THE FIGHT OF PASO DEL MAR. She prays for her boy-oh! lonely heart Be strong in the strife to do thy part, And know that such blessings around thee shed, The mantle of her affection warm, That would shield thee from the pitiless storm, She prays for her boy-and thus it will be, It will whisper low of Heaven's wide joy, Saying, there thy mother yet prays for her boy! THE FIGHT OF PASO DEL MAR.-BAYARD TAYLOR. GUSTY and raw was the morning, A fog hung over the seas, Were torn by the mountain trees; Rode down to the Paso del Mar. The pescador, out in his shallop, Loom over the waste of the tide; Where the faint, moving speck of the rider Stout Pablo of San Diego Rode down from the hills behind; 199 Under his thick, mi-ted eyebrows, And fiercer he sang, as the sea-winds Now Bernal, the herdsman of Corral, Good reason he had to be gone! And the chill, driving scud of the breakers With his blanket wrapped gloomily round him, And the chasms and steeps of the headland When near him a mule bell came tinkling, "Back!" shouted Bernal full fiercely, And "Back!" shouted Pablo, in wrath; Came up from the breakers' hoarse war; And "Back, or you perish!" cried Bernal, "I turn not on Paso del Mar!" The gray mule stood firm as the headland And smote till he dropped it again, They fought, till the black wall below them OUR STATE. And, phrensied with pain, the swart herdsman They grappled with desperate madness OUR STATE. LONG years ago, a little band Of Pilgrims, from a distant shore, Found a wild home in that cold land Where the Atlantic's surges roar; They were strong, iron-hearted men, Oppression's stern, unyielding foes; And in each rugged mountain glen The village church and school-house rose. Those Pilgrim sires have passed away, But still they live in deathless fame; And Pilgrim mothers of that day Are crowned with an immortal name. Of which we cannot be bereft The freedom of the human mind. We find a new and pleasant home, From want, and war, and danger free, The church and school-house, side by side, 201 And may they be our boast and pride- Great God thy kind and bounteous care And rivers paved with golden sands. BABIE BELL.-T. B. ALDRICH. HAVE you not heard the poet tell, The gates of heaven were left ajar She touched a bridge of flowers-those feet They fell like dew upon the flowers! It came upon us by degrees; We saw its shadow ere it fell, The knowledge that our God had sent OUR COUNTRY'S ORIGIN. We shuddered with unlanguaged pain, And all our hopes were changed to fears- Aloud we cried in our belief: "Oh smite us gently, gently, God! And perfect grow through grief!" At last he came, the messenger, The messenger from unseen lands: 203 OUR COUNTRY'S ORIGIN.-DANIEL WEBSTER. OUR fathers came hither to a land from which they were never to return. Hither they had brought, and here they were to fix their hopes, their attachments, and their objects. Some natural tears they shed, as they left the pleasant abodes of their fathers, and some emotions they suppressed when the white cliffs of their native country, now seen for the last time, grew dim to their sight. A new existence awaited them here; and when they saw these shores, rough, cold, barbarous, and barren, as then they were, they beheld their country. Before they reached the shore, they had established the elements of a social system, and at a much earlier period had settled their forms of religious worship. At |