THE LAND OF OUR FOREFATHERS.-EDWARD EVERETT.

WHAT American does not feel proud that he is descended from the countrymen of Bacon, of Newton, and of Locke? Who does not know, that while every pulse of civil liberty in the heart of the British empire beat warm and full in the bosom of our fathers, the sobriety, the firmness, and the dignity with which the cause of free principles struggled into existence here, constantly found encouragement and countenance from the sons of liberty there? Who does not remember that when the Pilgrims went over the sea, the prayers of the faithful British confessors, in all the quarters of their dispersion, went over with them, while their aching eyes were strained, till the star of hope should go up in the western skies? And who will ever forget that in that eventful struggle which severed this mighty empire from the British crown, there was not heard, throughout our continent in arms, a voice which spoke louder for the rights of America, than that of Burke or of Chatham, within the walls of the British parliament, and at the foot of the British throne? No, for myself I can truly say, that after my native land, I feel a tenderness and a reverence for that of my fathers. The pride I take in my own country makes me respect that from which we are sprung.

In touching the soil of England, I seem to return like a descendant to the old family seat; to come back to the abode of an aged, the tomb of a departed parent. I acknowledge this great consanguinity of nations. The sound of my native language, beyond the sea, is a music to my ear beyond the richest strains of Tuscan softness, or Castilian majesty. I am not yet in a land of strangers while surrounded by the manners, the habits, the forms in which I have been brought up. I wander delighted through a thousand scenes, which the historians, the poets, have made familiar to us—of which the names are interwoven with our earliest associations. I tread with reverence the spots where I can retrace the footsteps of our suffering fathers; the pleasant land of their birth has a claim on my heart. It seems to me a classic, yea, a holy land, rich in the memories of the great and good; the martyrs of liberty, the exiled heralds of truth; and richer, as the parent of this land of promise in the west.

I am not, I need not say I am not, the panegyrist of Eng

land. I am not dazzled by her riches, nor awed by her power. The sceptre, the mitre, and the coronet, stars, garters, and blue ribbons, seem to me poor things for great men to contend for. Nor is my admiration awakened by her armies, mustered for the battles of Europe; her navies, overshadowing the ocean; nor her empire, grasping the furthest East. It is these, and the price of guilt and blood by which they are maintained, which are the cause why no friend of liberty can salute her with undivided affections. But it is the refuge of free principles, though often persecuted; the school of religious liberty, the more precious for the struggles to which it has been called; the tombs of those who have reflected honor on all who speak the English tongue; it is the birthplace of our fathers, the home of the pilgrims; it is these which I love and venerate in England. I should feel ashamed of an enthusiasm for Italy and Greece, did I not also feel it for a land like this. an American it would seem to me degenerate and ungrateful, to hang with passion upon the traces of Homer and Virgil, and follow without emotion the nearer and plainer footsteps of Shakspeare and Milton; and I should think him cold in his love for his native land, who felt no melting in his heart for that other native land, which holds the ashes of his forefathers.

In

THE LAST CRUSADER.-BULWer.

Left to the Saviour's conquering foes,
The land that girds the Saviour's grave;
Where Godfrey's crozier-standard rose,
He saw the crescent-banner wave.

There, o'er the gently-broken vale,
The halo-light on Zion glow'd;
There Kedron, with a voice of wail,
By tombs of saints and heroes flow'd;

There still the olives silver o'er

The dimness of the distant hill;

There still the flowers that Sharon bore,
Calm air with many an odor fill.

Slowly the Last Crusader eyed

The towers, the mount, the stream, the plain,
And thought of those whose blood had dyed

The earth with crimson streams in vain.

He thought of that sublime array,
The hosts, that over land and deep,
The hermit marshall'd on their way,

To see those towers, and halt to weep!

Resign'd the loved, familiar lands,

O'er burning wastes the cross to bear,
And rescue from the Paynim's hands
No empire save a sepulchre !

And vain the hope, and vain the loss,
And vain the famine and the strife;
In vain the faith that bore the cross,
The valor prodigal of life.

And vain was Richard's lion-soul,

And guileless Godfrey's patient mind— Likes waves on shore, they reach'd the goal, To die, and leave no trace behind!

"O God!" the last Crusader cried,

"And art thou careless of thine own?

For us thy Son in Salem died,

And Salem is the scoffer's throne!

"And shall we leave, from age to age,
To godless hands the holy tomb?
Against thy saints the heathen rage-
Launch forth thy lightnings, and consume!"

Swift, as he spoke, before his sight

A form flash'd, white-robed, from above;
All heaven was in those looks of light,
But Heaven, whose native air is love.

"Alas!" the solemn vision said,

"Thy God is of the shield and spearTo bless the quick and raise the dead, The Saviour-God descended here!

"Ah! knowst thou not the very name Of Salem bids thy carnage ceaseA symbol in itself to claim

God's people to a house of peace!

"Ask not the Father to reward

The hearts that seek, through blood, the Son;

O warrior! never by the sword

The Saviour's Holy Land is won!"

BALLAD FROM THE GERMAN. HERDER.

Among green pleasant meadows,
All in a grove so mild,
Was set a marble image

Of the Virgin and the Child.

There oft, on summer evenings,
A lovely boy would rove,
To play beside the image
That sanctified the grove.

Oft sat his mother by him,
Among the shadows dim,
And told how the Lord Jesus
Was once a child like him.

"And now from highest heaven He doth look down each day, And sees whate'er thou doest,

And hears what thou dost say."

Thus spake his tender mother:
And on an evening bright,

When the red round sun descended
'Mid clouds of crimson light-

Again the boy was playing;
And earnestly said he,

"O beautiful Lord Jesus,

Come down and play with me."

"I will find thee flowers the fairest
And weave for thee a crown;
I will get thee ripe red strawberries,
If thou wilt but come down.

"O holy, holy mother,

Put him down from off thy knee;

For in these silent meadows

There are none to play with me."

Thus spake the boy so lovely;
The while his mother heard;
But on his prayer she pondered,
And spake to him no word.

That self-same night she dreamed
A lovely dream of joy;
She thought she saw young Jesus,
There playing with the boy.

"And for the fruits and flowers
Which thou hast brought to me,
Rich blessings shall be given,
A thousand-fold to thee.

"For in the fields of heaven

Thou shalt roam with me at will,
And of bright fruits celestial
Shalt have, dear child, thy fill."

Thus tenderly and kindly
The fair Child Jesus spoke;
And full of careful musings,
The anxious mother woke.

And thus it was accomplished:
In a short month and day,
That lovely boy, so gentle,
Upon his death-bed lay.

And thus he spoke in dying:
"O mother dear, I see
The beautiful Child Jesus
A-coming down to me;-

"And in his hand he beareth
Bright flowers as white as snow,
And red and juicy strawberries;
Dear mother, let me go."

He died-but that fond mother
Her sorrow did restrain

For she knew he was with Jesus,
And she asked him not again.

THE MOURNERS.-ELIZA Cook.

King Death sped forth in his dreaded power
To make the most of his tyrant hour:

And the first he took was a white-robed girl,

With the orange bloom twined in each glossy curl,
Her fond betrothed hung over the bier,
Bathing her shroud with gushing tear:
He madly raved, he shriek'd his pain,
With frantic speech and burning brain.

"There's no joy," cried he, "now my dearest is gone, Take, take me, Death; for I cannot live on!"