In vintage gay I bathe my lips,
Till the white star floats up the seas;
Then, as upon the hill o'erhead,

The quiet shepherd pens his fold,
I sit among the stilly Dead,

And sing the songs they loved of old,
And hear their echoes, grown divine,
Come back through this waked heart of mine.

But when o'er hill and ocean soon
Falls the deep midnight blue and rare,
And tolling bell and rounded moon
Awake the trancèd time of prayer-
Through starry casement lone I gaze
Up on the heavenly path they've trod,
And murmur o'er their love and praise,
With lowly knees before our God:
And hear-as though beyond the sea,
The loved Old Voices pray for me.

THE MOTHER OF THE KINGS.

BY B. SIMMONS.

["I IMMEDIATELY followed Mademoiselle Rose into the chamber, and was introduced to the mother of Napoleon. Madam Lætitia was at that time eighty-three years of age, and never did I see a person so advanced in life with a brow and countenance so beaming with expression and undiminished intelligence; the quietness and brilliancy of her large sparkling eye was most remarkable. She was laid on a snow-white bed in one corner of the room; to which she told me she had been confined for three years, having as long as that ago had the misfortune to break her leg. The room was completely hung round with pictures, large, full-length portraits of her family, which covered every portion of the wall. All those of her sons who had attained to the regal dignity were represented in their royal robes; Napoleon, I believe, in the gorgeous apparel he wore at his coronation. She then, seeing us looking

earnestly at the magnificent picture of Napoleon, which was hung close to the side of her bed, asked, if we did not admire it, gazing herself at it proudly and fondly, and saying, in French, That resembles the Emperor much; yes, how like him it is! I could not help feeling that she must exist as it were in a world of dreams, in a world of her own, or rather of memory's creation, with all these splendid shadows around her, that silently but eloquently spoke of the days departed."-Lady Emeline Stuart Worthy's Visit to Madam Lætitia, Mother of Napoleon, in "The Keepsake" for 1837.]

It was the noon of a Roman day that lit with mellow gloom,
Through marble-shafted windows deep, a grandly solemn room,
Where, shadowed o'er with canopy and pillowed upon down,
An aged woman lay unwatched-like perishing renown.

No crowned one she; though, in the pale and venerable grace
Of her worn cheek and lofty brow, might observation trace—
And in her dark eye's flash-a fire and energy to give
Life unto sons, whose sceptre-swords should vanquish all that live.

Strange looked that lady old, reclined upon her lonely bed
In that vast chamber, echoing not to page or maiden's tread;
And stranger still the gorgeous forms, in portrait, that glanced
round

From the high walls, with cold bright looks more eloquent than sound.

They were her children. Never yet, since, with the primal beam,
Fair painting brought on rainbow wings its own immortal dream,
Did one fond mother give such race beneath its smile to glow,
As they who now back on her brow their pictured glories throw.
Her daughters there the beautiful!—look'd down in dazzling
sheen :

One lovelier than the Queen of Love-one crown'd an earthly queen!

Her sons—the proud—the Paladins! with diadem and plume, Each leaning on his sceptred arm, made empire of that room!

But right before her couch's foot, one mightiest picture blazed—
One august form, to which her eyes incessantly were raised ;—
A monarch's, too!-and, monarch-like, the artist's hand had
bound him

With jewell❜d belt, imperial sword, and ermin'd purple round him.

One well might deem from the white flags that o'er him flashed and rolled,

Where the puissant lily laughed and waved its bannered gold, And from the Lombard's iron crown beneath his hand which lay, That Charlemagne had burst death's reign and leaped again to day!

How gleamed that awful countenance, magnificently stern!
In its dark smile and smiting look, what destiny we learn!---

The laurel simply wreathes that brow, while nations watch its nod,
As though he scoff'd all pomp below the thunderbolts of God.

Such was the scene-the noontide hour-which, after many a year,
Had swept above the memory of his meteor-like career—
Saw the mother of the mightiest-NAPOLEON'S MOTHER-lie
With the living dead around her, with the past before her eye!

She saw her son-of whom the Seer in Patmos bare record-
Who broke one seal-one vial poured-wild angel of the Lord!
She saw him shadow earth beneath the terrors of his face,
And lived and knew that the hoarse sea-mew wailed o'er his
burial-place.

Yet was she not forgotten :-from every land and wave,
The noble and free-hearted all, the graceful and the brave
Passed not her halls unnoticed, but, lingering claimed to pay
The tribute of their chastened hearts to glory in decay.

And England's gentle Daughter, in that deserted hour,
Though greatness was thy handmaiden, and genius was thy dower,
Thou didst not scorn to come in youth and beauty to assuage,
Albeit for one bright moment brief, that woman's lonely age.

"I am alone!" she still exclaimed-and haply thou didst say,
How much our human sympathies were with her far away;
How much one spirit mourn'd with hers, let this wild strain im-
part,

Offered in homage, Lady, to thy good and gifted heart.

THE ANGLO-SAXON RACE.

BY M. HALPIN.

ASSYRIA! first of all the lands

That ruled with universal sway,

Thy Babylon with mortal hands

Was formed-thy pendant gardens gay

Thy squares and palaces of gold
Were builded by a race of men

Profound of thought, of heavenly mould,

That ruled for ages; but what then?

They were not of the Saxon race—
The parents grand of civilization;
What noble deeds doth history trace
Outside the Anglo-Saxon nation?

Th' Assyrian fell-- his empire pass'd
Away in darkness evermore,
Like noon without a cloud o'ercast,
Whose eve is rent by thunder's roar:
The Persian conquered; Cyrus reigned-
From ruin beauty sprung again-
He spread his laws and arts, and gained
From all submission; but what then?
He was not of the Saxon race-

The parents grand of civilization;
What noble deed doth history trace
Outside the Anglo-Saxon nation?

And lo! the hardy, daring Greek,
With art and science in his hand-
Philip's great son went forth to seek
New conquests in the Persian's land;
And triumphed o'er the then known earth-
Ay, wept for more. Oh! every pen
Delights to trace the Grecian's birth
And life and genius; but what then?
He was not of the Saxon race—

The parents grand of civilization;
What noble deed doth history trace
Outside the Anglo-Saxon nation?

Greece fell! just like an o'er-ripe fruit;
And haughty Rome upsprung in place,
And mightier grew; and set her foot
Upon the neck of every race.

The earth has never, never seen

In peace or war such matchless menYes, e'en in form, in height and mien,

Seemed more than mortal; but what then? They were not of the Saxon race— The parents grand of civilization; What noble deed doth history trace Outside the Anglo-Saxon nation?

The Goth and Vandal in their might,

Poured down from Danube's regal stream,
And swept o'er Rome, like plague's dark blight;
Her history since ?-a troubled dream.
Then Charlemagne uprose; his sword
Submission gained from royal men,
Till Europe's fearful feudal horde

Lay prostrate neath him; but what then?
He was not of the Saxon race-

The parents grand of civilization;
What noble deed doth history trace
Outside the Anglo-Saxon nation?

The Spaniard and the Portuguese-
The ocean kings whose standards waved
In haughty pride upon the seas,

Despite of dangers nobly braved.
The new world's wealth was theirs alone,
Whom unknown seas could never pen,
Spain's pride and glory then outshone
All other nations, but what then?

They were not of the Saxon race—
The parents grand of civilization;
What noble deed doth history trace
Outside the Anglo-Saxon nation?

And Gaul-"the merry land" of Gaul—
Hurled back united Europe's horde,
And played in frantic zeal with all

The "Rights of Kings." Napoleon's word
Made monarchs; potent was his sway,

O'er angry, proud, discordant men,

His mind was like a brilliant ray

Of light, all scorching; but what then?
He was not of the Saxon race-

The parents grand of civilization;
What noble deed doth history trace
Outside the Anglo-Saxon nation?

Great men have sprung from every land-
From every creed, and race, and clime:
The earth brings forth her hero band
Impartial as to place or time.

1