Interminably spread around,

Mountains that lift their giant form

And as they list its hoarse, dread sound, Above the raging of the storm

Can scarce a sigh restrain:
The terrors of a watery grave
Appal the heart e'en of the brave.

VII.

But why prolong a tale? bright Hope
Has vanquished grim Despair,
And leads the sullen captive chain'd
To her triumphal car.

All fears at last are laid to rest;

The mountain burden of suspense
Is heaved from off the laboring breast,
Dilate with ecstacy intense.
But hold-my muse must not essay
To mock with her untutored lay
Emotions, words can ne'er portray-
The phrensy of delight which whirled
His brain, when first Columbus trod
The soil of this bright virgin world.
Lowly that hour before his God,
Oh! as he reverently knelt,
What must his bursting heart have felt.
VIII.

Months roll away-the fleet again
Glides swiftly o'er the Atlantic main,
Back to their much loved land of Spain
Heaven listens to their prayer,
And soon the vessels safely moor
Fast to their own sweet, sunny shore,
They breathe their natal air.
Despatches from the royal hand
Soon reach Columbus, with command

To speed to Barcelona's towers;
Where buried in voluptuous ease,
Till even Pleasure fails to please,
The sovereigns while the weary hours.
IX.

And now before that royal pair

In jewelled robes and gold arrayed, The hero rose with fearless air;

Rocks-forests--rivers--lakes-whate'er
To Taste's enchanted eye is dear--
The herds that rove its wilderness,
And birds of every gaudy dress,
Chanting their wild sweet melodies,
To deserts rude and listless trees:
Beneath a surface thus adorned
Mines of exhaustless wealth inurned.
All drink with eager ear the story,
All yield the well earned palm of glory,
'Tis not in mortals to control
The welling fountains of the soul:
That once despised and cast out name
Is given up to deathless fame.

X.

But now unfolds a darker page,
And gloomier thoughts the mind engage,
Ah! well for thee, oh Spain,
Could Time's destroying hand efface
The memory of thy black disgrace,
The deep undying stain,

Which shades with many a ruddy streak
The whiteness of thy faded cheek!
Oh! shall Grief's bitter waters roll
Their dark tide o'er the chastened soul?
Turn to poison on his lips?
The honeyed draft e'en while he sips,

The storm that wraps the mid-day sky
In blackness, may pass harmless by;
But aye on Envy's baleful breath
Rides the winged messenger of death,—
The death of character-the worst
That ever erring mortal curst;
The soul's fierce, scathing, blasting
blight,

Which sends it, shrieking, to the shades
of night.

XI.

Columbus viewed his sun decline,-
His honor butchered at the shrine
Of Calumny-but still he rose

And while the courtly crowd gave Above the malice of his foes;

heed,

Suppressed the indignant flame which
glowed

Within a heart that never bowed:
Till, all his meekness spent, at length
Temptation came beyond his strength:
But deep the hireling minion rued
The day he roused his boiling blood.

A wretched menial of the court
Had marked with pain his lofty port,
And, fain to see that pride
From its exalted station dashed,
Words of deep insult plied.
His mighty spirit long had borne
Its wrongs and griefs in silent scorn;
But now he swelled-his dark eye
flashed,

His lips grew pale with ire:
A moment's space, he vainly tried
The transport of his rage to hide,

But as the pent up fire
Which struggles in the erater's side,
An instant, ere the crimson tide

It pours tumultuous down—
The burning lava's wide-spread wave,
Whelming in one vast, liquid grave,

Castle, and tower, and town-
So burst his passion's fury forth;
He struck the minion to the earth;
Oft with his foot his person spurned,
Venting the rage that in him burned.

Years glide away. Still through the clouds,

Whose dense black mass his glory
shrouds,

A ray of transient splendor gleams:
A fitful ray, which just redeems
The soul from utter darkness-all
Beside, wrapped in Night's gloomy pall.
One object filled his mind-one aim,
Unchanged, unchangeably the same.
No other dream his bosom haunted-
No toil or fear his courage daunted.
If joy came to his troubled breast,
He hailed with cheerful smile the guest;
Or if Affliction's bitter cup,

He bowed his head and drank it up.
Till quenched the light of life, that head
Rests sweetly on its lowly bed.
Oh! have Columbia's sons no tear
Of grateful sympathy to deck her injured
hero's bier ?

M. H. H.

SCHOOLBOY REMINISCENCES.

THE UNFORTUNATE.

THE little village in which I have hitherto spent my days, is as beautiful and retired a spot as a man could wish to find. It lies in a sequestered valley, the existence of which is known to but few besides its inhabitants; it is free from the care and bustle of the great world—the fever of speculation has not yet reached it—in short, though there may be some that resemble it more, there is none that deserves better the name of the happy valley,' than that quiet spot which was my birthplace. Yet it is not free from commotion and disturbance, and many and great revolutions have taken place within the narrow limits of the hills that encircle it.

It is an old settlement, originally built by a colony of the peaceful society of Friends, and though many of them have gone and left no memorial, it still retains, in a measure, the quiet and sober character they first impressed on it. A little brook of clear water winds in a most circuitous course through the valley, and one of the most en

terprising of the settlers had dug out a channel, and by taking advantage of the natural declivities of the place, a small stream of the water was made to flow quietly down, here spreading wide and shallow over the smooth white sand, and there hurrying with a contracted current among the hills through which it ran to join its parent at the nearest point of a wide bend. At the commencement of the canal he had erected a mill, of which it might once have been said, that "the very stones did prate of its whereabout," but now it was nothing more than a picturesque ruin. How well I remember that beautiful stream! How often by sunshine or moonlight have I bathed and sported in its transparent water, or stretched myself in delicious indolence under the three tall sycamores which grew on its banks, and threw their vast branches completely over the stream, keeping it from sunrise to sunset in cool shade! How often have we sailed over it in boyish glee, and gathered the clusters of dark grapes or the green hazel from its wooded banks! And how often too have I glided over its glassy surface, with the shouts of the merry skaters ringing in my ear, and—but enough of such recollections, they are all over now. Suffice it to say, there was hardly a tree or a rock but knew me. I was as familiar with every one of its beautiful scenes, as a fairy with her nightly haunts "in the good green wood."

At the distance of a mile from the village was an old but still handsome mansion, with a fine lawn stretching away from it on every side, here and there planted with clumps of magnificent old trees, which sheltered as well as adorned it, and surrounded by a thick hedge, the growth of many a year, which partially concealed it from the eye of the traveler. It had long been the residence of a wealthy and aristocratical family from the city, who spent there the summer, and were the nobility of the place. They were looked up to by the simple people of the country around, as beings of a superior order, and were imitated by the better sort in all their fashions and follies. The father was a benevolent old man, for he once gave me two apples and permission to gather all the chestnuts I could find on the estate. I recollect that they had a large pew in the church, and the father would stand up and utter the responses with an independent air, while the demure daughters would hide their fine faces and look solemn, conscious that the eyes not of God, but of the congregation, were on them. And then after church they would depart in state in the old carrriage, and whirl a great cloud of dust upon the foot passengers. But the two young ladies were married soon to some great people in the city, and then for two or three years the visits of the family to the country were not so regular. But soon the two younger daughters began to grow up, and when Miss Charlotte arrived at sixteen, she grew very romantic and would spend the whole summer out at Bushville.

There was no school of any note in the town, and so one summer when they came out, the young ladies brought out a tutor with them,

ance.

under whom to pursue their studies. He was a conceited little mortal; he wore a green frock-coat, walked with a brisk step, and nodded with a patronizing air to those with whom he had made acquaintHe soon got into general favor, for he had a word for every body, and sometimes, once at least, it was a word and a blow, for he gave me a hard cut with his switch, because, as he said, it was impolite in me to sit on the fence with my back to the road. I never liked him after that. He wrote poetry in the albums of all the young ladies in the village, and as he was "quite a genteel young man," and "had evidently been brought up in good society," he became the beau of all the village parties and the supreme authority in all matters of taste, and I have the best authority for saying, that he made the hearts of several young ladies beat faster than there was any occasion for. But if Mr. Bunce was susceptible, he was by no means inclined to allow his susceptibility to run away with him, and he always maintained so much vigilance over his affections, as to keep them entirely under the control of his understanding. He had too high an opinion of his own merits, not to think of rising by them in the world, and being of an imaginative cast of mind, he would sometimes, in his hours of solitary musing, give the reins to his imagination, and lose himself in a wilderness of brilliant anticipations. For some time after his arrival at Bushville, he passed his time pleasantly enough. He figured among the ladies, which was his delight, and he was considered by all the young beaux of the place a very happy man. But how little do we know of the happiness of others! How often is he whom the world calls blessed, only the miserable victim of ennui or melancholy! Notwithstanding all the felicitous circumstances in which he was placed, he was restless and unhappy, and his spirit was disquieted within him. Deep sighs would come unbidden from his bosom; he lost something of his sprightly vivacity; and he would sometimes be seen walking in the moonlight, with a slow and rather sorrowful step. But he neglected none of his duties; indeed, his solicitude for his fair pupils rather increased, and the eldest, who was his particular charge, occupied much of his leisure meditation. Like a most praiseworthy preceptor, he often considered how he should render her pursuits agreeable to her, and strew with flowers the thorny road she was endeavoring to travel.

Miss Charlotte W. was a young lady of about seventeen, small but finely formed, with long black ringlets and a full dark eye thatMr. Bunce was not long in discovering her charms, and his wayward heart was gone, ere he knew it, past recovery. He was in love, and henceforth he was a changed man-not wiser, but sadder. He lost all relish for his former pleasures, and delighted to sit gazing on the face of his fair pupil, as she read or studied, unconscious of his ardent look, or he would sit by her side and explain the mysteries of science, or lead the way out of the intricate mazes of some tedious

algebraical problem. Those were to him happy moments, and when the sisters would walk out in the evening, with him for their protector, he would generally manage to separate his beloved from the rest, and walk with the most devoted attention by her side. Or as they returned in the cool twilight, he would lead the conversation to sentimental things, and utter with a faint heart some word or hint of love. But the gentle Charlotte either did not or would not understand, and so matters were for a time stationary, while the disease fed day by day upon the poor man's vitals. Whether it was that she was a little coquettish, and had no objection to listen to the soft words of the tender-hearted Nathaniel, or whether she was really in ignorance of his feelings, I cannot say; at any rate she threw no obstacles in his way, and gave him no reason to think she was displeased, while he, poor man, would construe the most innocent word into a token of favor, and live for a week upon a smile of common civility. At length, however, he began to take courage. The old maxim, that "faint heart never won fair lady," brought to him, as it has to many a better man, some measure of boldness, and he ventured, though with considerable trepidation, upon a more open avowal of his affection. Accordingly, he procured some tinted paper, and penning a sonnet in his best style, he placed it in one of her books and waited in silence the event. To his surprise, she took no notice of it, and as he did not like to ask any questions, and she behaved very innocently, he supposed it could not have met her eye. On the whole, however, he thought it not best to venture upon a repetition of the experiment. But as he met with no repulse, his courage began to increase, and once he was even on the point of uttering the irrevocable words, when his heart failed him, and the opportunity was lost.

Thus things went on a whole month passed away and he had 'never told his love.' Yet it was strange that she could be ignorant of it-she surely ought at least to have suspected it, but she showed no signs of suspicion. Her silence however encouraged him-he dwelt upon the obstacles till they no longer seemed formidable, and he resolved to use the first favorable opportunity chance might give him. Thus screwing his courage to the sticking point, he waited with the most exemplary patience for the time to come.

At last it came. It was a soft, still day-the heat of August had been tempered by a storm the day before, and Nathaniel was invited to accompany the ladies on a walk by the stream before mentioned. He complied with delight, and was ready in a moment with his most engaging smiles to escort them. They sallied forth, and he resolved to find some occasion of saying what most he wished. It would be useless to recount his many acts of courtesy and kindness as they passed on their way, how he tore his unmentionables and pricked his fingers in scrambling after wild roses for his adored-how he almost fell into the water reaching after pond lilies with a pole a little too short, and how once, in the fullness of his attentions, he carelessly