink. Anniversaries, civic festivities, military displays, municipal elections, and even religious ceremonials, are nothing without strong drink. The political ephemera of a little noisy day, and the colossus whose footsteps millions wait upon, must alike be apotheosized in liquor. A rough-hewn statesman is toasted at, and drank at, to his face in one place, while his boisterous adversary sits through the same mummery in another. Here, in their brimming glasses, the adherents of some successful candidate mingle their congratulations; and there, in like manner, the partisans of his defeated rival forget their chagrin. Even the great day of national emancipation is, with too many, only a great day of drinking; and the proud song of deliverance is trolled from the lips of those who are bending body and soul to a viler thraldom than that from which their fathers rescued them.1

Happily these censures are not applicable to so great an extent now as in 1825, when they were written. All honor, however, to Mr. Sprague, and other early laborers in the cause of temperance, whose influence has effected the happy changes which of late years we have witnessed.

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