THE RIVER.

A WOMAN Stood by the river;
At night by the brink of the river;

She still was young, and she had been fair,
But deep on her brow was the brand of care,
And rain-drops fell from her tresses bare,
Into the depths of the river.

Hold her back from the river

Angels of grace! from the river

That writhes like a serpent beneath her eyes,
And claims to whirl her along as its prize,
Away! body and soul-forever.

Count her not with the victims of lies, and passion, and gold ;—
Pity we have for the fallen-she is but hungry and cold;
Think of her not as a human moth, scorched in ambition's lure;
She is no heroine of a romance, only one of the poor;

Only one of the suffering poor, for whom no tears are shed, . Whose life is a sigh

Who faint and die

For want of a morsel of bread.

Hold her back from the river-
Angels of grace! from the river!
A sound like a wail
Passed into the gale,

That rippled the tide of the river.

"Cold! Black! Deep!
In thy water's icy flow;
Cold! Black! Deep!

In the gurgling stream below.

O, thou deep rushing river!

Let me find repose in thee,

And the ills of my life would flow away,
As thy waters ebb to the sea.

"There is the peace for a stricken heart.
For a life without pity or love;

Lulled to rest on the gold-bright sands,
By the murmuring wave above.

"Cold! Black! Deep!

Give me at least a home;

Cold! Black! Deep!

Rock me to sleep with thy moan."

Still she stood by the river

Close to the brink of the river,
When the city was still,

And the night was chill,

And clouds, like the wings of the Spirits of Ill,
Were hiding the stars from the river.

Hold her back from the river

Angels of grace! from the river

That writhes like a serpent beneath her eyes,
And claims to whirl her along as its prize
Away! body and soul-forever.

Count her not as a rebel against the Lord Most High,
She follows not the coward's creed that it is brave to die,

Oh, she would work on cheerfully for what to your dogs you give,

Grow happy and old, if hunger and cold did not make it such pain to live!

See, she kneels by the river-
Gazes on high from the river;

And the hand of the merciful Lord of all

Parted aside the night's black pall,

And the lights of the hosts of Heaven fall
Bright on the glittering river!

Rivet her gaze on the river-
Angels of grace! on the river!

A sound like a soul's redeeming prayer,
Falls hushed and low on the morning air,
As the tide flows back in the river.

"Cold! Black! Deep!

If I give my soul to thee,

Cold! Black! Deep!

For the dread eternity,

Have I the hope that with mortal life
Will cease immortal pain?

Have I no hope that of happiness lost

Some wreck may return again?

"Oh, deep and rushing river,

I am not fit to die

Grace on my soul comes streaming,

As the light on thy waves from on high.

"There is the home for a stricken heart,
By the heavenly Throne above;
Ne'er to be sought at my own weak will;
But won by the Saviour's love.

GG

"Cold! Black! Deep!

Flow on with thy ceaseless moan,

Cold! Black! Deep!
Glide on in thy course-alone."

GOLDEN SHOES.

MAY bought golden shoes for her boy,
Golden leather from heel to toe,
With silver tassel to tie at the top,
And dainty lining as white as snow.
I bought a pair of shoes as well

For the restless feet of a little lad,
Common and coarse and iron tipped-

The best I could for the sum I had.

"Golden," May said, "to match his curls." I never saw her petted boy;

I warrant he is but a puny elf,

And pink and white, like a china toy; And who is he, that he should walk

All shod in gold on the king's highway, While little Fred, with a king's own grace, Must wear rough brogans every day?

And why can May from her little hand
Fling baubles at her idol's feet,

While I can hardly shelter Fred

From the cruel stones of the broken street?

I envy not her silken robe,

Nor the jewels' shine, nor the handmaid's care, But, ah! to give what I cannot,

This, this is so hard to bear.

But down I'll crush this bitter thought,
And bear no grudge to pretty May,-
Though she is rich, and I am poor,
Since we were girls at Clover Bay,-
And ask the Lord to guide the feet,
So painfully and coarsely shod,
Till they are fit to walk the street
That runs hard by the throne of God,

"Good-bye, friend Ellen;" "Good-bye, M ;"
What dims her eyes so bright and blue,
As she looks at the rugged shoes askance ?
"I wish my boy could wear these, too,
But he will never walk, they say."

So May, with a little sigh has gone,
And I am left in a wondering mood,
To think of my wicked thoughts alone.

It needs not that I tell you how

I clasped my sturdy rogue that night,
And thanked the God who gave him strength,
And made him such a merry wight;

Nor envied May one gift she held,

If with it I must also choose
That sight of little crippled feet,
Albeit shod in golden shoes.

THE TOMB OF WASHINGTON.

A Speech delivered in the Legislature of New York, in the year 1845, by the HON. J. W. SAVAGE.

I EARNESTLY hope that this resolution will be adopted by the house, without a dissenting vote. The subject is one of deep interest to every man who first drew his breath on American soil. Sir, it was beautifully said of Washington, that "God made him childless that the nation might call him Father."

Mount Vernon was his home, it is now his grave. How fitting, then, sir, it is that we, his children, should be the owners of the homestead and of our father's sepulchre. No stranger's money should buy it, and no stranger's hand should drive the ploughshare over ashes sacred to every American. No mere individual is worthy to be the owner of a spot enriched with such hallowed memories. The mortal remains of the nation's idol should not be subject to the whim, caprice or cupidity of any man. These memorials are national, and to the nation they should belong, and it is the duty of every citizen to guard them from violence and dishonor.

Sir, no monument has ever been erected over the grave

of Washington. He needs none but that which rises in majestic grandeur before the gaze of the world, in the existence of this great republic, with its millions of people rejoicing in the light and liberty of a free government. While the stars and stripes, waving above every capital, shall symbolize our national union, will any ask where is the monument to Washington? I believe, sir, that his name will prove more lasting than marble or brass. When every structure which filial love and gratitude may erect shall have crumbled to dust, the fame of our patriot father will still remain the theme of study and admiration.

There has been but one Washington, and God in His goodness gave him to us. Let us cherish his dust, and revere his memory. Let us together own his mansion and tomb. Let the youth of our nation make pilgrimages to the sacred spot and slake the thirst of unhallowed ambition at the well, where Washington was wont to draw; and when patriotism declines, let the vestals of liberty rekindle the flame at the fireside of the nation's sire. Thus, sir, may we do much to keep alive, through successive generations, that patriotic fire which burns in the heart of every true American.

Sir, no man can read the life of Washington, without rising up from the task a better man, nor can a freeman step within the sacred precincts of Mount Vernon, and not feel the power of those associations which environ him. The troubled sea of passion in his soul subsides, and he seems to hear a voice whispering to his spirit, "Peace, be still, for Washington lies here!" Who could visit the farm of Washington and not experience a new thrill of patriotism, or who, without a new incentive to love his country, could ramble through that garden, stand in the hall where heroes of the revolution were welcomed and refreshed, sit down in the library where Washington studied and meditated, and behold the chamber in which he slept and died? Sir, I am no prophet. But, when from such sacred memories as these, I turn to view the opposite picture, the veil of futurity seems to be lifted.

I will suppose that this opportunity is unimproved. That cherished inheritance which with characteristic patriotism, the family of Washington now offer to the country, is forfeited to parsimony. That family pass