"YOUNG AMERICA TAKING HIS FIRST STEPS."

CORA M. EAGER.

The following lines are from a young lady of Cincinnati. They were suggested by the beautiful design made for us by Mr. F. O. C. Darley, which we have entitled as above, and show in the well rendered illustration on the opposite leaf,-engraved by Mr. E. D. Hayes.

You toddling, dainty, winsome elf,
You brightest, dearest joy,
Your father's very second self,
And grandpa's priceless toy;
Spread out your tiny, tender feet,

So rounded like a ball

I'll welcome you with kisses sweet,.
And catch you if you fall.

And when increasing strength shall lead
Your bounding steps away,
And Vice, may hap, in after years,
Shall tempt you far astray,
My love shall win you gently back,
My ready arm uphold-

Your mother's heart is held, my boy,
By stronger chains than gold!

And then I'll tell you how a child
Its native land forsook,
And wander'd wearily beyond
The valley and the brook;
I'll tell you how its cradle-bed

Was rock'd by servile hands

That 't was not Vice but LIBERTY
That lur'd to other lands.

And how he climb'd the mountain's height,
Nor laid him down to rest,

But

pray'd a mother's love would light His pathway to the West; And how that royal mother spurn'd The offspring of her youth; And how God led him boldly on To battle for the Truth;

How ev'ry onward step was blood,
And every foot-print fire;
And how his little heart reach'd up
And grasp'd at something higher.
He grew to manhood, wise and strong,
All nations call him brother-
'Tis "YOUNG AMERICA," my boy,
And England is the mother!

And now she looks with regal pride
Upon her noble son,

And blesses Him whose better love

Has knit their hearts in one. And thus I bless the Hand, my boy, That gave my life its crownBe Love thy lance, be Truth thy shield, And Virtue thy renown.

To drum-beat and heart-beat,
A soldier passes by;
There is color in his cheek,
There is courage in his eye;
Yet to drum-beat and heart-beat,
In a moment he must die!

By star-light and moon-light
He seeks the Briton's camp;
He hears the rustling flag,

And the armed sentry's tramp:
And the star-light and inoon-light,
His silent wanderings lamp.
With slow tread and still tread,
He scans the tented line;
And he counts the battery-guns

By the gaunt and shadowy piue;
And his slow tread and still tread
Give no warning sign.

The dark wave, the plumed wave!
It meets his eager glance;
And it sparkles 'neath the stars,
Like the glimmer of a lance;
A dark wave, a plumed wave,
On an emerald expause.

A sharp clang, a steel clang !
And terror in the sound;
For the sentry, falcon-eyed,

In the camp a spy hath found:
With a sharp clang, a steel clang,
The patriot is bound.

With calm brow, steady brow,
He listens to his doom;
In his look there is no fear,

Nor a shadow-trace of gloom;
But with calm brow, and steady brow,
He robes him for the tomb.

In the long night, the still night,
He kneels upon the sod;
And the brutal guards withhold
E'en the solemn Word of God!
In the long night, the still night,

He walks where Christ hath trod.

'Neath the blue morn, the sunny morn, He dies upon the tree;

And he mourns that he can lose

But one life for Liberty:

And the blue morn, the sunny morn,
His spirit-wings are free.

But his last words, his message words,
They burn, lest friendly eye
Should read how proud and calm
A patriot could die;

With his last words, his dying words,
A soldier's battle-cry!

From Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf,
From monument and nrn,

The sad of Earth, the glad of Heaven,
His tragic fate shall learn ;
And on Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf,
The name of HALE shall burn.

TO MY MOTHER.

The following lines, written by a convict of the Ohio Penitentiary, are touchingly beautiful:

I've wandered far from thee, mother, Far from my happy home;

I've left the land that gave me birth, In other climes to roam;

And time, since then, has rolled its year
And marked them on my brow:
Yet I have often thought of thee—
I'm thinking of thee now

I'm thinking on the day, mother,
When at my tender, side
You watched the dawning of my youth,
And kissed me in your pride;
Then brightly was my heart lit up
With hopes of future joy,
While your bright faucy honors wove,
To deck your darling boy.

I'm thinking on the day, mother,
When, with auxious care,
You lifted up your heart to heaven-
Your hope, your trust was there;
Sad memory brings your parting wordt
While tears roll'd down your cheek;
Your loug, last, loving look told more
Than ever words could speak.

I'm far away from thee, mother,

No friend is near me now,
To soothe me with a tender word,
Or cool my aching brow;
The dearest ties affection wove,

Are now all torn from me;
They left me when the trouble came-
They did not love like thee.

I'm lonely and forsaken now,
Unpitied and unblest;

Yet still I would not let you know
How sorely I'm distressed;

I know you would not chide me, mother,
I know you would not blame
But soothe me with your tender words,
And bid me hope again.

I would not have thee know, mother,
How brightest hopes decay;
The tempter, with his baleful cup,
Has dushed them all away;
And shame has left its venomed sting,
To rack with anguish wild-

O no! I would not have thee know
The sorrow of thy child.

O! I have wandered far, mother,
Since I deserted thee,
And left thy trusting heart to break,
Beyond the deep blue sea;
O! mother, still I love thee well,
Would I could hear thee speak,
And feel again thy balmy breath
Upon my care-worn cheek.

But ah! there is a thought, mother,
Pervades my bleeding breast,
That thy freed spirit may have flown
To its eternal rest;

And while I wipe the tear away,

There whispers in my ear

A voice that speaks of heaven and thes
And bids me meet thee there.

FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. Born at Portland in 1807-Professor in Harvard University.

When the hours of day are number'd,

Ard the voices of the Night
Wake the better soul that slumber'd

To a holy, calm delight;
Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
And, like phantoms grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful fire-light
Dance upon the parlor-wall;
Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door;

The beloved ones, the true-hearted,

Come to visit me once more;

He, the young and strong, who cherish'd
Noble longings for the strife-
By the road-side fell and perished,
Weary with the march of life!
They, the holy ones and weakly,

Who the cross of suffering bore-
Folded their pale hands so meekly-
Spake with us on earth no more!
And with them the Being Beauteous,
Who unto my youth was given,
More than all things else to love me,

And is now a saint in heaven.
With slow and noiseless footstep,
Comes that messenger divine,
Takes the vacant chair beside me,
Lays her gentle hand in mine.
And she sits and gazes at me,

With those deep and tender eyes,
Like the stars, so still and saint-like,
Looking downward from the skies.
Utter'd not, yet comprehended,

Is the spirit's voiceless prayer,
Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,
Breathing from her lips of air.
O, though oft oppress'd and lonely,
All my fears are laid aside,

If I but remember only

Such as these have lived and died!

The rose its blushes need not end,
Nor yet the lily with them blend,

To captivate my eyes.
Give me a cheek the heart obeys,
And, sweetly mutable, displays
Its feelings as they rise;

Features, where, pensive, more than gay,
Save when a rising smile doth play,
The sober thought you see;
Eyes that all soft and tender seem,
And kind affections around them beam
But most of all on me;

A form, though not of finest mould,
Where yet a something you behold
Unconsciously doth please;
Manners all graceful without art,
That to each look and word impart
A modesty and ease.

But still her air, her face, each charm
Must speak a heart with feeling warm,
And mind inform the whole;
With mind her mantling cheek must glow,
Her voice, her beaming eye must show
An all-inspiring soul.

Ah! could I such a being find,
And were her fate to mine but join'd
By Hymen's silken tie,
To her myself, my all I'd give,
For her alone delighted live,

For her consent to die.

Whene'er by anxious care oppress'd,
On the soft pillow of her breast
My aching head I'd lay;

At her sweet smile each care should cease,
Her kiss infuse a balmy peace,

And drive my griefs away.

In turn, I'd soften all her care, [share;
Each thought, each wish, each feeling
Should sickness e'er invade,

My voice should soothe each rising sigh,
My hand the cordial should supply;
I'd watch beside her bed.

Should gathering clouds our sky deform,
My arm should shield her from the storm;
And, were its fury hurl'd,
My bosom to its bolts I'd bare;
In her defense undaunted dare
Defy the opposing world.

Together should our prayers ascend;
Together would we humbly bend,

To praise the Almighty name;
And when I saw her kindling eye
Beam upward in her native sky,

My soul should catch the flame.
Thus nothing should our hearts divide,
But on our years serenely glide,

And all to love be given;
And, when life's little scene was o'er,
We'd part to meet and part no more,
But live and love in heaven.

STANZAS.

RICHARD HENRY WILDE.

[Born in 1789, and passed his youth in Baltimore-Representative in Congress from Georgia-Died 1847, in New Orleans, then Professor of Law in the University of Louisiana.]

My life is like the summer rose
That opens to the morning sky,
But ere the shades of evening close,

Is scatter'd on the ground-to die!
Yet on the rose's humble bed
The sweetest dews of night are shed,
As if she wept the waste to see--
But none shall weep a tear for me!

My life is like the autumn leaf

That trembles in the moon's pale ray, Its hold is frail-its date is brief,

Restless-and soon to pass away! Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade, The parent tree will mourn its shade, The winds bewail the leafless tree, But none shall breathe a sigh for me! My life is like the prints, which feet Have left on Tampa's desert strand ! Soon as the rising tide shall beat,

All trace will vanish from the sand; Yet, as if grieving to efface All vestige of the human race, On that loue shore loud moans the sea, But none, alas! shall mourn for me!

THE AMERICAN FLAG.

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. [Born in New York in 1795-Died in 1820 of consumption, in his 26th year-A beautiful poem to his memory by his friend Halleck is in this collection.]

I.

When Freedom from her mountain height

Unfurl'd her standard to the air,
She tore the azure robe of night,

And set the stars of glory there.
She mingled with its gorgeous dyes
The milky baldric of the skies,
And striped its pure, celestial white
With streakings of the morning light;
Then from his mansion in the sun
She call'd her eagle bearer down,
And gave into his mighty hand
The symbol of her chosen land.

II.

Majestic monarch of the cloud,

Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, To hear the tempest trumpings loud And see the lightning lances driven,

When strive the warriors of the storm,

And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven-
Child of the sun! to thee 'tis given

To guard the banner of the free,
To hover in the sulphur smoke,
To ward away the battle-stroke,
And bid its blendings shine afar,
Like rainbows on the cloud of war,
The harbingers of victory!

III.

Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly,
The sign of hope and triumph high,
When speaks the signal trumpet tone,
And the long line comes gleaming on.
Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet,
Has dimm'd the glistening bayonet,
Each soldier eye shall brightly turn
To where thy sky-born glories burn;
And as his springing steps advance,
Catch war and vengeance from the glance
And when the cannon mouthings loud
Heave in wild wreaths the battle-shroud,
And gory sabers rise and fall
Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall;

Then shall thy meteor glances glow,
And cowering foes shall sink beneath

Each gallant arm that strikes below That lovely messenger of death.

IV.

Flag of the seas! on ocean wave
Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave;
When death, careering on the gale,
Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail,
And frighted waves rush wildly back
Before the broadside's reeling rack,
Each dying wanderer of the sea
Shall look at once to heaven and thee,
And smile to see thy splendors fly
In triumph o'er his closing eye.

V.

Flag of the free heart's hope and home!
By angel hands to valor given;
The stars have lit the welkin dome,

And all thy hues were born in heaven.
Forever float that standard sheet!

Where breathes the foe but falls before us With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, And Freedom's bauner streaming o'er us!

FAMILY MEETING

CHARLES SPRAGUE.

[Born in Boston in 1791-Cashier of Globo Bank, Boston-This poem was written on the accidental meeting of all the surviving members of a family.]

We are all here! Father, mother,

Sister, brother,

All who hold each other dear.
Each chair is fill'd-we're all at home ;
To-night let no cold stranger come: