Lifting his crest in triumph-for his heel
Hath trod the dying like a wine-press down

The mighty Jephthah led his warriors on
Through Mizpeh's streets. His helm was proudly set,
And his stern lip curl'd slightly, as if praise
Were for the hero's scorn. His step was firm,
But free as India's leopard, and his mail
Whose shekels none in Israel might bear,
Was like a cedar's tassel on his frame.
His crest was Judah's kingliest; and the look

Of his dark, lofty eye and bended brow,

Might quell the lion. He led on; but thoughts

Seemed gathering round which troubled him. The veins Grew visible upon his swarthy brow,

And his proud lip was press'd as if with pain.

He trod less firmly; and his restless eye

Glanced forward frequently, as if some ill

He dared not meet, were there. His home was near; And men were thronging with that strange delight They have in human passions, to observe

The struggle of his feelings with his pride.

He gazed intensely forward.

The tall firs

Before his tent were motionless. The leaves

Of the sweet aloe, and the clustering vines

Which half concealed his threshold, met his eye,
Unchanged and beautiful; and one by one,
The balsam, with its sweet-distilling stems,
And the Circassian rose, and all the crowd
Of silent and familiar things stole up,
Like the recover'd passages of dreams.
He strode on rapidly. A moment more,

And he had reach'd his home; when, lo! there sprang
One with a bounding footstep and a brow
Of light to meet him. Oh how beautiful!—
Her dark eye flashing like a sun-lit gem-
And her luxuriant hair!-'twas like the sweep
Of a swift wing in visions. He stood still,
As if the sight had withered him. She threw
Her arms about his neck-he heeded not.
She call'd him "Father"-but he answered not.
She stood and gazed upon him. Was he wroth?

There was no anger in that blood-shot eye.
Had sickness seized him? She unclasp'd his helm,
And laid her white hand gently on his brow,
And the large veins felt stiff and hard, like cords.
The touch aroused him. He raised up his hands,
And spoke the name of God in agony.

She knew that he was stricken, then; and rush'd
Again into his arms; aud, with a flood

Of tears she could not bridle, sobb'd a prayer
That he would breathe his agony in words.
He told her-and a momentary flush

Shot o'er her countenance; and then the soul
Of Jephthah's daughter waken'd; and she stood
Calmly and nobly up, and said 'twas well-

And she would die. *

*

*

*

The sun had well nigh set.

The fire was on the altar; and the priest

Of the High God was there. A pallid man

*

Was stretching out his trembling hands to Heaven,
As if he would have prayed, but had no words—
And she who was to die, the calmest one

In Israel at that hour, stood up alone,
And waited for the sun to set. Her face
Was pale, but very beautiful-her lip
Had a more delicate outline, and the tint
Was deeper; but her countenance was like
The majesty of angels.

The sun set

And she was dead-but not by violence.

THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE MUSICIAN.-JOHN FORD.

Passing from Italy to Greece, the tales

Which poets of an elder time have feign'd
To glorify their Tempe, bred in me

Desire of visiting that paradise.

To Thessaly I came, and living private,

Without acquaintance of more sweet companions
Than the old inmates to my love, my thoughts,

I day by day frequented silent groves,

And solitary walks. One morning early
This accident encountered me: I heard
The sweetest and most ravishing contention
That art or nature ever were at strife in.
A sound of music touch'd mine ears, or rather
Indeed entranc'd my soul; as I stole nearer,
Invited by the melody, I saw

This youth, this fair-faced youth, upon his lute
With strains of strange variety and harmony
Proclaiming (as it seem'd) so bold a challenge
To the clear quiristers of the woods, the birds,
That as they flocked about him, all stood silent,
Wond'ring at what they heard. I wonder'd too.
A Nightingale,

Nature's best-skilled musician, undertakes

The challenge; and for every several strain

The well-shap'd youth could touch, she sung her dowr He ould not run division witl. more art

Upon his quaking instrument, than she

The nightingale did with her various notes
Reply to.

Some time thus spent, the young man grew at last
Into a pretty anger; that a bird,

Whom art had never taught cliffs, moods or notes,
Should vie with him for mastery, whose study
Had busied many hours to perfect practice:
To end the controversy, in a rapture,
Upon his instrument he plays so swiftly,
So many voluntaries, and so quick,
That there was curiosity and cunning,

Concord in discord, lines of diff'ring method
Meeting in one full centre of delight.

The bird (ordained to be

Music's first martyr) strove to imitate

These several sounds: which when her warbling throat

Fail'd in, for grief down dropt she on his lute

And brake her heart. It was the quaintest sadness,

To see the conqueror upon her hearse

To weep a funeral elegy of tears.

He looks upon the trophies of his art,

Then sighed, then wiped his eyes, then sigh'd, and cried,
"Alas, poor creature, I will soon revenge

This cruelty upon the author of it.

Henceforth this lute, guilty of innocent blood,

Shall never more betray a harmless peace

To an untimely end;" and in that sorrow,
As he was pashing it against a tree,
I suddenly stept in.

MOUNT VERNON.-ANNA CORA RITCHIE.

Ar this moment they drew near the rude wharf at Mount Vernon; the boat stopped; and the crowd of passengers landed. By a narrow pathway they ascended a majestic hill thickly draped with trees. The sun scarcely found its way through the luxuriant foliage. They mounted slowly, but had only spent a few minutes in ascending, when they came suddenly upon a picturesque nook, where a cluster of unostentatious, white marble shafts, shot from greenly sodded earth, inclosed by iron railings. These unpretending monuments mark the localities where repose the mortal remains of Washington's kindred.

Just beyond stands a square brick building. In the center you see an iron gate. Here the crowd pauses in reverential

silence. Men lift their hats and women bow their heads. You behold within two sarcophagi. In those mouldering tombs lie the ashes of the great Washington and his wife.

Not a word is uttered as the crowd stand gazing on this lowly receptacle of the dust of America's mighty dead.

Are there any in that group who can say, "this was our country's father?" If there be, can they stand pilgrims at that grave without Washington's examples, his counsels, his words, heretofore, it may be half forgotten, stealing back into their ninds, until the sense of reverence and gratitude is deepened almost to awe? Do they not feel that Washington's spirit is abroad in the world, filling the souls of a heaven-favored people with the love of freedom and of country, though his ashes are gathered here?

Some one moves to pass on, and with that first step the spell is broken; others follow. Herman and Jessie linger last. After a period of mute and moving reflection, they turn away and slowly approach the mansion that in simple, rural stateliness, stands upon a noble promontory, belted with woods, and halfgirdled by the sparkling waters of the Potomac which flow in a semicircle around a portion of the mount.

The water and woodland view from the portico is highly imposing. But it was not the mere recognition of the picturesque and beautiful in nature that moved Herman and Jessie. They would have felt that they were on holy ground, had the landscape been devoid of natural charm. Here the feet of the first of heroes had trod-here in boyhood he had sported with his beloved brother Lawrence-in those forests, those deepwooded glens, he had hunted, when a stripling, by the side of old Lord Fairfax-here he took his first lessons in the art of war -to this home he brought his bride-by this old-fashioned, hospitable-looking fireside, he sat with that dear and faithful wife; beneath yonder alley of lofty trees he has often wandered by her side-here he indulged the agricultural tastes in which he delighted-here resigned his Cincinnatus vocation and bade adieu to his cherished home at the summons of his country. Here his wife received the letter which told her that he had been appointed commander-in-chief of the army-here, when the glorious struggle closed at the trumpet notes of victorywhen the British had retired-when, with tears coursing down his benignant, manly countenance, he had uttered a touching farewell-bestowed a paternal benediction on the American army, and resigned all public service-here he returned, think

ing to resume the rural pursuits that charmed him, and to end his days in peace! Here are the trees-the shrubbery he planted with his own hands and noted in his diary; here are the columns of the portico round which he twined the coral honeysuckle; the ivy he transplanted still clings to yonder garden wall; these vistas he opened through yon pine groves to command far-off views! Here the valiant Lafayette sojourned with him; there hangs the key of the Bastile which he presented. Here flocked the illustrious men of all climes, and were received with warm, unpretending, almost rustic hospitality. Here the French Houdon modelled his statue, and the English Pine painted his portrait, and caused that jocose remark, "I am so hackneyed to the touches of the painters' pencil, that I am altogether at their beck, and sit like 'Patience on a monument !" "

Then came another summons from the land he had saved, and he was chosen by unanimous voice its chief ruler.

Thousands of men, women and children sent up acclamations, and called down blessings on his head, as he made his triumphal progress from Mount Vernon to New York, to take the presidential oath. The roar of cannon rent the air. The streets through which he passed were illuminated and decked with flags and wreaths. Bonfires blazed on the hills. From ships and boats floated festive decorations. At Gray's Ferry, he passed under triumphal arches. On the bridge across the Assumpink, (the very bridge over which he had retreated in such blank despair before the army of Cornwallis on the eve of the battle of Princeton,) thirteen pillars, twined with laurel and evergreens, were reared by woman's hands. The foremost of the arches those columns supported, bore the inscription, "The Defender of the Mothers will be the Protector of the Daughters." Mothers, with their white-robed daughters, were assembled beneath the vernal arcade. Thirteen maidens scattered flowers beneath his feet as they sang an ode of gratulation. The people's hero ever after spoke of this tribute as the one that touched him most deeply.

When his first presidential term expired, and his heart yearned for the peace of his domestic hearth, the entreaties of Jefferson, Randolph, and Hamilton, forced him to forget that home for the one he held in the hearts of patriots, and to allow his name to be used a second time. A second time he was unanimously elected to preside over his country's welfare. But, the period happily expired, he thankfully laid aside the mantle.