awn, majestically bright.

Yet 'midst this union of benignant tones,
How fares it with the reasonable part
Of God's created glories? Man disowns
Not to give thanks; but skilled by human art
To screen the passions of a grateful heart;
He walks encircled by philosophy, whose creed
Allows no outward semblance, to impart
One trace of joyousness that may exceed
Those coldly rigid rules on which it loves to feed.

And therefore balmy spring, with all its joys,
Its pomp of early leaves, and thrilling lays,
And ceaseless chime of song (that never cloys,
Altho' the winds be redolent of praise.)
Wakes not in man that stupor of amaze,
Bird, beast, and plant, in universal choir,
Pay to Almighty in a thousand ways,
That sterner reason's votaries would flout,
Giving _their_ tardy homage in mistrust and doubt.

Not so with me. I never feel the spring
Come on in beauty, but my swelling soul
Seems ready in its gush of joy, to fling
All trammels off, that would in aught control
Its wild pulsation. O'er it feelings roll
Too mighty for expression; and each sense
Appears to be commingled in one whole;
Whose sum of ecstacy is so intense,
It finds no home to garner it, but in omnipotence.

J.H.H.

* * * * *

POLISH PATRIOT'S APPEAL.

(_For the Mirror._)

Rise fellow men! our country yet remains
By that dread name, we wave the sword on high,
And swear with her to live--for her to die.

CAMPBELL.

Have we not proved our country's worth--the country of the free?
Have we not raised the tyrant's foot--and struck for liberty--
The giant foot that on us fell, in war's tremendous fall--
The mighty weight that bore us down and held our arms in thrall?

Have we not risked our homes, our all, at Freedom's glorious shrine,
And dared the vengeance of the Russ, whose sway is yclept divine?
And have we not appealed to arms--our last and dearest right!
And is not ours a sacred cause, a just and holy fight?

Yes, on Sarmatia's bleeding form Oppression's fetters rang,
And Liberty's last dying dirge the Northern trumpet sang:
Our hopes were buried in the grave where Kosciusko lies;
There came not friendship then from earth--nor mercy from the skies!

But Heaven has roused the Polish slave and bid him rend his chains,
And now we rank among the free--"Our country yet remains:"
Again we seek our native rights